Chapter One: The Windrose

“A man who bears our weaknesses, and still remains a man.”
— Orin Valmont

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The third spring in Pradinem unfurled like a cloak of vivid greens beneath clear, unbroken skies. Within the grand hall of the palace, the Ivory Court had gathered for the seventh time that year. Yet this time, Queen Sage—whose presence never failed to command the room—was unaware of the gathering’s purpose.

The hall echoed with the voices of the court’s members, a tapestry of creatures and councillors occupying every seat along its length. At the far end stood a single, towering throne—empty.

"At the close of this third spring, three centuries shall have passed since the dawn of the Dark Era," announced a faun.

"We are doing well, Lord Faerith. But we cannot go on like this," came another voice from the front row. Its owner, legs too short to touch the floor, leapt down with a scroll in hand, making him seem even smaller as he stood at the centre of the vast chamber. "Read the old texts! We were a symbol of power—and now, barely anyone remembers!"

"It’s not as dire as you make it out to be, Lord Cárfir," said the fairy representative, her tone unconvinced. Her chestnut hair was tied high, and the swift flicks of her slightly pointed ears gave away her unease.

"And what precisely do you mean by that, Lady Terryn?" he snapped, turning to face her, seated two chairs to his left.

"The Explorers haven’t returned yet," she replied coolly, still condescending.

"They never return with anything of worth." He strode toward her, and the fairy’s wings stiffened, alert. "We must move forward, and this document shall help us, Lady Terryn."

Though many agreed with him, there remained a cautious minority—those who regretted ever signing that scroll.

Then came the heavy groan of the great doors opening, pulled by two massive bears. The courtiers rose and bowed in unison—except for Lord Cárfir, who stood with his back to the entrance. When he turned and met the sharp gaze of a youthful face staring down at him, he bowed low and sank to his knees.

The familiar echo of red heels cut through the tension. The doors closed behind her, and the courtiers resumed their seats. It was only then that the elf representative lifted his plump face and stood, eyes fixed on Queen Sage—those eyes like twin emeralds.

The sovereign moved past him with quiet authority, hips swaying beneath a crimson gown that shimmered against her skin. One mark could never be hidden—not by the dress, nor by her long black braid: a black ink scale that had once been golden, the symbol of the magic she had once wielded, now dulled by time.

Her slow descent into the golden throne tested the patience of more than one court member. Still, none dared speak. She had earned that silence; not a single day since the Dark Era had been kind to her.

And so, they waited.

A sharp, crystalline chime rang out—at once delicate and commanding. The two fairies stationed at the base of the steps turned at once, bowing their heads low to the great queen. A second chime followed, more urgent, prompting one of them to step forward, her wings fluttering softly as she approached Lord Cárfir. The other returned to her place without a word.

The fairy raised her hand, demanding the scroll. Lord Cárfir's face flushed; he hesitated a moment too long before surrendering it. His fingers clung to the parchment as if it might shield him from what was to come.

Queen Sage took the scroll and began to read—quietly, without much interest at first. But as her eyes moved further down the page, her brow began to furrow, and the steady tap of her nails on the throne slowed... until it stopped.

She clenched the parchment in her hand, resisting the urge to tear it apart. Then she raised her gaze—directly at the lord who still stood, waiting for judgment. There was no doubt in the hall: what she had read displeased her greatly.

“This is madness,” she declared at last, her voice a force unto itself—strong enough to bend iron and silence a beast. “Utter madness.”

“Your Majesty, with the utmost respect,” he replied, head bowed, unable to meet her eyes, “you know we are not wrong.”

The courtiers sat upright, an icy chill creeping down their spines as Queen Sage rose from her throne and began to descend the steps. The crimson silk of her gown whispered against the marble, and her heels struck the floor with commanding rhythm—each step silencing the court with its weight.

Lord Cárfir swallowed hard and knelt as she reached him.

What he saw next was the parchment, returned to him by the queen’s own hand. His fingers trembled as he took it.

“And tell me, Lord Cárfir,” she said through gritted teeth, “am I the one who is mistaken?”

No one answered—not the Lord, not anyone.

“We have hidden behind legends to protect Pradinem. Opening the portals puts us all at risk.” Her voice wavered only for an instant, as if the weight of centuries pressed behind her words. “I am aware of the situation of Regória's Ambassadors. I know the old kingdoms no longer have ambassadors at our table. And I know the Explorers never return—but if they cannot complete the task, neither can you. I, more than any, long for the golden age to return! I have ruled this realm longer than memory, and no one has the right to lecture me on its history.”

“Majesty, our army is still strong. We could reclaim the realms...”

“That cannot be done without the Royal Sceptre!”

Lady Arafina, who had come to Lord Cárfir’s defence, fell silent at the sudden shift in the queen’s expression. Her tone alone could have raised scales on one’s skin—and nearly did.

The change did not go unnoticed. Even Lord Cárfir had flinched. It wasn’t just her voice.

A lock of hair slipped loose from Sage’s braid and fell across her cheek. Pale. Not black.