Chapter 9

  Two days later, the flat, green and yellow grassy plains of the Midlands abruptly gave way to the wild, rocky foothills of the Black Woods' northwestern borders. The gentle, agricultural landscape yielded to a rougher, more unforgiving topography that radiated power and defiance.

  In the distance, where the dark grey rock began to dominate the view, a gigantic bridge appeared, spanning boldly across a deep, torn gorge.

  As we approached, we could discern its massive, brutalist construction. It was made of blackish-red wrought iron steel and dark, rusty-red stone. The bridge was not a work of art, but a statement of domination.

  The railings were adorned with intimidating, winged dragon heads—a stylistic choice that didn't intimidate us, but rather surprised and irritated us. The four-winged dragons had once been the proud crest of Barwan and the Grey Lords, located in the West. After the Dragon Wars, however, they had seemed like an unintentional, cruel mockery of the victims. Caleon had never openly sided with Varnedor, but the symbolic burden was crushing. Thus, all banners bearing this symbol had been quickly rolled up and burned. Only in the architecture of the oldest, untouchable structures could the remnants of the former pride and the alliance of that time still be found.

  Otherwise, the bridge served pure functionality. A massive bolt connecting separate realms, but also clearly marking the separation of civilization from the wilderness.

  At first, I took it for one of the countless, strategically important bridges that connected lands and symbolized borders.

  But as we stepped onto it and read the old inscription carved in stone at the base of the first pillar, I recognized it: Sothar Memorial Bridge.

  A cold shiver ran down my spine. The memory of the lessons at the Paladin Academy—the glorifying legends of this place—collided brutally with my rage. I swallowed nervously, my hands involuntarily clenching on the grips of my swords.

  Arik also tensed up. His grey, calm ash form seemed to flicker for a moment. His eyes were focused and dark on the ground, as if he could feel the spiritual remnants of his ancestors beneath the steel.

  Vin gritted her teeth, a quiet, angry sound that betrayed her tension. Her contempt for everything associated with Sothar was physically palpable.

  Maira looked at us confusedly. She sensed the overwhelming emotional reaction of the group but didn't immediately understand the cause.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked in surprise, her voice low and uncertain. She read the anger and unholy apprehension in our eyes. “It’s just a bridge to the Black Woods… isn’t it? The inscription is just a memorial stone for an old Lord…”

  I had to speak. Gravor almost forced me to articulate the lies of this place.

  “It is not a normal bridge, Maira,” I began, my voice rough and strained by the sudden, immense weight of the past. I pointed to the gaping wound beneath us. The depth was dizzying.

  “This gorge is known as the Gaping Wound. And the Sothar Memorial Bridge is no monument to a hero of the Light.”

  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to present the historical facts as soberly as possible.

  “This is a slaughterhouse. During the Great Expulsion, this place served as the last gathering point for the ‘Impure’—the Orcs, Dark Elves, Lizard Clans, and all those who carried demonic blood.”

  I looked at Arik, whose eyes were painfully narrowed. “Arik’s ancestors, the Ashbloods, were rounded up here.”

  Maira made a low, horrified sound. “I… I only know of the Expulsion from Inquisition texts… as a necessary, bloody cleansing.”

  “Exactly,” growled Vin, interjecting into the conversation, her eyes flashing bright green with anger. “The Elven chronicles call it the ‘Great Purification.’ It was systematic murder of thousands of prisoners of war and civilians. They weren't thrown into the gorge just to make space.”

  I supplemented this with the knowledge from Gravor’s dark memories and the forbidden texts I had only secretly read at the Academy.

  “Lord Valerius Sothar—whom this bridge is named after—broke every rule of honorable combat here. The Humans and Elves had won. But Valerius ordered the prisoners brought here and plunged into the gorge. Thousands. It was a ritual mass murder.”

  I pointed to the iron-hard railings. “The bridge is laced with special banishment seals. It was consecrated with the blood of the dead to ensure that the land would never peacefully take back the souls of the Impure. The iron here pulsates not with defense, but with permanent, archaic authority—Sothar’s dominion over life and death.”

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  Maira looked at us horrified, then at the eerily calm bridge. “You mean… this bridge is one massive tombstone for a genocide?”

  “Yes,” Arik said quietly, his voice a dry, coarse whisper of sand. He rarely spoke so openly about his past. “I feel the cold power in the stones. It doesn't scream; it only whispers rejection. The magic here was mixed with the blood of my line’s ancestors. It is a bulwark against everything that is different.”

  I fixed my gaze on Maira. “That's why the shock. This isn't just the border to Caleon. This is the foundation of Thivan’s power. Tyranny and historical guilt—carved in stone and secured with blood. When we cross this bridge, Maira, we are not just entering Caleon. We are entering a part of the central lie of Tirros.”

  -

  The Iron Dummies—specially hardened, magically dampened constructs for training elite warriors—exploded in a perfect line as Thivan’s beam struck them. It was no ordinary lightning, but a compressed, cold energy discharge that focused the power of a hurricane into a single, cutting vector. The dummies were not just destroyed; they were utterly pulverized, their remnants still steaming minutes later.

