Amanda stood on the balcony of the Western Fort, fingers locked around the cold stone parapet. The ancient forest of Aichenwald stretched to the horizon like a solid black wall. Even the wind felt damp and heavy here. The leaves stirred on their own, out of rhythm with the gusts, as if something crawled between the branches. From the depths came the thick scent of wet earth, rot, and a faint metallic tang — as though the forest itself had already begun to bleed.
A shiver traced down her spine, cold fingers brushing the nape of her neck. The forest was restless. And so was she.
Roxana’s footsteps rang out behind her sooner than expected. The princess moved quickly, yet never ran — that would be beneath her.
“Amanda.”
The voice sounded steady, almost flat. But Amanda knew that particular stillness too well.
She turned without releasing the parapet.
Roxana stood in the doorway, gripping a rolled parchment so tightly her knuckles shone white. Her face was bloodless, eyes hollow — scorched ground after fire.
“What happened?”
Roxana stepped forward and thrust the letter toward her. Her hand trembled, just barely.
“Read it.”
Amanda took the parchment. It felt unnaturally cold and damp, as if it had traveled through the forest itself. She unrolled it.
The first lines hit like a fist to the gut.
She read once — fast, greedy. Then slower, letting every word sink in. On the third pass her eyes caught on one line and refused to move.
“This morning he passed away.”
“Tywin is dead,” she said softly.
Roxana stood perfectly still, but her fingers twisted convulsively into the fabric of her dress at the words. A single tear escaped down her cheek; she wiped it away with a sharp, angry motion, as if the tear itself had betrayed her. When she spoke, her voice tried — and almost succeeded — to stay level.
“Five days ago…” She swallowed. “He was sick for only five days. And we didn’t even know.”
“The letter took three days to reach us,” she added after a moment, a hoarse crack finally breaking through. “The messenger killed three horses.”
A heavy silence settled between them. Amanda could see the muscles jumping along Roxana’s jaw as she fought to keep her mask intact. It was cracking anyway.
Amanda looked back down at the letter and read it aloud, her voice low and steady so both of them would have to hear every word:
“To Duke Randel of Aichenwald, Prince of Aichenwald, from the interim ruler of the duchy, Baron Friedrich von Aichenwald.
With deepest sorrow I inform you that an epidemic of an unknown disease has begun in the duchy. The first cases appeared three weeks ago in the southern villages. It spreads rapidly. Symptoms: high fever, black spots upon the skin, coughing blood. Death comes on the third to fifth day.
Your father, Duke Tywin Aichenwald, fell ill five days ago. This morning he passed away.
The duchy mourns. The city is under quarantine. I am doing everything in my power to contain the spread, yet our resources dwindle. Healers are helpless. Mages cannot fathom the nature of this contagion.
We await your instructions.
Friedrich von Aichenwald, Interim Ruler.”
When she finished, the silence felt thicker than before. Black spots. Blood coughed up. Death in days. This was no ordinary illness.
“Amanda…” Roxana exhaled sharply, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Her voice wavered more openly now. “What do we do?”
Amanda folded the letter slowly and slipped it inside her tunic. The cold paper clung unpleasantly to her skin.
“Where is Randel?”
“Western training grounds. Sparring with the knights.”
“He still doesn’t know?”
Roxana shook her head. Her eyes glistened, but no more tears fell — she would not permit them.
“No. I came to you first.”
Amanda nodded and already moved toward the door.
“Call him. Now. And make sure no one else hears a word.”
Randel burst onto the balcony five minutes later. Sweat slicked his hair, his shirt hung open almost to the waist, and the black blade slapped heavily against his thigh with every stride. He took one look at his sister’s face and stopped dead.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
“What happened?”
Amanda held out the letter without a word.
He snatched it, scanned the lines once, then again. His hands betrayed the slightest tremor. The color drained from his face, yet not a single muscle moved.
“This isn’t true,” he said quietly.
“Randel…” Roxana began.
“I said this isn’t true.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous, the crack swallowed almost instantly.
Amanda stepped closer.
“Tywin is dead. There’s a plague in Aichenwald — black spots, coughing blood. People die in three or four days.”
Randel stared at the parchment as if he could set it ablaze with his gaze. When he finally looked up, his eyes held no tears. Only cold, hollow fury.
“I’m going home. Today.”
“We’re coming with you,” Roxana said at once.
“No.” He looked from his sister to Amanda. “You both stay here.”
“What?!” Amanda moved forward. “You’re not riding into that hell alone.”
“You’re needed here.” His voice hardened like steel. “The Rift. The creatures. The darkness waking up. You are the Keeper. If you leave, the world falls — and there’ll be nothing left to return to.”
He closed the distance in one step, seized her by the shoulders and pulled her against him. The embrace was rough, almost bruising. She felt his heart hammering against her ribs.
“You’re needed here,” he whispered into her hair, voice cracking for half a second. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that,” she murmured, fingers twisting into his damp shirt.
“I can.” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I always come back.”
He kissed her — short, fierce, edged with anger, as if he already feared it might be the last.
Then he turned to Roxana.
She stood with wet eyes, but the tears refused to fall.
