The Dread of Damned

The days passed slowly, and the calm white mansion stood tall above it all, as more people came and went with each passing day. Tests were being held in the various halls, the tension in the air growing heavier with each whispered rumor.

Everyone knew the grand summit was approaching—and that warriors were being selected to accompany the crown prince.

The prince himself was seen less and less. He emerged from his chambers or the training room only once or twice, moving silently through the white-lined halls like a ghost.

Sometimes, the corridors echoed with the broken moans of maddened women. Other days, it was the needy whimpering of those who sounded more like dogs than people. But on the topmost floor of the White Castle, there were few to hear—and those who did had grown used to it.

The princess and queen no longer disturbed him. Only when he was free did he visit them, and even then, only a few times.

Lucian was busy selecting the warriors who would accompany the prince. He reported progress directly to him.

Time passed in the blink of an eye. Then, the procession arrived—first crossing the boundary of House Aestherisin, then passing through the outer city, trekking the shadowed paths of the Forest of the Everdying, and at last, reaching the white castle that loomed above all.

The doors of the grey carriage opened with a soft creak, and a man stepped out. The driver held the door open respectfully as the figure came into view.

He appeared middle-aged, with shoulder-length white hair and sharp, defined features. His grey robes fluttered behind him as he entered the castle and ascended the grand staircase, stopping only at the topmost floor.

A servant guided him to a set of tall doors. They swung open, revealing the grand meeting hall beyond. He walked in with slow, deliberate steps, his silver gaze sweeping over the room like a blade.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” he said, nodding toward the throne that stood elevated above all else.

“Greetings, Sir George,” came Gunnar’s deep voice from the throne. “I hope you have been well.”

George smirked faintly. “Better than ever,” he replied politely.

“Now, I believe you are here under the authority of the Trinity—to escort the prince to the Detached Shore?”

“That is correct,” George answered. “And I must get straight to the point. Time is short.”

“Would you like to rest before departing?” Gunnar offered.

“I appreciate the generosity of the White Castle,” George said, bowing slightly. “But I must decline. My master’s orders are urgent.”

“We understand,” Gunnar replied solemnly.

At that moment, the hall doors opened again, drawing every eye. The prince entered, clad in white robes embroidered with swirling patterns of the moon. His hair was slicked back, reaching his shoulders, and his silver eyes scanned the room with disinterest.

“Greetings, Your Royal Highness,” the assembled elders echoed.

He waved them off without a word and approached the throne placed just one step below the king’s. As crown prince, he alone was allowed that honor.

“Greetings, Your Royal Highness,” he replied.

“Greetings, Sir George,” he said coolly, his tone both calm and laced with arrogance.

George’s expression shifted—just for a moment. 

No one dared show arrogance in the presence of the Trinity or their envoys, George thought. And yet, as he studied the prince, he found the tone strangely fitting.

Perhaps it was his lingering attachment to his own origins that made it hard to take offense.

“Your Highness, we must depart,” he said, pushing the thought aside.

“That is why I am here,” the prince replied, looking down at the envoy from the above.

Slowly, the court session drew to a close. The prince descended the stairs and came to stand beside the envoy.

“Shall we?” he asked, glancing sideways.

“Behind you, Your Royal Highness,” George replied, gazing into the prince’s molten silver eyes.

He had always been proud of his own pure silver eyes—but today, he felt outshone.

The prince nodded once before turning toward the doors. Lucian walked at his right, the envoy at his left. Together, they descended the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing in the stillness, and exited through the castle's front gate.

Outside, the grey carriage stood at the center of the courtyard. Five warriors were lined up on either side, each saluting the prince as he stepped forward.

“Your Royal Highness,” George said, gesturing to the first carriage, “you will ride here. I’ll follow in the second, and the warriors will ride behind us in the third.”

The prince gave a slight nod and stepped into the carriage.

Lucian opened the door for him and offered a formal farewell before closing it behind him.

And so, the procession of five carriages departed the White Castle. They passed through the lush green meadows, circled around a shimmering waterfall, and rolled steadily toward the outer gates before disappearing into the forest road beyond.

Back in the White Castle, two figures watched from a high window in silence. Then, as the carriages vanished from view, they turned away—just as the moon rose once again into the red-tinged sky.