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I wonder if there will ever be tales told about us.

About everything we did and sacrificed. Perhaps that is why I write this diary.

Perhaps I always knew, even before the war started, that words needed to be written across paper to prove what truly was done to our world.

Or the story would be forgotten. Or worse, twisted.

Tabitha Wysteria

The king’s study loomed at the highest peak of the castle, nestled within the heart of the mountain’s jagged crown.

The winding staircase twisted upon itself in a dizzying spiral, each step an echo of the quiet dread pooling in Mal’s chest. She climbed slowly, deliberately, dragging out each moment before her arrival.

Outside, the wyverns roared against the sky, their cries a chorus of unrest, as though sensing the unease coiling in her bones.

The wind howled through the open gaps in the stone, whispering ghostly secrets against the cold walls.

Mal's bare feet moved silently over the polished rock, the cool bite against her skin grounding her in a way that nothing else could.

Wyverians were creatures of shadow, sculpted by ancient gods from the marrow of nightmares.

The Kingdom of Darkness, shrouded in eternal dusk, was their cradle.

The sun barely kissed their land, warmth an unfamiliar thing.

They thrived where others withered, adapted to the chill of an unforgiving world—but tonight, Mal felt the cold differently.

It was not the comforting, familiar cold of her home.

It was a creeping, merciless thing, sinking into her ribs, making her stomach coil tight with unspoken fears.

At last, the massive black door of the king’s study loomed before her, a monolithic thing carved from stone so dark it swallowed the firelight that flickered in the sconces nearby. Mal stilled.

Her pulse pounded hard—a rhythmic drum against her ribs, beating with such force she feared it might tear free from her chest. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the cold iron handle.

Thoughts flooded her mind, unwelcome whispers that slithered in from the shadows.

What would he say? What could he possibly tell her that warranted this secrecy, this weight of sorrow in his gaze?

A terrible thought gnawed at her.

What if they had finally realised she didn’t belong?

No.

Her family loved her. They had never turned their backs on her, never made her feel like anything less than one of them. And yet… she was different. The mark of a witch tainted her eyes, and though no one had spoken of it outright, she knew the whispers, the fearful glances.

Would he send her away? Cast her from the only home she had ever known?

Mal forced herself to push forward.

The heavy door groaned as she opened it, and her father’s shadow-hounds stirred from where they lay curled at his feet. Their deep, glowing eyes snapped open, watching her silently before relaxing once more .

King Ozul sat in his vast leather armchair, a tome resting in his lap, the firelight casting silver shadows upon his lined face. He was staring at her already, those warm, tired eyes drinking her in as if it were the last time he would ever see her.

‘Sit with me, my dearest,’ he said, his voice thick with something she could not name.

Mal hesitated. The weight in his voice—the sorrow—made her limbs feel heavy, her movements slow as she crossed the room and settled into the chair opposite him. She felt small, curled in the depths of that vast, silent space, the fire between them the only thing that breathed.

Her gaze roamed over the towering bookshelves lining the walls, their endless spines carrying knowledge, history, secrets—perhaps even the truth she was so desperately seeking.

‘Do you remember the tale of the two brothers?’ her father asked, his voice so soft it barely disturbed the silence.

Mal frowned.

‘It was my favorite story as a child.’

‘Will you tell it to me?’

She hesitated, her fingers curling against the cold leather of the chair. ‘But… you know the story, Father. I don’t understand...’

‘Please, Mal.’ He exhaled slowly, as if carrying the weight of a thousand untold truths. ‘For you to understand everything, we must tell the story first. Perhaps then, you may understand… and learn to forgive this old fool.’

The word forgive struck her like a blade.

A thousand questions burnt inside her, but her voice failed her, tangled in the confusion pressing against her ribs. What was there to forgive?

And yet, despite the storm of unease swirling within her, Mal swallowed her fear and did as she was told .

She let out a breath and straightened her back, steeling herself against the unknown.

‘Very well, Father,’ she said. ‘I will tell you the tale of the two brothers.’

And so, with the fire whispering between them and the shadows leaning in to listen, Mal began.

