The old mage remained silent for a long while, in no hurry to continue the conversation.
Logs crackled softly in the fireplace, and the uneven firelight drifted across the stone walls, casting trembling shadows upon them.
The room smelled of old paper, wax, and the faintest trace of smoke.
Richard had remained standing opposite the old man all this time, leaning heavily on his cane.
At last, he broke the silence.
“You said you wanted to tell me about Arthur.” “Yes,” the old man replied calmly.
He opened the book lying before him once more.
Its heavy cover creaked softly, and the yellowed pages rustled beneath his fingers.
For a while, the mage leafed through them as though searching for a particular passage, but then he stopped and raised his eyes to Richard.
“But first, I want to ask you a question.” Richard frowned slightly.
“What question?” The old man looked at him over the top of the book.
“What do you know about your ancestor?” Richard’s gaze involuntarily shifted to the portrait hanging above the fireplace.
The old canvas depicted Arthur Ravenhart—a man whose name had been associated for generations with the founding of the House.
“The founder of the House,” Richard answered after a brief pause.
“Everyone knows that.” “A great swordsman.” “Correct.” Richard’s eyes lingered on the portrait for a moment, as though trying to discern in the features of his long-dead ancestor something he had never noticed before.
“The first Lord Ravenhart.” The old man nodded slowly.
“And what else?” Richard fell silent.
He knew a few other stories.
He had heard the family legends passed down from generation to generation, yet for some reason, none of them seemed important enough to say aloud now.
The old man’s question had been far simpler than Richard had expected.
And yet, unexpectedly, it proved difficult to answer.
“Nothing,” Richard said at last.
The old mage gave the slightest nod.
“Exactly.” He ran a finger along the yellowed page, pausing over several lines as though recalling words long forgotten.
“Much of what is known about Arthur today was deliberately simplified.
Over the years, his story was rewritten—some events were erased, while the meaning of others was changed.
In the end, all that remained was a convenient legend of a great swordsman and the first Lord Ravenhart.” Richard frowned.
“Why?” The old man looked up at him.
“Because the truth was dangerous to remember.” For several moments, they remained silent.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly once more, and the flickering light slid across the pages of the book.
Richard tightened his grip on the handle of his cane.
“What did Arthur do?” The mage covered the book with his palm.
“He found the Tree.” The room fell strangely silent.
Richard had heard the word before.
It had appeared in old family records, among forgotten symbols and ancient legends, but he had never taken it seriously.
Now, everything was different.
The old man’s words no longer sounded like part of some ancient tale told by the fireside, but like a long-hidden fact.
Richard stared at the mage for several seconds before asking: “Where?” The old man did not answer at once.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the window, beyond which the northern night lay in darkness.
“In the north,” he said at last.
Richard felt a slight tension rise within him.
The old man’s words made him involuntarily recall everything he had ever heard about the northern lands, yet none of the stories he knew matched the description.
“The Northern Forest?” The old man looked at him and slowly shook his head.
“No.” He held Richard’s gaze for a moment, as though deciding whether he should continue.
“Much farther.” Richard frowned.
“Then where?” “In a place that no longer exists on any map.” The old man carefully closed the book.
Its heavy cover settled over the pages with a dull thud.
“And perhaps never should have.” Richard said nothing.
The mage slowly rose and walked to the window.
Beyond the glass stretched the darkness of night, while the faint light of the moon barely broke through the clouds.
For a while, the old man gazed into the distance, as though trying to see beyond the familiar landscape to the place he was about to describe.
“A thousand years ago, the world was different,” he said at last.
Richard turned toward him.
“The kingdoms?” “Different,” the old man replied quietly.
“Not just the kingdoms.
The world itself.” He rested a hand against the cold windowsill and continued, no longer looking at Richard: “Back then, Elyria did not yet exist in the form we know today.
There were no present-day borders, no familiar titles, and no Houses whose crests now adorn the halls of palaces.
The lands belonged to those who could defend them, and the ancient forests stretched far beyond the boundaries they hold today.” Richard listened in silence.
And little by little, he began to understand that Arthur’s story went far deeper than he had ever imagined.
“Humans?” “Weaker,” the old man replied.
Richard frowned, trying to imagine a world in which humans were nothing like the people he knew today.
