You know, I once thought kingdoms were supposed to mean something. Borders drawn in blood, names carved into the bones of the earth. Solid, unchanging. But here we are, three hundred years later, and I see now everything fades. Those bones were never as permanent as we liked to believe, Kingdoms crumble. People change. Even the world shifts under your feet when you're not paying attention. You wouldn't recognize half the names of these places unless you spent years buried in history tomes. Then again, maybe the names themselves don't matter. Or perhaps, they never did.
On the seventh day, we left behind the smoldering ruins of what used to be called the Kingdom of Amani. Once, that name made me feel pride now, it's nothing more than ashes, a distant echo of its own glory. We crossed into the Black Sand Desert, where the sun strips the life from everything it touches during the day and the cold settles into your bones at night. But still, the horses kept moving. They didn't care. Stubborn as death itself and just as indifferent.
By the ninth day, we crossed into the border of the Kingdom of Yarn. Sounds cozy, doesn't it? Like a warm blanket you wrap yourself in by the fire. Lies. The place was threadbare, unraveling like a tattered old cloak. Everything was coming apart at the seams—buildings crumbling, streets empty, and a hollow kind of quiet that hung in the air. We stopped in a town, though it felt more like we were intruding on a graveyard. The people were gaunt, half-starved, with eyes that had long since given up on hope. We looked more fed than they did, and considering the scraps we were surviving on, that's saying something.
There'd been a locust, or so the rumors went. A creature that had escaped from the dungeons, causing famine wherever it flew, stripping the land bare. Not that it mattered much in the end. The nobles had bled the kingdom dry long before. Took their wealth and ran, abandoning the land and the people to rot. Yarn was nothing but a husk now, a shadow of whatever warmth its name might have once promised.
Sixteen days in, we reached the Kingdom of Zahlani. By then, we were barely human anymore. Walking contradictions, that's what we were. Less than living, more than dead. Just enough left to keep moving. A perfect joke for some twisted god to laugh at. The best part? I was actually eager to reach the Accord by then. A madness had crept in, the kind that makes a man grin on his way to the gallows. I wasn't just tired anymore. I was desperate. Desperate to escape the endless grind of the wagon, the dust that clung to everything, the aching monotony of travel. If salvation was waiting for us at the end of this misery, then I was ready to embrace it, no questions asked. Or at least, that's what I told myself as the miles dragged on, each step heavier than the last.
By the twentieth day, we made it. The Accord. A fortress carved into the side of a mountain, jagged and unnatural, like a wound that never heals. The kind that festers beneath the surface, hidden but ever-present. That's what the place felt like. And they called it a sanctuary. A sanctuary of knowledge, of progress, of forward thinking—or so they said.
But standing there, staring up at those towering walls steeped in shadow and silence, it felt more like a tomb. Not a sanctuary. Not a place where one seeks enlightenment or salvation. No, this was a place where hope came to die, where ambition was sharpened into something cruel. The air itself was thick with it, with the weight of generations of secrets and sacrifices
With the driver pocketing his pouch of coins, he set off into the distance without a backward glance, leaving us standing before the towering fortress. The Accord loomed, its dark walls seeming to breathe with unspoken horrors, though no one could say for sure what they were. The stones seemed to absorb the dying light, making it feel as though the fortress was swallowing everything in its shadow. We were abandoned to face whatever awaited us within, and the greeting we received was anything but warm.
Brian the hall master stepped out of the fortress and was the very embodiment of that fortress—cold, unyielding, and devoid of anything resembling humanity. His eyes, like the stone around us, held no warmth, no flicker of compassion. They were black pits, bottomless and uncaring. The smile on his face was a twisted mockery of one, fixed in place as if it had been carved from ice. It never touched his eyes, which regarded us with a mix of disdain and disinterest, as if our suffering was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be cataloged and dismissed.
"Welcome to the Accord, your new... home," he said, the words slipping from his mouth like oiled steel, sharp and slick. His voice was smooth, each syllable polished to a cold perfection that made my skin crawl. There was no warmth, no genuine emotion, only a careful calculation designed to unsettle.
