The Forest of Bereavement: The world swam back into focus, a haze of pain and the stench of filth assaulting Elter’s senses. His head throbbed as if a smith’s hammer were pounding against his skull. He blinked to clear his vision and stared at the soil-caked remnants of what once was a fine tunic. Memories flooded back—the trolls, the privy, the crushing grip of a massive hand around his neck.

  Fucking troll, he thought, the memory making his blood boil. Have I still my neck? With a grunt, he sat up, wincing. He wore the pain like a torture collar, the ache traveling down his back. Where in a demon's field am I?

  He sat in a rickety cage. Iron bars cast thin shadows across his body, and beyond them, the world lurched and swayed. Six trolls, their backs bent with effort, pulled the wheeled prison along a muddy path. There was no driver; whoever had captured them clearly didn’t fear their escape. Ah, how heartening, Elter mused, to know that these crotch-skunks hold me in such high regard.

  Dawn was breaking, a wan yellow sun struggling to pierce the veil of low-hanging clouds. The path wound through a forest of dead trees, their branches reaching toward the sky like the gnarled fingers of corpses. Above, three moons hung like silent watchers, slightly offset from each other, casting their pale light through the skeletal branches. The middle moon, larger than the others, sheened bright and swollen, while the smaller two flanked it. A raw wind moaned through the branches, carrying with it the promise of winter and worse things to come.

  Elter shivered, frost biting at his face. Others shared the cage with him. Two Northemor adults lay crumpled near the front, their bodies dusted with frost like cadavers awaiting the grave. At the rear sat a man unlike any Elter had seen—his skin dark as the black hollyhocks around Mani, dreadlocks the color of deep swamp moss hanging from his head like vines. The man wore nothing but a loincloth, as if the cold were a distant, unconcerned enemy.

  The stranger was smoking a lengthy wooden pipe, the sweet scent of tobacco a glaring contrast to the reek of unwashed bodies and troll-sweat. The man produced a pinch of tobacco from one of the leather pouches tied to his muscular arms. With practiced ease, he reloaded his pipe then pulled out a sulfur match and two strange thimbles. He snapped his fingers rapidly, creating a spark, and as he drew several puffs, plumes of aromatic smoke filled the cart.

  “Your stench could wake the old gods from their slumber, young Saggarin,” the man said without turning.

  Elter stiffened. “How did you know I was awake?”

  The stranger turned, revealing a face that stopped Elter’s breath. Two brilliant green eyes gazed at him, but the third eye—aspen gray and unblinking—centered on the man’s forehead, captured his gaze.

  “I am Wormose,” the man said, “a Wakan of the Korilippine jungles. My thien sees what others cannot.”

  Bewilder me like a trouserless gafol-gerefa! Elter thought. Tales of the Wakan shamans were whispered around campfires and in alehouses across the realm. But to see one in the flesh, so far from home...

  “What in the thirteen hells are you doing this far north?” Elter asked. “I thought your kind never left the jungles.”

  A grim expression settled on Wormose’s face. “I first set foot in these lands when the races joined forces against the god-dragon Scorso. Long ages have passed since that fateful time.”

  “Of all the impossible drivel! That would mean you’ve outlived fourteen generations of your kind,” Elter scoffed. “Next, you’ll tell me fucking grumkins and snarks pull this cart.”

  “Only a fool dismisses the impossible,” Wormose replied, his voice low and dangerous. “The world is vast and full of wonders—and terrors. Like the ones who’ve taken us.”

  “And who has taken us?” Elter asked, a chill unrelated to the cold running down his spine. Terrors? What kind of succubus’ den have I stumbled into?

  “Coveners,” Wormose said. “A sisterhood who’ve pledged themselves to the Dinehin. They’ve been growing bolder, snatching people from their homes, their fields, their very beds.”

  Thoughts spiraled in Elter’s mind. The Dinehin? Seven gods united as one... but surely, those are just tales to scare children. “I’m a sorcerer,” Elter said, more to reassure himself than anything. Better than a damn specter anyway. “They can’t hold me.”

  Wormose’s laughter was bitter. “Your magic is a candle flame next to their inferno, boy. The Dinehin grant power beyond imagining to those who surrender their love—their very souls.”

  Is he fucking earnest? Elter thought. Surely there’s some means of escape.

