PROLOGE
Kingdom of the Dark Lands
4 years ago
“How is he?” asked King Tedian, his gaze turned towards the bed near the window, where Jorik’s fragile body was mostly hidden beneath the sheets. The boy had rested his head to one side, his black hair contrasting with his pale skin, as white as the sheets. Only the shimmering of sweat droplets on his forehead gave him some color— a color partly taken away by the flames burning in the fireplace. He seemed absorbed in the space beyond the window until a sudden smile brought a lively warmth to his face.
“The same, Sire,” replied Master Mytil. “There is no improvement. We have tried all the remedies we know, but so far, none of them have yielded results! I am sorry!” His voice weakened, completely losing its strength.
"Do not dare say 'Im sorry'!" King Tedian exclaimed, his words emerging as angry hisses between clenched teeth. Though his voice wasn't raised, the very air seemed to quiver with the intensity of his anger. “Find new remedies. Try anything. Do not stop until Jorik gets better. I don’t want to lose another one of my children. Never again.” He raised his voice then turned his eyes towards the master, making him shrink into himself under the force of his gaze.
“We will do as you say, Sire!” replied Master Mytil, without having the courage to raise his head and look him in the eyes.
Afterward, he bowed before the king, who raised his hand, giving him permission to leave. He withdrew backward and left the prince’s room. When he closed the door behind him, all the anxiety he held inside escaped from his mouth in a long hiss.
After so many efforts, he felt it! He had the sensation that he would not be able to save the prince. He did not have the courage to tell King Tedian that Jorik, his sixth son, had no more hope of improvement. Even though the boy had almost reached adulthood, his days were about to end. Like the princes before him and like so many other children in their kingdom, he would watch that young man fade away, day by day. He knew the signs well. Just as the leaves of the trees fall to announce autumn, which is followed by the cruel winter, so had the prince’s health been of late.
The inevitable had become inescapable.
The sap of the few remaining sacred trees was not sufficient to meet the energy needs of Jorik’s body, energies that were vital for enduring the period of transition. This was a period after which the children in the Kingdom of the Dark Lands could consider themselves definitively adults and capable of procuring the necessary energies to live, even without the aid of the sacred trees. But the trees were slowly dying, as were the lives of each of the lost youth. The inhabitants of the Dark Lands, powerless in the face of this reality, watched the trees turn into dust one after another, at an unceasing rhythm. It was truly unbearable, painful like the loss of a loved one, painful like the loss of a child.
But what tormented them most, what clenched their hearts like the coils of a snake, was the disappearance of magic. And as magic vanished from their lands like rain on a summer day, everything connected to it, everything that fed on it, was withering. That sadness, that despair, had also enveloped the castle from one end to the other, like black clothes worn in mourning. It was no coincidence they called that place the Dark Lands. Every span of land, every tree, every stone, seemed stained in black. The people who lived there were as tough as the life they led, as the nature that surrounded them. Nothing was easy for the inhabitants of the Kingdom of the Dark Lands.
Master Mytil slowly descended the stairs, leaning against the wall from time to time, while his steps echoed heavily on the stone floor. He felt as if the dark shadows, created by the interplay of light along the walls, were stretching out their thin, long arms to grab him, to drag him into their darkness. Like remnants of lost souls, they followed him from behind, accusing him of his failures, his losses, his powerlessness. The Master quickened his pace, wishing to escape as quickly and as far away as possible from those shadows, but they were like unbreakable chains, imprisoning him without hope between those walls.
After crossing the central part of the castle and leaving behind the noisy halls with people moving incessantly, he entered one of the most secret and mysterious areas: his laboratory, which was his whole world.
When King Tedian had asked him to take care of the health of his sick son, he had accepted with energy, confidence, and a head full of ideas. Much time had passed since then. Now, he no longer had the energy, the confidence, nor the ideas to face such an arduous task. He was almost ready to give up, but the way Jorik’s eyes looked at him every morning when he brought the medicine was the heaviest accusation he could receive. He was not only failing time and again, but after each failure, his confidence crumbled like a sandcastle built over black holes that swallowed everything. His energies were running out, as were the hopes of finding a cure.
He had searched everywhere for a clue, for a glimmer of light that would pierce the darkness of ignorance surrounding him. Consulting the brightest minds of the Dark Lands, exploring every corner of every library in the kingdom, leafing through thousands of pages of old and new books, still, he found no answers to his pressing questions:
Why were the sacred trees dying?
Why did children not live beyond 50 years?
Why was magic disappearing?
Why was life abandoning them?
“Ah!” sighed Master Mytil, lowering his head and resting it in his hands.
The chair’s back was uncomfortable, and the table before him felt like a grave, where every attempt, every formulated theory, died before fully taking shape. He looked up, his eyes seeing nothing but chaos: piles of scattered papers, countless books, disorderly scattered glass vials, and dried plants that had long lost their colors and scents. There were also moldy remnants of the meals he had consumed alone, of which memory had faded. In a desperate gesture, he swept everything off the table, gaining no relief as all his problems simply moved to the floor beneath.
He closed his eyes, remaining silent, motionless. Thoughts whirled in his head like tormented souls trying to escape, but the more he concentrated, the more they eluded him. He stood up and began to pace between the table and the sagging shelves, laden with books. Walking often helped him concentrate or calm down, and at times, as today, it served to distract his mind from the torments within his soul. The well-worn pathway under his feet was clear evidence of this.
Knocks sounded at the door, hesitant, as if the knocker was afraid to disturb him.
“Come in!” he called, interrupting his walk and turning his gaze to the door.