His gaze swept over us, lingering just long enough to make each of us feel small, insignificant. "Come," he continued, as though we were nothing more than cattle being led to slaughter. "You must be hungry." The words were almost a taunt, though his tone never wavered from its mechanical smoothness.
Hungry? That was an understatement. Starved was more like it—starved for food, starved for rest, starved for the comfort that had been torn from us long before we ever set foot in this accursed place. But something about the way he said it made me lose my appetite. There was something lurking beneath those words.
"Come now," he continued, his smile never faltering, a grotesque parody of warmth that felt like ice against my skin. "I have made arrangements in the dining hall. Eat first while I make sure your rooms are... suitable."
The way he emphasized "suitable" sent a shiver down my spine, each syllable draped in a chilling promise. It was abundantly clear that what he deemed suitable would be anything but comforting. The word echoed in my mind, a sinister refrain, warning me that whatever awaited us in those rooms would not be for our benefit.
Brian turned away, his gestures sharp and commanding, beckoning us to follow like obedient sheep. And like the beaten dogs we had become, we did. All seven of us shuffled into the fortress, our feet dragging against the cold stone floor, the oppressive atmosphere weighing heavily on our shoulders. The walls seemed to loom around us, unwelcoming and harsh, mirroring the man who had greeted us with such hollow cheer.
The corridors twisted and turned, each step drawing us deeper into the heart of the Accord, where shadows lingered longer and the air felt thick with unspoken dread. I could sense my companions' unease—Kel's nervous twitch, Rylin and Sael's quiet exchange of glances, and even Meris, who had remained silent throughout our ordeal, now wore a frown that spoke volumes.
As we approached the dining hall, the scent of food wafted toward us,tantalizing and unfamiliar.The feast they prepared for us should've been a warning. A banquet fit for kings, with enough food to feed a starving village. We ate like we hadn't seen food in days, which, come to think of it, wasn't far from the truth. No one questioned the taste, no one asked why they gave wine to children. We just devoured everything, like pigs at the trough.
When we had our fill, the man—Brian, I think he called himself—returned to guide us to our rooms. Yes, we each had our own private space, complete with an attached shower and toilet. Each room boasted a bed softer than a lord's, a sturdy desk for our studies, and a view that could steal your breath away, clearly enhanced by some kind of magic.
For a fleeting moment, I dared to think that maybe, just maybe, the Accord wasn't so bad after all, that the dark rumors we'd heard were merely exaggerated whispers carried on the wind. But did I really want to look closer? Perhaps the truth was already staring at me, but I was too worn, too eager to believe in the comfort of lies. Tiny specks of blood, barely visible, stained the pillowcases like dark secrets waiting to be uncovered. Scratches marred the wooden floor, evidence of someone desperately trying to hold onto their sanity in this place.
But who was I kidding? None of us were paying attention to such trivial details. We were just kids who had endured hell, and the Accord was offering us the illusion of safety we so desperately craved. So we gave in, like lambs marching to the slaughter, naive and hopeful as we crossed the threshold into our new 'home' with barely a second thought.
The soft beds and lavish surroundings wrapped around us like a silken noose, tempting us to believe in the facade of comfort. Yet somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice whispered warnings, reminding me that paradise often conceals the darkest of truths. But we were too weary, too eager to escape our past, to listen. We were drawn in, seduced by the promise of respite, oblivious to the shadows that danced just beyond our vision.
As I laid my head on the pillow, darkness began to creep in, wrapping around me like a thick fog. My mind felt heavy, thoughts blurring together until they became indistinct shadows. "Sleep," Brian had said. "Rest. You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
The next thing I knew, I was dreaming—dreaming of lying on a cold, hard slab, the chill seeping into my bones. Before me loomed the dead eyes of a man who called himself a doctor. Not the kind of doctor who heals, mind you. No, this one was of a different breed, the cutting-and-stitching variety, the kind who sees a person as nothing more than an interesting set of meat and bones to dissect and experiment upon. "This one's awake," he said, his tone flat, as if my consciousness were merely a nuisance to him. Then he whispered something—perhaps a spell, perhaps a curse—and before I could scream, I was dragged back into the darkness, the nightmare consuming me whole.