  Satisfied with today's result—the control had been absolute perfection—Thivan threw the heavy, absorbent linen cloth over his shoulder and put on the plain black robe he wore for training and within the palace, outside of political meetings. The deep black contrasted sharply with the gold lines of his clothing.

  No sooner had he left the underground training cellar and entered the golden corridors of the Sothar Palace than his younger sister, Livia Sothar, happily and surprisingly rushed into his arms.

  Livia was ten years his junior and had been twelve when he failed the Golem test ten years ago. She herself had successfully completed her test. But that was a topic they didn't really discuss. For one, because she had never condemned him for his failure—she knew the Golem rejected him, not the other way around. For another, because she simply didn't care about the stiff traditions and arrogant magic of the House.

  Unfortunately, she was the only one in the immediate nuclear family who thought this way, and that was precisely why he loved her. She was one of the few people in his iron cage who could genuinely comfort him and with whom he didn't have to converse formally. Her smile always gave him the comforting feeling of not being alone in the Palace of Shame. And today, it was wider and more open than ever before. Her brown hair was tousled, her blue eyes—which resembled their mother's without possessing her coldness—shone with unadulterated joy.

  “Livia! What happened?” he asked her curiously as she pulled away from him, weeping with laughter. He held her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes to grasp the full meaning of her euphoria.

  “The Grey Lords,” she stammered nervously in her eagerness. She gasped for breath, her words tumbling over each other. “They agreed to the alliance. They signed and sealed it!”

  Silence.

  Pure, clean silence. Yet not the nervous, gloomy silence that usually filled the palace corridors. It was an energetic atmosphere, a spark that was about to ignite a fire of joy at any moment. The decades-long tension of political isolation was on the verge of explosion.

  The Grey Lords were not just any princely house. They were the most powerful, strategically located, and best-equipped military family among the rival nobles of the Black Woods. Their lands bordered directly on the restless, refugee-dominated Southern territories and the contested trade routes in the North. Without them, the unification of the Black Woods, Thivan's grand vision, was impossible. They had been the last, stubborn cornerstone. With their seal, the alliance—the new, centralized government—was complete.

  The vision had become reality. The broken East was unified again.

  And so it happened.

  Thivan felt a bolt of pure, undiluted triumph shoot through his body. It was not cold calculation but an electrifying moment of validation. Ten years of humiliation, isolation, secret machinations, and ruthless political pressure had finally achieved their goal.

  He raised his golden hands and let out a loud, unvarnished cry of relief and victory that woke the echoes in the golden halls.

  “YES!” he roared. He lifted Livia up and spun her around once, a moment of wild, unrestrained emotion that scoffed at all royal etiquette.

  “You did it! You really did it, Thivan!” Livia laughed hysterically.

  When he set her down, Thivan beamed. It was the first honest, light smile since his mother’s death.

  “We did it, Sister,” he corrected gently but firmly. “You delivered the last messages so cleverly. Your small meetings with the Lord’s daughter were the decisive move in the diplomatic deadlock.”

  The strategic importance was overwhelming.

  The Grey Lords brought the largest cavalry and the strongest southern defenses. Thivan now had unrestricted access to all military resources of the Black Woods.

  Furthermore, the alliance disempowered all smaller, rebellious baronies that had previously relied on the rivalry between the great houses. The central government was undisputed.

  Additionally, the Lords controlled the richest farmlands and the most important roads to the sea. Caleon's economic stability was finally secured.

  “I have to celebrate this immediately!” Thivan said, his adrenaline level skyrocketing. He began rushing down the corridor, ignoring the disheveled appearance of his training robe.

  He reached the door to the royal office and slammed it open.

  “Iden!” he shouted. His chief advisor, a stiff, old man with silver hair who had served him since childhood, flinched.

  “My Lord!” Iden jumped up from his desk.

  Thivan grabbed his arm. “I need you. Immediately and at full capacity.”

  His eyes glowed with fever and vision. “Arrange a state banquet tonight! A banquet of absolute unity! The Grey Lords have signed! We are complete!”

  Iden’s eyes widened in genuine, disbelieving shock. “By the Gods… the Lord of the Grey Lords… really agreed?”

  “Yes!” Thivan laughed loudly. “Everyone must know! The palace doors will be opened! All houses of the Black Woods must be invited. All rivals, all agitators, all supporters! We will show that Caleon is a single, indivisible power!”

  He issued a brief, triumphant command that tolerated no contradiction: “Prepare a banquet that will not be forgotten for centuries! A Feast of Rebirth! We will all drink until dawn and commit to the alliance!”

  Iden, overwhelmed but absolutely loyal, bowed deeply. “It shall be done, my Lord. The Unification will be celebrated!”

  Thivan turned around, looked at his happy sister, and inhaled the sweet, burning feeling of success. The broken prince was dead. The King was born.