“Randel, I’m your sister. My place—”
“Your place is here,” he cut her off, cold and final. “With her. Find a way to close the Rift. That matters more than riding with me to die. That’s an order.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but his burning stare pinned the words in her throat.
“…Fine,” she breathed at last. “I’ll stay.”
Randel gave one sharp nod and left without looking back.
An hour later, fifty knights of Aichenwald rode out from the ruined palace. Randel sat at their head, back ramrod straight, face carved from stone.
Amanda and Roxana remained on the balcony, watching the column vanish into the dark wall of the forest.
“He’ll come back,” Roxana said quietly.
Amanda stayed silent for a long moment, knuckles white on the cold parapet.
“He has to,” she answered at last. “Or I’ll go get him myself.”
The days in the Keepers’ palace dragged like thick resin.
Amanda spent hours bent over ancient tomes in the library. Across from her, Roxana turned pages with barely contained violence, as if she could rip the answers out by force. Leo stood silent by the door — a heavy, almost invisible shadow. Cassius worked his mages to exhaustion, drilling shields and purifying weaves against the Darkness. Everyone spoke only of the task at hand. No one mentioned Randel.
Yet every evening, when the sun bled out behind Aichenwald, Amanda stepped onto the balcony. The wind carried the same damp rot and metallic tang. The southern road stayed empty. No dust. No rider. Nothing.
On the fifth day, a letter arrived.
Amanda unrolled the short scroll. Randel’s handwriting cut across the page, sharp and furious.
“Arrived. City sealed. Plague spreading faster than expected. Black spots already in the northern quarters. Healers are useless. Full quarantine imposed. Burned the southern villages. Father buried yesterday. Everything is bad. Don’t wait for me. R.”
She read it three times. The words “burned the southern villages” lodged in her throat like a bone.
Amanda slipped the parchment inside her tunic and walked back onto the balcony. The cold stone pressed against her palms.
“What does it say?” Roxana appeared in the doorway almost instantly, as if she had been listening for footsteps.
“He made it,” Amanda said quietly.
“And?”
“Everything is bad. The plague has reached the city. He burned the southern villages.”
Roxana stepped closer. Wind tugged at her hair. She stared at the dark wall of the forest for a long time.
“He’ll manage,” she said at last. Her voice lacked conviction.
Amanda didn’t reply immediately. Her knuckles whitened on the parapet.
“He has to,” she murmured finally. “Because if he doesn’t… we’re all just sitting here, waiting for our turn.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder as twilight thickened over Aichenwald. Deep in the forest, shadows moved on their own.
On the tenth day, a messenger came galloping into the courtyard.
Amanda recognized him at once — Falk, the young knight who never left Randel’s side. The horse was on its last legs, sides heaving. Falk himself looked like a corpse: chalk-white face, red inflamed eyes, cloak crusted with dust.
He slid from the saddle and nearly collapsed. Amanda reached him first.
“What happened?” Her voice cracked despite herself.
Falk swallowed hard, gasping for air.
“Lord Randel… he’s taken ill. The Black Plague. He tended the sick himself — with his bare hands. Wouldn’t listen to anyone. Then the fever hit… black spots on his wrists. Healers say he has two or three days left. Maybe a week if he’s lucky. He’s strong, but…”
The world narrowed to a single buzzing point. A dull roar filled Amanda’s ears.
“Is he still alive?”
“Alive. For now.”
At that moment Roxana burst from the library, heavy book still clutched in her arms.
“What’s going on?”
Amanda turned to her, the words ripping out raw:
“Randel has the Black Plague.”
The book slipped from Roxana’s fingers and hit the stones with a heavy thud. Her face drained of color until her freckles stood out like flecks of blood.
“No… how…”
Amanda was already moving, boots pounding toward the stables.
“I’m going. Right now.”
“I’m coming with you!” Roxana shouted, rushing after her.
“No.” Amanda spun around. “You stay. Keep studying. Find a way to close the Rift or stop this curse. That’s more important than anything else.”
“Amanda, he’s my brother!”
“And to me he’s everything,” Amanda said, jaw tight. “I’ll bring him back. I promise.”
She vaulted onto the nearest horse, bareback, and drove her heels in hard. Hooves thundered across the courtyard as she galloped out.
Roxana stood frozen in the middle of the yard, hands pressed to her chest. The fallen book lay forgotten at her feet.
“Come back…” she whispered, voice breaking. “Both of you, damn it.”
Leo emerged from the shadow of a column, arms crossed, red lenses of his mask glinting coldly as he watched the dust settle on the empty road.
“She shouldn’t have gone alone,” he said quietly.
Roxana bent down and picked up the heavy tome. Her fingers still trembled.
“She is the Keeper. She makes her own decisions.”
“Foolish,” Leo muttered, pushing off the column. “I’ll catch up with her.”
“No.” Roxana turned to him, eyes wet but voice suddenly firmer. “You’re needed here. With me. I won’t manage these books alone.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, heavy moment.
Leo finally nodded.
“Fine. I’ll stay.”
He stepped closer, took the tome from her hands, and opened it beside her.
“What are we looking for?” he asked quietly.
Roxana stared at the blurred lines.
“A cure. A way to close the Rift.” She swallowed. “Or at least some hope.”
They sat down together and began to read in heavy, oppressive silence.