A century ago, in the wake of the Great War of the Eight Kingdoms, two young boys were left orphaned beneath the ashen sky.

The first, a child with hair as dark as the abyss, was found deep within the forest. His cries had echoed through the trees, haunting the night like a restless spirit.

A young woman, unable to ignore the sorrow in those wails, defied her husband’s cautious warnings and ventured into the unknown.

She followed the sound to an abandoned hut at the forest’s edge, where beneath the crumbling beams and dust-laden air, she found him—small, helpless, and utterly alone.

With the babe cradled in her arms, she returned home, elation brightening her heart.

For though she and her husband had longed for a child of their own, fate had never blessed them with one.

Yet, as the months unfurled, so too did the whispers of unease.

The boy was not like the others in their village—he did not belong to these lands.

He was wyverian, a creature of legend and war.

And still, despite her husband’s quiet concerns, the woman’s love for the child grew, fierce and unwavering.

Then, one morning, as she stepped outside into the cool embrace of dawn, her breath caught in her throat. Another child lay upon their doorstep, golden-haired with yellow-hued eyes that glowed like embers. And atop his head—dragon horns, curved and regal.

How had a wyverian and a drakonian child found their way into the heart of Fauna, a kingdom neither of their kind called home?

It was a mystery she would never solve, nor did she care to.

As the infants slumbered within their modest cottage, her husband’s voice trembled with quiet apprehension, his worries woven into the hush of midnight.

But her mind was set. They would raise them, love them as their own, shield them from a world that would seek to tear them apart.

And so, the years passed, and the boys grew.

They thrived beneath their father’s guidance, their hands calloused from tending the land, their bodies honed through toil and sweat.

Yet, for all the love that bound them to their adoptive parents, an unspoken question lingered in their hearts—why did they look so different?

Their mother, with skin as deep as the ancient trees, full lips, and thick curls, bore no resemblance to them.

Nor did their father, whose emerald eyes and antlers spoke of the forest’s grace.

Even their horns set them apart—nothing like the antlers of their parents, but sharp, lethal, and unmistakably foreign.

Their mother had warned them since childhood: no one must know what they truly were. The kingdoms were fractured, war still simmering beneath uneasy alliances. If discovered, they would be ripped from their home, returned to lands they had never known, forced to fight in a war not of their making.

Yet, the whispers came. The village had seen glimpses of them, fleeting shadows slipping through the trees, strangers amidst familiar faces. And so, one fateful day, the kingdom’s soldiers arrived, searching.

Their mother sent them into the forest, urging them to run.

But the gods, it seemed, had already written another fate.

Perhaps it had been their will all along, guiding the infants to her doorstep only to reclaim them when the time was right.

The army’s march thundered through the woodland, and one of the brothers made a choice.

He stepped forward, surrendering himself so that the other might escape.

The drakonian boy fled, his heart heavy with sorrow, and returned to the only home he had ever known.

But peace was fleeting. The army came again, sweeping through the village, taking with them every able-bodied soul.

And when they laid eyes upon the drakonian among them, their shock was swift and cruel.

He did not belong here. He, too, was taken.

Years unraveled like frayed thread.

The wyverian boy, no longer a boy but a man forged in blood and steel, became a warrior feared upon the battlefield. His blade, slick with witch’s blood, earned him infamy, and in time, the wyverian king took notice. He was granted the title of general, and with it, the hand of the princess.

Far across the land, in the Kingdom of Fire, the drakonian was stripped of his chained duties and crowned with a destiny long forgotten. He was the lost prince, son of Queen Aithne and King Sorin, heir to the infernal throne.

And so, the boys who had once been brothers became rulers in their own right.

Enemies.

The war reached its bitter end, and the Kingdom of Magic, once the domain of witches, fell to ruin.

The surviving witches were cast into exile, banished to a land now lost to time.

Yet the cost of victory was steep, for where once the eight kingdoms had stood united, only seven remained—forever divided, their bonds severed by war and fate alike.

The firelight flickered, casting wavering shadows along the cold stone walls as silence settled between them.