Alfred was deeply worried about Shadowfen, and even more so when Rayan insisted on going there. He didn't want to lose Rayan and Malrick the way he had lost William and Jonathan. The pain of the past still echoed in his heart, and he feared history might repeat itself.
But Rayan was determined. He spoke of Shadowfen with a spark in his eyes, a hunger for discovery that reminded Alfred so much of Jonathan. It was as if Jonathan's very soul lived on in the boy. his courage, his thirst for adventure, his boundless excitement to explore the unknown. Alfred loved that about Rayan, but it also terrified him. He couldn't bear the thought of losing him, too, not like his father.
Still, Alfred saw it clearly: this was Rayan's dream. And though his heart ached with worry, he chose to support him. With a heavy breath and a silent prayer, he let him go.
And so, our journey began.
Shadowfen was a kingdom spoken of only in whispers. In dimly lit taverns and the margins of forbidden books. It lay far to the south, where maps began to curl and the last roads gave way to wilderness. There, the trees grew tall and twisted, and the air itself was heavy with silence. Mist slithered through the swamps like the breath of ancient things that had never fully died, and the sky was always a bruised, iron gray, as if the sun had long abandoned the land.
Rose from the ground like an old wound, wrapped in black stone and cold flame. Along its streets hung lanterns of blue fire, not to light the way, but to ward off whatever watched from the darkness. People moved quickly, heads low, their voices barely louder than a breath. In Shadowfen, secrets were currency, and silence was survival.
And above all. watching, waiting, ruled the King. Stormborne Aravak.No one had ever seen his face. Some said he was not entirely human, more shadow than flesh, a will made manifest in the dark. His presence was never seen, only felt: a pressure on the chest, a cold breath against the neck. But his power was beyond doubt. Storms bowed to him. The dead listened. And those who betrayed him... were never seen again.
And there is Rayan destenation.
He and his companions found no difficulty on the road to the kingdom. The path stretched before them as if the land itself had chosen to yield to their steps. But everything changed the moment they crossed the kingdom's border.
They felt it immediately, a ruined aura, heavy and suffocating, as if the land had been cursed long ago and never forgiven. The darkness here was unlike anything they had ever seen. It wasn't just the absence of light; it was the presence of something deeper, older... a living shadow pressing against their very souls.
At the kingdom's edge, the trees stood like ancient sentinels. Yet they weren't truly trees, not anymore. They resembled twisted phantoms, silhouettes of something that had once been alive but now existed only in memory. Their trunks leaned inward as if whispering to the earth, and their branches clawed at the sky, trying to strangle the last remnants of light.
Despite the creeping dread, they pushed forward through the forest of shadows. With every step, the air grew colder, and their minds began to falter. Hallucinations came like waves. They saw fragments of lives they never lived, heard voices calling their names from nowhere, and everywhere.
It became clear: this was not mere illusion. The hallucinations were a defense, woven into the very land itself. A psychological barrier meant to confuse, to break the will, to protect the heart of the kingdom from intruders.
One of them saw his mother weeping in the dark. Another glimpsed his own corpse beneath a bleeding tree. And as for him... he saw the throne.
He stood upon it, crowned and cloaked in shadow, surrounded by faceless figures who bowed in silence. But their eyes. If they had any, were not filled with reverence. There was no loyalty there. Only hunger.