  As if conjured by Wormose’s words, a figure emerged at the head of the caravan, her scarlet robe shifting faintly in the morning haze. A tall, pointed hat cloaked her face in shadow, revealing only the sharp curve of her chin. Beside her, a child no older than ten summers floated, suspended in the misty air, limbs slack and lifeless, as though held aloft by tethers that vanished into the heavens—like the gods themselves were puppeteering her.

  Elter’s blood ran cold. Many horrors had crossed his path in his young life, but none compared to the wrongness of that malspawn. My escape isn’t merely about survival. I need not discover what demon’s ass that birthed that child.

  “We must escape,” he whispered urgently to Wormose. “Now, before—”

  But the Wakan was already shaking his head. “The bars are warded against magic. And even if we could break free, the wolves of the Dire Realms stalk these woods. Death walks on four legs out there, boy.”

  Elter’s fingers curled around the iron bars, his grip tightening until his knuckles blanched white as snow. Beyond the meager light cast by the trail’s torches, the forest writhed with malevolent life. In the tangled undergrowth, shadows shifted and slithered, punctuated by brief flashes of eyes that gleamed with an otherworldly, ravenous hunger.

  These were no ordinary beasts that stalked them. The wolves that haunted these woods were creatures of legend, their appetite honed by dark magics and insatiable greed. Only the flaring light of the torches held them at bay, a fragile barrier between the captives and a fate worse than death.

  Their anticipation hung in the air, almost tangible. The wet slide of tongues over razor-sharp teeth and the padding of paws on damp earth echoed in his mind. One misstep, one guttering torch, and they would be upon the caravan in a frenzy of fur and fang.

  He remained silent for a long time, considering his alternatives. Shall I risk becoming wolf shit? Then he thought of Rol, of her smile, of the life they’d dreamed of building together. Fuck all then! He couldn’t die here, couldn’t let her wonder forever what had become of him.

  “Stay here if it pleases,” Elter said, his voice hard as Oxlinger steel. “I’ll not die their fucking slave.”

  Before Wormose could stop him, Elter’s hands came together, crackling with blue light, the air around him humming with raw power. He aimed not for the bars, but for the floor of the cart. With a sound like thunder, the floorboards splintered apart.

  As Elter dropped through the hole, Wormose’s resigned sigh reached him. “The gods help fools and children,” the Wakan muttered. “And you, my friend, are both.”

  Fools and children? Perhaps so, Elter thought, but at last, I’ll die free.

  His feet hit the muddy ground, and for a heartbeat, he tasted freedom. But it was as fleeting as summer snow. The priestess raised her wand—a twisted thing of yew, tipped with a blood-quartz that pulsed like a living heart. Her incantation filled the narrow trail, words that slithered and writhed.

  What in the infernal hells is she chanting? The ropes from her sleeves came alive, serpents of hemp and wool. No. No. No! Elter willed his legs to move faster.

  But the ropes snapped out like vipers, coiling around his limbs, his throat. The more he fought, the tighter they squeezed, choking the life out of him. The burn of the rope bit into the bruises left by the troll’s grip, a fresh layer of agony on top of the old.

  “Bring me that wretch,” the priestess commanded.

  Elter stood face to face with her, close enough to see the network of black veins beneath her pallid skin, to catch the foul odor on her breath. So this is what the hells look like up close.

  Her clouded gaze studied him with a hunger that made his skin crawl. “It appears the Saggarin fancies himself a hero,” she mocked, her words dripping with venom. “I had planned a quick death for you, but now... now I think we’ll take our time.”

  Her bony finger jabbed at his forehead, and pain exploded behind Elter’s eyes, as if she were clawing her way into his very thoughts.

  “A sorcerer,” she said, a look of perverse pleasure twisting her features. “Oh, the things we could learn from you. The secrets we could pry from that mind.”

  “You shall wrest nothing from me, crone,” he rasped.

  The amusement in her expression curdled into rage. She spat a glob of slimy saliva onto the bridge of his nose. With a sharp flick of her wrist, her ropes yanked Elter through the muck, every jagged stone and root finding a home in his face, his ribs, his groin. Wormose’s face appeared, etched with a mix of pity and grim acceptance.

  “Savor that mouthful of dirt. It’s your last meal. Trolls, they eat your kind of meat,” the priestess taunted, her laughter like the cawing of crows over a battlefield.

  As the day wore on, Elter’s world narrowed to an endless cycle of pain. Blood and mud mingled on his skin, rocks battering the breath from his lungs. The torches flanking the trail swayed and dipped, courtly courtiers in a lord’s grand hall, spinning to an ancient rhythm, their light weaving a spectral dance across the woodland that with each step grew deeper, darker, denser.