“Magic?” This time, the old man did not answer at once.
“Stronger.” He turned toward Richard, and an unfamiliar seriousness appeared in his eyes.
“Far stronger.
But it wasn’t only the magic itself.
A thousand years ago, the boundary between worlds was much thinner.” Richard felt a chill run down his spine.
“Between worlds?” The old man nodded slowly.
“Exactly.” He cast another glance at the closed book, as though its pages might somehow confirm what he was saying.
“Things that seem impossible today, or exist only in ancient legends, were once part of the world.
People encountered things they could not explain, and some creatures could cross freely into places where they had no right to be.” Richard felt the tension inside him growing.
“And that was when the first Volkyls appeared.” He froze.
He had heard the name before.
As a child, he had heard it in old northern tales that adults would tell children around the hearth, only to laugh afterward and dismiss the Volkyls as a fabrication.
But now the old man had spoken the name without the slightest hint of doubt.
“They existed back then?” Richard asked quietly.
The old man looked at him.
“They came then.” After those words, he returned to the table and slowly lowered himself into his seat.
For several moments, he remained silent, allowing what he had said to settle into the stillness of the room.
Richard remained standing by the fireplace.
Now, more than ever, he found it difficult to dismiss what he had heard as nothing more than an old legend.
“The Volkyls were not born of this world,” the old man continued quietly.
He placed a hand upon the book’s heavy cover, as though he meant to keep it firmly in place.
“They came through the Rift.” Richard slowly lowered himself into a chair.
One by one, old stories surfaced in his mind—stories that had once seemed no more than children’s tales.
Rifts, strange creatures, ancient lands—all of it was suddenly beginning to take on a frightening reality.
“And Arthur fought them?” “Everyone fought them.” The answer was simple, devoid of any grandeur, yet that only made it weigh more heavily.
Richard remained silent for a while before asking: “Then why does almost no one speak of them?” The old man smiled faintly, but there was not the slightest trace of amusement in it.
“Because humanity won.” He paused briefly.
“And people like to forget the wars in which they nearly perished.” With that, the old man turned the page.
Richard leaned forward.
An ancient drawing covered the yellowed sheet, darkened by the passage of time.
The paint had faded in places, and the lines had become almost indistinct, yet the image could still be made out.
A colossal tree towered above everything else.
Its trunk was so massive that the human figures beside it seemed tiny.
Mighty roots plunged deep beneath the earth, intertwining with one another as though concealing something unseen within the depths below.
Its branches spread in every direction, almost completely blocking out the sky.
And at the foot of the Tree stood people.
Some gazed upon it, others knelt before it, while several figures seemed to be reaching out toward its trunk.
Richard said nothing for a long time.
He already knew what was depicted on that page.
But he still could not bring himself to say it aloud.
Eldarion And behind them… Richard did not immediately understand what was depicted in the farthest part of the drawing.
Only after a few moments did his gaze settle on the tall figures standing in the shadow of the enormous branches.
Pale faces.
Silver eyes.
Twisted bodies.
Some of them, at first glance, were almost indistinguishable from humans.
Their outlines were still unmistakably human, though there was something wrong, something alien, about their faces and eyes.
Others barely resembled humans anymore.
Their bodies were twisted, their limbs unnaturally long, and their faces were obscured by features that looked more like the muzzles of beasts.
Richard felt unease rising within him.
“Volkyls,” he whispered.
“Yes.” The old man said nothing more.
Richard leaned closer to the book, studying the image intently.
Now he could see that the ancient artist had sought to depict more than a mere battle.
Every figure in the drawing, both human and Volkyl, seemed to be moving toward the same place.
Toward Eldarion.
Richard shifted his gaze to the tree depicted on the page.
“And this is Eldarion?” “Eldarion,” the old man confirmed.
The name stirred a strange feeling within Richard.
He could not explain why it seemed familiar.
He had never heard it spoken before—or at least, he could not remember ever having done so.
And yet, the moment the old man uttered the word, something deep inside him stirred faintly.
As though the name was not new to him.
As though he already knew it.
Not with his mind.
Somewhere much deeper.
Richard slowly straightened, but did not take his eyes from the drawing.
“Why does it feel like I’ve heard that name before?” The old man looked at him far too intently.