I woke to the sound of knocking, a persistent rapping that jolted me from the depths of a sleep far too peaceful for where I was. Blinking against the light, I found myself lying on the soft mattress in my room, every muscle rejuvenated, the aches and pains from the month of travel vanished like a fading dream. It felt… too good to be true, wouldn't you say? Of course, it was.
A nagging sense of unease coiled in my gut, whispering that something was amiss. Shadows of my nightmare clung to my thoughts, refusing to fade. As I forced myself to sit up, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, as if unseen eyes cataloged every detail of my awakening. The illusion of safety began to fray at the edges, revealing an underlying dread.
The knocking continued, insistent and jarring. I opened the door to find Isgar standing there. He was a boy not much older than me, but his eyes bore the weight of too many secrets, a burden no one should have to carry. He nodded silently, then handed me a bundle of gray clothes adorned with the crude insignia of the Accord stitched onto the sleeve—a mocking reminder of my new identity. If you looked closely, you could still see faint specks of blood that they had tried to wash out, stubborn remnants like the ghosts of the kids who had worn it before me.
"Get changed and be presentable in five minutes," he muttered before moving on to the next door. His routine was as dead-eyed as his demeanor, the same empty commands echoing through the halls: "Get changed, you have five minutes." There was no room for hesitation, no time for thoughts.
I slipped into the uniform, the fabric stiff and uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the softness of the bed I'd just left. It smelled of fresh soap, an eerie attempt to mask whatever lingering darkness clung to the fabric. Once dressed, I followed Isgar as he gathered us one by one from our individual cells—I mean, rooms. He led us through the labyrinthine halls of the Accord, a fortress carved into the mountain. The air was thick and cold, and the very thought of escape felt like a cruel joke. The walls closed in around us, suffocating in their silence, heavy with the unspoken knowledge that this place was designed to keep us in, not let us out. I looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the light I had found on the wagon, but only dim lanterns floated on the ceiling, casting flickering shadows along the passage. I guess this would have to do for now.
Isgar gave us the grand tour, leading us through the fortress with an air of practiced detachment. He showed us the areas we could access and the ones that were strictly off-limits. The latter he warned about with a seriousness that seemed almost out of place on his youthful face.Isgar knew things—things that flickered behind his hollow eyes, but whatever they were, they clung to the edges of his silence like something too dangerous to speak aloud. And for that, perhaps, I should be grateful. Knowledge, after all, is just another burden to carry, a heavy weight that can crush you under its own gravity.
Eventually, he brought us to the lecture hall, a grand space that felt oddly out of place among the cold, oppressive corridors of the Accord. Here, we would be taught theory, art and history. A facade of enlightenment in the heart of darkness. The walls were lined with old books and scrolls, and the air was thick with the dust of forgotten knowledge. It was meant to give the illusion of normalcy, of purpose.
Isgar gestured to a robed figure at the front, an instructor who exuded a cold, calculating presence, much like the fortress itself. Tall and impeccably dressed, with a face that could charm its way into a king's court. He smiled as we shuffled in, a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Those eyes—cold, calculating—suggested that he saw right through us.
"Welcome," he said, his voice smooth and polished, like fine wine poured from a bottle that had been aged too long. "Today, you'll learn the value of obedience and the power of loyalty. Here at the Accord, we believe in shaping minds as much as we do in honing bodies. Each of you is a potential weapon—raw, unrefined material—and it is our duty to forge you into instruments of greatness."
As he spoke, I felt an involuntary shiver run down my spine. The words dripped with a sweet allure, but there was an undercurrent of menace that made my skin crawl.