“I’m sorry, Master Mytil! There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” it was Desar, his assistant, who hesitantly poked his head in.
Desar looked down, not daring to meet the master’s gaze. “Who is it, Desar? Does this person not have a name?”
“He introduced himself as Nasa,” Desar spoke in a low voice, almost frightened, hinting at something strange about the visitor. “He is truly an unusual fellow, Master!”
Master Mytil’s eyebrows arched in curiosity, eager to discover what had unnerved Desar enough to hush his voice.
“Strange?” he inquired, his lips curving into a faint smile.
“His eyes, Master, are completely white!” Desar continued in a whisper.
At the mention of the name and the description of the enigmatic visitor, Master Mytil froze, a shiver racing down his spine. He couldn’t fathom what he had just heard. Rubbing his sweaty palms against the fabric of his pants, he drew a deep breath. Could it truly be him, he wondered, then signaled Desar to let the visitor in. Only one person fit that description. His presence in the castle of the Dark Lands was both long-desired and unexpected. If anyone across the realms held any insight into the vanishing magic, it was this man.
It wasn’t long before another set of knocks resonated, more assertive this time. Master Mytil approached and opened the door himself.
“Master Mytil, the gentleman seeking you!” Desar introduced the man a step behind him.
“Please, come in!” Master Mytil widened the door for the mysterious figure, his face concealed under his cloak’s hood.
“It is indeed… a surprise to have your visit here. And… unexpected, I must say!” He found his words fragmented, nearly stammering. “I apologize; you have caught me unprepared,” he chuckled awkwardly, closing the door and motioning Desar to exit.
“I did not intend to unnerve you, but my arrival here is far from accidental!” The stranger pushed back his hood, revealing his white eyes. He halted in the room’s center, scanning the disorder around the black wooden table.
“Regardless of your visit’s purpose, which I’m certain is significant, your presence is always an honor, Mage Nasa… Majesty!” The master, flustered, repeatedly rubbed his hands, unsure of how to address or treat the visitor. As a mage or the king of Begorato? And what brought him to the Dark Lands? This uncertainty pricked him. Whatever the reason for the Mage’s unexpected appearance in the black castle, far from his domain, it signified something momentous was transpiring or about to. One could never be too certain when dealing with the sole, ancient living mage.
“Mage will suffice. This is not the place for royal titles!” He paused. “Before we delve into my visit’s purpose, I wish to convey my sorrow for Prince Jorik’s condition! I know you hold him dear. Your efforts are commendable, but as we both realize, the young prince is on his final journey!”
The mage’s words were like a blow that Master Mytil never felt ready to face. He shook his head in dismay and fell powerless into his uncomfortable chair. His eyes filled with tears, and a lump formed in his throat. His hopes, reduced to dust, could not be shattered more, when all that remained was only their memory of a time. Silently, as if it were a venomous bite, he swallowed his umpteenth loss amid tears.
“Tell me, Mage,” his voice trembled, and he dropped his arms onto the table as if they had been cut off. “Why are you here? I don’t believe you have come all this way just to give me this news.”
“Actually,” the mage, with his hands crossed behind his back, approached the table and moved the fallen objects on the floor with the tip of his foot. “I needed to order one of your famous boxes, made with the wood of the sacred trees!”
“I am sorry, but I am afraid I cannot accommodate your request. These trees, for my people, are at this time what we have most sacred and precious.”
“We could make a trade, if you are interested!” He looked up at the master. His interest in that box was clear, and the mage was not trying to hide it at all.
“I’m sorry!” Master Mytil interrupted him sharply.
“I have very important information, vital I would say, for the Dark Lands.” The Mage raised his eyebrows challengingly.
“Information?” The mage’s words piqued the master’s curiosity. “Does this information have to do with the problems we are experiencing with magic? Because, if not, then they have no value to us.”
“The problems with magic are not just yours. Everywhere, throughout Gaia, the same problem afflicts all the realms. Magic is disappearing from our lands.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” the master said thoughtfully and motioned to the chair, inviting the mage to sit.
The Mage looked at the chair and raised his hand. “Thank you, but my time here is short.” Then he touched his beard, running his hand along its entire length, and seriously addressed his interlocutor. “Master Mytil!” The mage’s voice echoed in the space of the workshop like the rumble of thunder.
Master Mytil raised his head, as if he had been shaken. He had worked and fought all his life for that title, and hearing it mentioned by the man in front of him was like reaching another milestone.
“Let’s be honest with each other, what do you say?”
Master Mytil nodded and straightened his hunched shoulders.
“I need that box, while for the Dark Lands, I am sure, a new source of energy would be very useful! If you accept the trade, these are the information that I am willing to share with you!”
The Master respected the Mage, not only for the name he bore or the fame that accompanied him. He had been, and still was, one of the few, if not the only one, who did the impossible to help anyone in need. Therefore, more carefully, he mentally retraced everything he had heard.
“King Tedian would be very grateful if that information could save the...”
“Let it be clear from the beginning!” The Mage raised his hand, interrupting him. “I cannot guarantee you anything of the sort, but I cannot tell you the opposite either. All I offer you is only the information on where to find that source. Nothing more.”
The Master, with the words still in his throat, let out a stifled sigh.
“Another thing,” the Mage spoke again. “This is information that I would be willing to share only if you, for your part, swear to keep my identity a secret. Apart from this condition, you can do whatever you want with that information or share it with whomever you want.”
“I am listening!” The Master said, almost breathless, and leaned back in his chair, eager to hear what information the Mage had to give him.