And for the first time throughout their entire conversation, something resembling unease flickered across his face.
The First Bearer “What did it do?” Richard asked.
The mage continued to stare silently at the drawing for a while, as though deciding how far he should go in his explanation.
The candle flame flickered, and for a brief moment, the shadows of Eldarion’s branches across the old page seemed almost alive.
“It held the Rift at bay,” he answered at last.
Richard frowned.
“By itself?” “Not quite.” The old man turned the page.
Eldarion was gone from the next drawing.
In its place, the artist had depicted a single man standing before an enormous dark wall—or perhaps the Rift itself.
He held a sword in one hand.
A dark cloak rested upon his shoulders, and on his chest, the crest was clearly visible—a raven and a white wolf.
Even after centuries, the image remained unmistakable.
Arthur Ravenhart.
Richard instinctively leaned forward.
“He was the first.” For several moments, Richard remained silent, studying the image of his ancestor.
“The first what?” The old man slowly raised his eyes.
“Bearer.” Something stirred within Richard’s chest.
He felt it almost physically—a brief, strange response, as though somewhere deep inside him, an echo long forgotten had answered.
“Bearer of what?” he asked.
The old man did not answer at once.
His gaze fell once more upon the drawing of Arthur, and this time there was something in his expression that Richard had not noticed before.
Caution.
As though the answer that followed might change everything Richard knew about his own name and blood.
The Power of Eldarion The mage raised his eyes and looked directly into Richard’s.
“The power of Eldarion.” Richard said nothing.
The words hung between them, and in the silence of the room, the only sound once again was the crackling of logs in the fireplace.
The old man continued: “Others tried to establish a connection with Eldarion.
Mages, kings, the greatest warriors of their age.
Even entire orders set out in search of it, attempting to draw near.” Richard slowly traced the drawing with his eyes.
“And?” “No one succeeded.” “And Arthur?” The old man answered without hesitation.
“Arthur did.” He turned another page.
Only a few lines had been written there.
Most of the text was completely incomprehensible to Richard.
Ancient symbols stretched across the yellowed parchment, forming words in a language he had never seen before.
Richard tried to make out at least a fragment, but soon gave up.
Yet among the countless unfamiliar symbols, one word had been set apart.
It occupied nearly the entire lower portion of the page.
Eldarion.
Richard’s gaze lingered on it.
For some reason, the name once again seemed to resonate somewhere deep within him.
This time, the sensation was slightly stronger than before, and Richard unconsciously tightened his fingers around the handle of his cane.
He raised his eyes to the mage.
“What happened afterward?” The old man ran a hand over the page and answered quietly: “Arthur gained the power.” He paused briefly before adding: “But with it, he also gained something the generations of Ravenharts that followed him chose to forget.” Arthur’s Transformation “What kind?” Richard asked.
The mage watched him for a while, in no hurry to answer.
“The kind a man was never meant to possess.” Richard frowned.
“Be specific.” A faint smirk appeared on the old man’s lips.
“You are in too much of a hurry.” “I died and woke up in someone else’s body.” The smirk vanished from the mage’s face.
This time, he did not argue or attempt to make light of it.
He simply studied Richard for several seconds, as though only now truly taking in what he had heard.
“Fair enough,” he said quietly.
Richard said nothing.
The old man turned his gaze back to the open book.
“Arthur did not gain the power immediately,” he continued.
“His connection with Eldarion changed him first.” “Changed him?” “His body.” Richard leaned forward slightly.
“And his mind?” The mage shook his head.
“I don’t know.” “Then what is known?” The old man ran his fingers along the edge of the page.
“Only this: after his first encounter with Eldarion, Arthur was no longer the same man.
His body began to change, and with it, the way he perceived magic changed as well.” He fell silent, as though searching for the right words.
“But how far those changes went, and what exactly Arthur had to pay for the connection, was not preserved in the records.
Or perhaps someone made sure those details disappeared.” Richard felt that familiar tension rising within him once again.
He looked down at his hands, then slowly raised his eyes to the old man.
“And you think the same thing is happening to me?” The mage did not answer.
But his silence spoke more clearly than any words could have.
The old man shifted his gaze to the portrait of the founder, as though Richard’s question had, for a moment, drawn him back to events that had long since become part of the history of the house.