  Wormose warned me, Elter thought, each jolt sending fresh waves of agony through his battered body. They passed cauldrons that served as grim mile markers, adorned with bones and bits of flesh. He avoided looking too closely, refused to dwell on whether this gruesome display was his own future.

  I was too reckless… Forgive me, Rol, he thought. I should have been wiser—

  The path suddenly took a steep dive, and Elter’s head struck the ground with a sickening crack. As he lost consciousness, his final thought was of Rol—a desperate prayer that she would never know the fate that awaited him.

  The Isle of Lenepi: The sunset stained the sky scarlet and gold, sending lengthy shadows across the Imperial Palace’s tatami-covered flooring. A halo of sandalwood incense wafted through the chamber, carrying the influence of a thousand years of tradition. In the great hall, Emperor Moirsil sat upon the Imperial Seat of the Scorsorai, his tattooed countenance a mask of brutality beneath the gleaming jūnihitoe robes of his station.

  “Moire-dono,” the Emperor’s voice rang out, clear as the toll of a temple bell. “Approach.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Moire stepped forward, his silk kimono rustling softly in the vast, incense-laden chamber. Rows of courtiers lined the imperial dais—high-ranking lords, ministers, and military commanders, their lacquered caps and layered silks forming a living tapestry of station and allegiance. Their painted faces remained as still as Noh masks, yet their eyes tracked his every step.

  Beyond them, court scribes knelt in precise formation, ink brushes poised to immortalize each word spoken beneath the golden canopy. Imperial concubines and shrine maidens stood in silent reverence, veiled figures of station and grace. At the chamber’s perimeter, rows of armored retainers and palace guards watched with unreadable discipline, hands resting on their sheathed blades, a silent reminder of the Emperor’s divine authority.

  With practiced grace, Emperor Moirsil reached beside his throne, lifting an odachi sheathed in a custom saya of deepest night. The saya, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, depicted the rise of their noble house—the Scorsorai clan—from humble warriors to masters of an empire.

  Legend holds that the mighty black sword was forged in the hellfire of Gehenna, an instrument of unparalleled, unbreakable might. Its metal glimmered with an unholy light; whispers speak of its ability to channel waves of hellfire capable of felling entire armies with a single swing. Moire did not need whispers to confirm the truth.

  As Emperor Moirsil unsheathed the blade, a tangible tension filled the room; the very air vibrated with the sword’s sinister energy. “Behold, Moire-dono,” he proclaimed. “Your forebears were the exalted progeny of Scorso, their veins coursing with divine fire. Through the long march of generations, our sacred dragon blood has waned, thinning as we became less of our creator and more of the mortal brood of Gentricus. Yet, even as the true essence of our lineage faded in others, our house remains the purest vessel of Scorso’s legacy. It is for this reason, my son, that you alone are worthy to wield the ancestral blade—Gehenna’s Fang.”

  The long sword’s length matched that of a full-grown man, shimmering ominously in the murky light—a weapon of legend and terror. Amongst the court, rumors swirled. They claimed the Emperor drains and consumes the blood of his enemies through the blade, stealing their vitality and becoming ever more powerful with each life he takes.

  Moire’s lips parted as he drew a deep breath. The courtiers, frozen as though sculpted from marble, watched the exchange with a combination of awe and fear, knowing that the fate of the empire could hinge on the blade’s next wielder.

  The Emperor’s stare held Moire’s. “Take it,” he commanded. “And show me your worth.”

  Moire advanced a step, his chest expanding with pride, though his expression betrayed nothing. The Blade of Gehenna gleamed menacingly in the dim radiance of the chamber, its aura of ancient death palpable. He reached for it, dark energy thrumming beneath his fingertips. This honor is long overdue. His fingers tightened around the hilt. He had anticipated this occasion for years, through long silences and bitter disappointments. His father had clung to the sword as a shipwrecked sailor clings to driftwood. He certainly took his time to let go of what was mine by right, Moire thought bitterly.

  Airsil’s dry laugh echoed throughout his mind, her smirk evident as they wagered on how long their father might cling to the weapons they both deserved. Another year, at least, she’d said, lips contorted in that familiar smirk. “The old fuck will be buried with the damn things if we’re not careful.”

