As Galland enters the throne room, the atmosphere shifts subtly. Gone were his usual ferocious warrior garb and the scabbard commander armor that marks his presence on the battlefield. Instead, he wears simple civilian clothes, pristine white and exuding an air of understated grace. The fabric was soft and comfortable, draping loosely over his muscular frame. His tunic is cinched at the waist with a simple leather belt, and his boots, though practical, are crafted from fine leather, completing his unassuming yet dignified appearance.
The sentry guarding the doors straightens and announces his arrival, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation in the room. "Galland has arrived!" he proclaims, and immediately, all eyes turn toward the entrance. His presence alone commands respect, a silent testament to his reputation and the deeds that had carved his name into the annals of history as Galland the White Fang. Even King Ragnar's gaze shifts, acknowledging the entry of the scabbard's commander.
Galland's eyes, as always, are unreadable—deadpan and steady, betraying nothing of the turmoil that lay beneath. He walks with purpose, each step measured, and as he approaches the throne, he drops to one knee before the king. His voice, calm and unyielding, echoes in the hall. "Your Majesty, I bring grave news from the south." His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of impending doom. "The wall has been breached. My regiment encountered night crawlers and shapeshifters, pawns of the Dark King. They are moving with purpose. Dark days are upon us."
A murmur of unease ripples through the gathered courtiers and nobles. Galland's reputation for truth and blunt honesty lends an undeniable gravity to his words. The people, already stirred by recent events, now feels the chill of dread creeping into their hearts. Even King Ragnar, despite his iron will, could not entirely mask the flicker of concern that crossed his face upon the hearing the news.
As Galland stands, his gaze briefly meets mine, and for a moment, the unspoken understanding passes between us. His warning is clear and urgent, a clarion call for vigilance and unity in the face of the encroaching darkness. His presence, even in the simplicity of his white civilian attire, radiates a quiet strength and determination.
"Nay, dark days are upon us indeed," the king agrees. "And what news of the red star, Pygmalion?" he faces his astrologer. Pygmalion, the king's designated astrologer, is a figure of both appearance and intellect. He is a tiny, thin man, with a frame so slight that he seems almost fragile, yet his presence carries an undeniable weight of authority and wisdom. His eyes, large and perpetually alert, dart with an intensity that speaks of a mind constantly at work. His long, bony fingers, stained with ink and chalk, are always busy with calculations and celestial charts, mapping the heavens with meticulous precision.
Clad in a robe of deep midnight blue, embroidered with silver threads that mimicked the constellations, Pygmalion looks every bit the part of a man who spends his life gazing at the stars. His hair, a wild tangle of white wisps, frames a face etched with the lines of age and contemplation. Despite his frail appearance, his voice is steady and clear, resounding with confidence in the knowledge he wields.
For years, Pygmalion had been tracking the ominous red star, a celestial body that appears once every century and heralds a time of great peril. This star, when it graced the sky, eclipsed the sun for a harrowing 100 days, a period known throughout the kingdom as the Culling. It is during this time that the forces of the Dark King are at their zenith, as the nightcrawlers, creatures that dreaded daylight, roams freely under the perpetual night.
Pygmalion's calculations were rough but based on decades of careful observation and ancient texts. He had spent countless nights mapping the star's trajectory, his eyes fixed on the heavens even as the rest of the kingdom slept. His recent findings, however, had brought a new urgency to his work. According to his estimates, the red star would reach its critical point in two cycles after the current one. This meant that by winter, just after the coming spring, the sun would be blocked, plunging the kingdom into a prolonged darkness for 100 days.
Standing in the throne room, Pygmalion presents his findings to the king and the assembled court. His small stature almost lost amidst the grandeur of the surroundings, yet every word he speaks commands attention. "Your Majesty," he begins, his voice unwavering, "the red star's trajectory is clear. In two cycles from now, the sun will be eclipsed, and we will enter the Culling. Winter will bring not just cold, but a darkness that lasts 100 days. During this time, the forces of the Dark King will be at their strongest. We must prepare."
His announcement sends a ripple of unease through the crowd. The gravity of his words was palpable, and the room grow colder as the implications sink in. Even King Ragnar could not hide the shadow of concern. He should be. Pygmalion's warning was a call to arms, a reminder that the celestial movements are harbingers of events that could change the fate of the kingdom.
King Ragnar sat deep in thought upon his throne, the weight of Pygmalion's ominous news pressing heavily upon him. Around him, the throne room buzzed with anxious chatter and worried murmurs. Courtiers and nobles exchange frightened glances, their concern imminent as they discuss the unlikely and dire turn of events. The breach in the southern wall had already put the kingdom on edge, and now the looming threat of the Culling, with its 100 days of darkness, cast an even darker shadow over their hearts.
King Ragnar's mind raced. The kingdom of Ganduana had always been a bastion of strength, its walls tall and unyielding against the forces of the Dark King. But with the southern wall compromised, they could not afford to give even the slightest opportunity for invasion. The nightcrawlers, driven by their master's will, would exploit any weakness. The timing of the red star's return could not have been worse; they had precious little time to fortify their defenses before the onset of perpetual night.