In the darkened canvas, Arthur Ravenhart gazed somewhere beyond the heads of those gathered before him, wearing the same calm, resolute expression that seemed to have belonged to every generation of his bloodline.
“Arthur became stronger,” the old man finally said.
Richard frowned, keeping his eyes on the portrait.
“How much stronger?” This time, the answer did not come immediately.
The old man narrowed his eyes slightly, as though searching for words capable of conveying something that could not easily be measured by ordinary standards.
“Strong enough to accomplish what an entire army could not.” Richard slowly turned his gaze toward him.
“Defeat the Volkils?” “Stop them.” The distinction between those words was so obvious that Richard did not grasp it at once.
He remained silent for several moments before his brow furrowed even deeper.
“He didn’t defeat them?” The old man slowly shook his head.
“No.
He could not defeat them.” His gaze returned to Arthur’s portrait, and a faint weight entered his voice, as though even after all these years, the words that followed were difficult to speak.
“He sealed the Rift.” Richard froze.
At last, the pieces were beginning to fall into place.
That was why the Volkils had vanished, leaving behind only old accounts that had gradually faded into legend.
That was why the northern lands had remained safe for so long, despite the memory of the ancient threat never truly disappearing.
And that was why, after all these years, a sense of unease was beginning to stir across the North once more.
Richard looked at the founder’s portrait again.
If Arthur had not destroyed the Volkils, but merely sealed the Rift, then what had been believed to be the end had never truly been an end at all.
It had only been a pause.
A very long one.
But a pause nonetheless.
“And Eldarion?” The question was quieter than the ones before it, but the old man immediately understood what Richard was asking.
“He remained.” Richard frowned.
“Where?” The old man did not answer at once.
His gaze lingered on Arthur’s portrait, as though the answer was somehow connected to the man depicted on the old canvas, yet he was uncertain whether it should be spoken aloud.
“I don’t know.” Richard slowly turned toward him.
“You said Arthur found him.” “He did.” “Then where is he?” This time, the old man merely let out a heavy sigh.
“After the war, Arthur left.” “Where?” “North.” The answer was simple, yet Richard felt a strange tension slowly building within him.
“And what happened after that?” The old man lowered his gaze.
“He never returned.” Silence settled over the room for several moments.
Richard looked at the portrait of the House’s founder once more, trying to imagine the man who had managed to stop the Volkils, seal the Rift, find Eldarion—and then simply vanished into the North, leaving behind nothing but a history filled with unanswered questions.
Something did not add up.
If Arthur was the founder of House Ravenhart, if he was truly the man who had accomplished everything the old servant had just described, then why did his story end there?
Richard slowly raised his gaze.
“Then who founded the House?” — His son.
The answer came calmly, but Richard paused for a moment, piecing it together with what he had already learned about the history of the House.
— Then Arthur’s power was passed down to him?
The old man slowly shook his head.
— No.
Richard turned his gaze toward him.
— Why?
— Because no one after Arthur was ever able to establish a connection with him again.
Those words left Richard silent for a moment.
He lowered his gaze to his own hands, still trying to make sense of what he had just heard.
If Arthur had truly managed to establish a connection with Eldarion, yet none of his descendants had ever been able to do the same, then the founder’s legacy was far more complicated than the simple passing of power from father to son.
The old man continued, as though he had long known what question all of this would eventually lead to.
— Every generation that followed tried.
Richard raised his eyes.
— And failed?
— Every one of them.
There was neither regret nor surprise in his voice.
Only the dry statement of a fact that, over the years, had become an inseparable part of the history of the Ravenharts.
Richard looked down at his palms once more, then slowly shifted his gaze to the old crest of the House.
— Then why did the House retain its influence?
A faint smile appeared on the old man’s face.
There was something strange about it, almost enigmatic, as though this was the question he had been waiting for more than any of the others.
— Because Arthur left something else behind.
Richard frowned.
— What?
The old man did not answer.
Instead, he slowly reached out and touched the Ravenhart crest.
Edited Fragment “Name,” Richard finally said.
The old man frowned ever so slightly, as though it took him a moment to understand the question.
“Name?” “Your name,” Richard repeated.
“And the legend.” His gaze drifted involuntarily toward the fireplace.