  Kneeling, Moire lifted his palms, steady despite the gravity of the moment. His father, lowered the sword onto them with solemn precision, the lacquered scabbard cold against his skin. The steel thrummed—a dark, ancient energy coiling through his fingers, settling into his bones. Moire’s grip firmed, reverence and certainty intertwining. A feeling of predestination surged through him, as though the blade had chosen him as much as he had claimed it. For the house. For my father. But underneath that, a darker consideration whispered: For me.

  Around him, the courtiers stood silent, their stances rigid as stone along the shore, their eyes shifting between Moire and his father. Tension seeped into the hall, prickling the nape of Moire’s neck. They wanted to see if the son had the strength to wield his father’s long-carried burden, if he had the iron to uphold the legacy—or if he would collapse under its weight.

  Time to answer their challenge, Moire mused.

  Moire lifted the odachi. This blade is not merely steel—it legitimizes me. With this weapon, he would no longer be seen as the same man; the blade confirmed it. Family heritage demands no less.

  “This odachi is your birthright, Moire,” the Emperor declared. “May you wield it with wisdom and grace.”

  Moire examined the weapon; its dread-filled aura were unmistakable. How many lives have fed this steel? Innocents, warriors—none of that matters. What matters is the empire. I learned from him that every ounce of influence is purchased with sacrifice. “How many sacrifices has this sword witnessed to imbue it with such power?” he asked.

  An arrogant grin played on Moirsil's lips, but his eyes remained devoid of warmth. It was an expression Moire had seen countless times—a silent declaration of superiority radiated from him, more potent than any words. “It will not awaken until two hundred have fallen to its blade.”

  “You have sacrificed that many?”

  “Yes. And not all were warriors—many were innocents. Such a sacrifice was necessary to imbue this artifact with its full power. It is an army killer, but remember: its strength demands the blood of hundreds to be restored. Use its power wisely. To unleash its flames on a single foe is to condemn yourself to cutting through an entire countryside to recharge it.”

  Moire turned the sword in his hands, its weight settling into his grip—not from the steel, but from the history it carried.

  “An army killer,” he murmured. “A tool worthy of our name.”

  A quiet chuckle escaped his father’s lips.

  “It should have gone to my brother,” Morsil said, his voice edged with hurt. “I suppose I held onto it believing he’d return and apologize.”

  Moire swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat. “But he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Morsil’s smile was cold. “He left. I gave him the chance to be part of something greater, and he spat in my face. Took a third of our army with him, no less.”

  “Because you broke tradition.”

  Morsil stepped forward, his gaze sharp. “Tradition shattered when our kingdom did. The Dragon Gods did not lift a claw to stop it.”

  “They were our shield,” Moire countered, “our sword.”

  His father’s eyes darkened. “And where are they now?”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “The Dinehin are the only gods who answered.”

  Moire exhaled slowly. A curse, they called it. A betrayal. His uncle’s departure had torn through their house. The faith of their ancestors lay broken, ground underfoot by marching soldiers who had found new gods to bow to.

  “Legacy meant everything,” he said finally. “Until it didn’t.”

  Morsil studied him for a moment, then placed a firm hand on the sword.

  “Remember this: blood is the only currency that matters now. And even family must bleed for dominance.”

  Moire looked down at the odachi, feeling the weight of history, expectation, and something deeper settle into his bones.

  “It is always authority that reigns eternally.”

  Moire showed his appreciation with a bow so deep his forehead nearly touched the tatami. The odachi was not just a weapon but a symbol of the Scorsorai’s strength and resilience. To be the Dinehin’s chosen for the coming storm, he must wield it with the wisdom of the Dragon Gods and the newfound might of the Dinehin.

  “Father,” he murmured, “I am humbled by this great inheritance.” But can I wield it in a way that does not dishonor those who abandoned us? Or is that already inevitable?

  Moire straightened, his kimono sleeve brushing against the hilt. A ghost of movement caught his eye—Airsil. Earlier that day, she had inherited her mother’s chain whip in a formal ceremony. Now, she stood behind a painted byōbu screen, her presence as composed as ever.

  The whip—a weapon as deadly and intricate as Airsil herself—lay coiled at her side. She wore an impenetrable facade, as inscrutable as a sacred mystery.

  The Emperor's piercing gaze tracked Moire's, his brow furrowing. “The Ishi examined Airsil,” he said, his voice lowering to a tone meant only for Moire’s ears. “He found neither sign of infertility nor trace of contraception.”