Above the old stone hearth hung a sword—darkened by age, yet still imposing.
For a moment, Richard thought he had seen the blade before.
Or perhaps he had merely heard of it.
The old man followed his gaze.
“After Arthur, the Ravenharts became one of the most renowned warrior Houses of the North.” “But without the power of the Tree,” Richard clarified.
“Without it.” The answer came too quickly, and far too calmly.
Richard frowned more deeply.
There was something left unsaid in the old man’s words, some detail he clearly had no intention of revealing willingly.
“Then why did you tell me about it now?” The old man said nothing.
He stared at Richard for a long time without looking away, as though trying to determine how fully the young man himself understood the significance of his own words.
The room grew strangely quiet.
Even the fire in the hearth seemed to burn more softly than before.
“Because you asked about the Tree,” the mage finally said.
Richard gave the slightest shake of his head.
“I didn’t.” The old man went still.
For several long moments, they simply stared at one another.
Neither spoke a word.
The silence between them became almost tangible.
At last, the old man said slowly: “You said it yourself.” Richard felt a chill.
It took him a moment to realize where it had come from.
The fire was still burning in the room, and the hearth radiated warmth, yet an unpleasant shiver still ran down his spine.
He had said it.
The words about the Tree had truly slipped from his lips, even though he could not remember ever hearing that name before.
And the longer Richard tried to reconstruct that moment in his mind, the more uneasy he became.
Why had he said that particular word?
He didn’t know.
And the uncertainty frightened him far more than the Tree itself.
“I’ve never heard that name before,” Richard said quietly, as though saying it aloud might convince himself of it as well.
The old man merely shrugged.
“Perhaps.” “And what if I have?” The mage said nothing.
His silence spoke more clearly than any words could have.
Richard felt something inside him tighten unpleasantly.
His gaze shifted once more to the book lying nearby.
Its pages were still open, and now it seemed as though even the mere presence of the book was somehow connected to what was happening to him.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked at last.
The old man slowly stepped closer.
There was no longer any trace of his earlier amusement or calm confidence in his eyes.
Now they held something else—wariness.
“That, I don’t know,” the mage admitted.
Richard looked up at him.
“But you said you couldn’t sense any magic in me.” “I can’t.” “Then why did I see that Tree?” The old man did not answer at once.
And that pause made Richard even more uneasy.
It seemed that, for the first time, the mage himself had been confronted with a question to which he genuinely had no answer.
The old man stopped abruptly.
For the first time, something resembling genuine fear appeared on his face.
“You saw it?” Richard nodded silently.
“Not the real thing,” he replied after a brief pause.
“At least, I don’t think so.
A memory.
A vision.
I don’t know what it was.” The old man took another step toward him.
“What exactly did you see?” Richard did not answer immediately.
He closed his eyes, trying to summon the image once more.
Almost at once, the Tree appeared before his mind’s eye again.
First—the roots.
Endless, massive roots reaching deep into the black earth.
They intertwined like living creatures, disappearing somewhere into the impenetrable darkness.
Then—the light.
It filtered through the branches, cold and strange, utterly unlike sunlight.
Richard could not tell where it came from, yet it filled everything around him with an otherworldly radiance.
And once again, he felt it.
As though he had not been there alone.
As though someone had been on the other side of the vision, watching him directly.
Richard’s eyes snapped open, and he drew a short breath.
“The roots,” he said.
The old man remained silent.
“Enormous roots,” Richard added, struggling to find the right words.
“There were so many…
I couldn’t see where they began or where they led.” The old man’s expression suddenly changed.
The color seemed to drain from his face.
“What?..” he whispered.
Richard frowned at his reaction.
“What is it?” But the old man seemed not to hear the question at all.
He stared at Richard with pale, wide eyes, as though Richard had just uttered something impossible.
“What?” the mage repeated, louder this time.
“Did you say you saw the roots?” the old man asked, as though still hoping he had misheard.
“Yes.” Richard nodded.
The mage slowly lowered himself into the chair beside the fireplace.
His movements had suddenly grown heavy, as though what he had heard had stripped him of his former confidence.
For several moments, he stared into the fire without saying a word.
“Then things are far worse than I thought.” Richard frowned.
“Why?” The old man looked up.
There was no trace of doubt left in his eyes now.
“Because Arthur saw the same thing.” Richard froze.
For a moment, the mage’s words seemed to rob him of the ability to think.
Once again, he remembered the black earth, the endless roots, and the cold light filtering through the branches.
The same thing?
Could it be that the vision had not been a coincidence after all?
“Arthur…” Richard began quietly, but he never got the chance to finish.
A sudden knock sounded at the door.
Both men turned.
Without waiting for an answer, Sebastian entered the room.
Usually calm and composed, he now looked unusually serious.
He quickly closed the door behind him and stopped just inside the room.
“My lord.” Richard rose from his seat.
“What happened?” Sebastian hesitated for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully.
“A message has arrived from the city.” Silence fell over the room once more.
Richard felt the unpleasant tension returning, only now it had nothing to do with the Tree.
“What message?” he asked.
Sebastian looked directly at him.
“I’m afraid, my lord, you’d better read it yourself.” “From whom?” Richard asked.
“From the city administrator.” Sebastian handed him the letter.
Richard took the envelope, studied it for a moment, then broke the seal.
The paper gave a soft crackle in the tense silence of the room.
He quickly scanned the lines.
With each passing sentence, his expression grew colder.
Even the confusion that had lingered in his eyes only moments ago disappeared.
All that remained was a restrained wariness.
The old man watched him closely.
“What does it say?” he finally asked.
Richard read the letter to the end, then carefully folded it and lowered his hand.
“He wants a meeting.” “Why?” Richard paused for a moment.
“He says the situation in the city is getting out of control.” Sebastian frowned.
“What else?” Richard turned his gaze toward him.
“Several merchants have been robbed.” Sebastian gave the slightest shake of his head.
“That’s nothing new.” “Now one of them is dead.” Silence fell over the room.
The old man slowly raised his eyes to Richard but said nothing.
Even Sebastian stood frozen for a few moments, as though the news had changed the weight of everything that had been said before.
“And?” Richard finally said.
He raised the letter again and glanced briefly at the final lines.
“The administrator says the city guard can no longer handle the situation.” Sebastian nodded grimly.
His usual stern expression returned to his face.
“Then it’s time to remind them who owns these lands.” Richard looked at him.
“No.” Sebastian frowned in surprise.
“No?” Richard slowly shook his head.
“If people no longer fear the Ravenhart name, then there’s nothing for us to remind them of.” He placed the letter on the table and took hold of his cane.
His fingers tightened around the handle as he turned toward the door.
“We need to give them a reason to believe in us again.” With that, Richard headed for the exit.
But just as he reached the doorway, he stopped.
For a moment, he stood motionless, staring into the dark corridor, as though he had suddenly remembered something important.
Behind him were the old man and Sebastian—and with them, the questions he still had no answers to.
Richard slowly turned back.
“And prepare the men.” Sebastian straightened.
“Where are we going, my lord?” Richard looked down at the letter in his hand.
“To the city.” “Sebastian.” “Yes, my lord?” Richard did not answer immediately.
For several more moments, he stared at the letter, as though trying to see between the lines what the administrator had not dared to write outright.
Then he raised his eyes.
“Prepare the carriage.” Sebastian frowned slightly in surprise.
“You’re going to the city?” “Yes.” Richard looked at the letter once more and slowly folded it in half.
“And I want to speak personally with the man who decided that this House is no longer capable of protecting its own lands.” There was neither anger nor threat in his voice.
Only cold determination.
Sebastian nodded.
“It will be done.” He was about to leave when a loud caw suddenly sounded outside the window.
Richard turned his head.
A black raven sat upon a bare branch, staring motionlessly toward the castle.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, after which the raven suddenly spread its wings and vanished into the darkness beyond the window.
Richard followed it with his gaze.
A strange unease settled over him.
He did not yet know that what was happening in the city was only the beginning.
Far to the north, beyond the borders of human lands, where snow-covered forests stretched as far as the horizon, a deep night had fallen.
Snow drifted silently onto the dark branches.
Deep within the woods, among the ancient trees, something stirred ever so slightly.
First, a shadow emerged.
Then, from the darkness, two silver eyes slowly opened.
They stared into the distance for several moments.
Then they vanished once more among the snow and trees.