  Moire’s grip on the sword tightened imperceptibly, the tsuka-ito wrappings creaking softly beneath his fingers. His father’s impatience with the lack of an heir hung from him like a cape. “Curious,” he replied, choosing his words with care. “She often smells of sulfur, like the onsen of Mount Jadio.”

  The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. “The Ishi noticed the same. This is... troubling.”

  He suppressed his frustration; his father’s concerns stemmed more from urgency than genuine suspicion. “It’s possible that it’s nothing, father. Many noblewomen visit the hot springs for their health. There may be no cause for concern.”

  Emperor Moirsil’s sigh was burdened by years of expectation. “For the sake of our house, I pray to the Dinehin you are right, Moire.”

  Father is too impatient for our heir, Moire thought, annoyance creeping in. The gods will provide in time. He straightened, resolve hardening in his chest. Perhaps it is the stress of his expectations that grieves her, slowing the process.

  The formal ceremony concluded, and attendants ushered Moire into a small, private chamber adjacent to the throne room. The air here was cooler, scented with the delicate aroma of cherry blossoms and fresh tatami. A low chabudai table set for the blood ritual awaited, its surface adorned with exquisite Imari porcelain cups and a slender flask of blood.

  Airsil knelt across from Moire in perfect seiza, her elaborate kimono a cascade of midnight blue silk embroidered with silver cranes. In the lantern's glow, her eyes were opaque, betraying no hint of emotion. Moire settled himself, carefully arranging his hakama, and laid the new great sword reverently beside him on a polished cypress stand.

  “Aneue,” Moire said softly as he began to pour the blood, using the respectful term for his elder sister. The thick liquid gurgled softly, a counterpoint to the tense silence between them. Our bond is more than tradition, more than duty, he assured himself as he poured. “Our honored father’s accusations must weigh on you. I know how deeply they cut. Know that my faith in you remains unshaken.”

  Airsil’s gaze slid away, fixing on the delicate paintings of plum blossoms adorning the shoji screens. “Your belief matters little, Moire,” she said, her voice as brittle as winter ice on a koi pond. “His Imperial Majesty’s words strike as deep as any tanto.”

  Moire’s gaze softened; he grazed the embroidered sleeve of her furisode. “I’ve always admired your strength, but why must you hide behind that ice?” He spoke in a low, coaxing voice. “We are bound by more than the lineage of the Scorsorai,” he continued, his voice laced with a tenderness only he could offer. No one knows her as I do. How could they? It is I who shares her bed, who bears witness to the vulnerability under her armor.

  “Why don’t you have your own concubines by now? It’s customary.”

  “I have you. That’s enough.”

  “What nonsense are you speaking?” she snapped. “Your infatuation is unnatural. Conduct yourself as a lord should, or you risk scandalizing the court.”

  You can deny it all you want, but I see through the mask. You’re afraid, and it’s not of me. “And what of your feelings? My love remains steadfast, unchanging as the eternal sky?”

  “You’re romantic because father loved your whore mother. My mother was an arrangement, the same as your marriage to me. It’s an arrangement, only.”

  You resent me for something I had no part in. “Your tongue is sour because father is cruel toward you. Yes, I see it. But I do not condone it. No matter what challenges arise, you will find me beside you.”

  Airsil jerked her arm away as though scalded by boiling tea; her features flashed with frustration and poorly concealed pain. “You cannot shield me from his suspicions,” she said. “Nor can you change what he sees when he looks upon me.”

  Father chooses to see only what aligns with his desires. Turmoil churned within Moire, as restless as the waves of the Vimana Sea.

  Once, Airsil had been his guide and source of inspiration, an older sister who took him by the hand and showed him how to navigate the intricacies of court life. But the day she was forced to wed him—a union meant to solidify their house—she lost her own claim to the throne, and something within her hardened. Now, she radiated a bitterness as sharp as unripe fruit.

  And yet, even now, I love you. I always will. She had once been his unwavering support, steadfast as the dragons of their ancient lore—a paragon, despite the different bloodlines that set them apart. Her resilience shaped him, even as she now stood before him akin to a rival daimyo on the battlefield.

  I am determined to dissolve her defenses, no matter the cost, he vowed silently.

  The ceremony’s tight silence was broken only by the soft susurration of silk and the clink of china. As Moire raised the fragile cup to his mouth, the blood metallic. I know the sorrows you carry, my betrothed. Your ambitions are a prison, but my love can free you. Feel your disappointments. I’ll be here, waiting. When you hold our child in your arms, you'll understand. Then you’ll see true worth.