The Shattered Crowns

They didn't have to wait long for Akash and Daenys to return. Daenys was the first to reappear, carrying an assortment of berries in her hands. The reds and purples gleamed in the dimming sunlight as her rebreather hissed faintly.

She held them up with a grin. "Crushed fruit paste should keep us going for the night. It might even help you regain some of your strength, Winter. Tomorrow, we'll find meat and plants to make a proper meal."

Winter nodded. "That will suffice. Thank you, Daenys."

Not long after, Akash emerged from the underbrush, carrying a bundle of firewood in his arms. Elys padded silently behind him, the massive feline holding additional branches in her powerful jaws. Akash set the wood down in the center of the clearing and began arranging it with practiced efficiency. Soon, a fire crackled to life, its warmth driving away the creeping chill of the evening.

They ate in relative quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. The berries were tart but filling, and Winter savored the small burst of energy they brought. When she finished her portion, she set her bowl aside and cleared her throat to gather their attention.

"Let me begin by saying this: the karnen of your old stories are not the same as what they truly are," she said, her tone steady and measured.

Akash, of course, was the first to respond, his raised eyebrow visible even behind his mask. "So they don't steal people's shadows and devour them over time?" he asked, clearly baiting her.

Daenys, sitting beside him, smacked the back of his head. "Fool. The karnen are said to be the counterpart of the Great Shifter. They were meant to be shifters, but their hunger became too great to control."

Winter sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Both myths were wrong. She would have to start from the beginning.

"The karnen's hunger is indeed insatiable," she admitted, "but they are not counterparts to your shifters. They are creatures—monsters—that have plagued Northern Lorian since the First Age. A simple rule to remember is this: where there is one karnen, there are always more."

Mirak snapped his fingers, his expression lighting up. "That's why you summoned the storm of Atta so quickly. You knew there would be more of them."

Winter nodded. "It was a calculated risk, but a necessary one."

Daenys leaned forward, her brow furrowed in thought. "If they're a horde, someone—or something—must be giving them orders. They were too organized to act on instinct alone."

The flames cast flickering shadows across Winter's face as she debated how much to tell them. The truth was dangerous, but ignorance could be far worse. If she didn't give them answers, they would seek out unreliable sources and put themselves in danger. After a moment of consideration, she relented.

"The karnen are foot soldiers of the Eight Princes of Ruin," she said carefully. "Their masters command, and the karnen obey without hesitation."

Akash frowned, the name clearly unfamiliar. "The Princes of Ruin? I've never heard of them."

Winter's expression darkened. "And I envy you for that. The Princes are malevolent aspects of this world, each embodying a twisted, insatiable desire. They consume everything in their path—lands, people, even each other. It's an endless cycle of destruction, fueled by their hatred and love for one another. To say we understand them would be a lie. They are as vast and unknowable as the void itself."

Daenys asked the inevitable question. "Why are there eight of them?"

"There could be more, or there could be fewer," Winter replied. "We only know of eight because eight Generals have been seen throughout history. It's possible there are others hidden from view—or that a Prince is playing a long, slow game beyond our comprehension."

Akash leaned back, his expression grim. "The Morosi… that thing we saw. It's one of these Generals, isn't it?"

Winter nodded solemnly. "Yes. The Morosi is one of the Generals. Its presence was far more concerning than the karnen. A Prince of Ruin is moving, but I do not yet know why. Nor do I know how a Morosi appeared so far south of Cordia."

Daenys' voice dropped to a whisper. "Which Prince was it?"

"We can't speak its true name," Winter said sharply. "Names hold power. To utter a Prince's name is to invite chaos. Instead, we call it the Prince of Primeval."

Akash raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You sound afraid."

Winter's glare cut through him like ice. "I am afraid. And you should be too. The elves believe names hold power, and while I can't say whether that's entirely true, I've seen what happens when a Prince's true name is spoken. The world warps around them. Reality bends and breaks. Never speak a Prince's name, Akash. Not ever."

The weight of Winter's warning silenced the group. Even Akash, who always seemed to have a smirk or quip ready, lowered his gaze to the flickering firelight.

Daenys broke the stillness, her tone cautious. "If we can't speak their names, can we… can we look at a Prince? Has anyone seen one and survived?"

Winter's expression hardened, her voice sharp. "No one alive has ever laid eyes on a Prince and lived to tell the tale. And those who claim to have survived are either lying—or mad."

Daenys' brows furrowed in frustration. "So no one truly knows what they look like? There's nothing—no image, no description?"

Winter gave a small shrug, her face grim. "There are artistic depictions, of course. Old carvings, paintings, and statues meant to represent them. But they're unreliable at best. The Princes are not static beings. Their forms shift constantly, their designs ever-changing. Even their Generals—the Morosi included—are unstable, ever-evolving reflections of their masters."

She gestured faintly toward the fire, her tone quieter now. "Some worshipers create humanized depictions of the Princes, trying to make them more understandable. But those who do often find themselves tied to the will of the Prince they serve. Their devotion becomes a chain, and in time, they lose all sense of self."

Mirak, ever curious, leaned forward slightly. "What about the other Princes? The ones we haven't seen? Do they all have titles like the Prince of Primeval?"

Winter clicked her tongue softly, annoyed by the question but unsurprised. "Of course they do. But their titles are not something you need to know right now. When the time comes—if the time comes—I will decide if it is safe to tell you more."

The young apprentice frowned but didn't press her further.

Winter let out a slow breath, her eyes flicking between the three of them. "The search for knowledge is a noble goal, Mirak. But you would do well to temper that ambition. Some truths are not meant to be understood—not by us, not yet. Reach too far, and you may go mad before you ever grasp what you seek."

The group remained silent for a long while after Winter's words, the fire crackling softly as it ate away at the dry wood. Shadows danced across their faces, twisting and warping in time with the flickering flames.

Akash was the first to break the quiet, leaning back against a tree with a huff. "So, the Princes are untouchable. The karnen are unrelenting. And the Morosi is worse than both of them combined." He ran a hand through his dark hair, his fingers brushing over the faint lines of his Impresa mark. "Sounds like we're all dead already."

Winter's gaze cut sharply to him, her tone icy. "If you keep baiting forces you don't understand, you very well might be."

Akash smirked faintly but didn't reply. Instead, he scratched at Elys' neck, the feline pressing closer to him with a low purr.

Mirak shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Winter. "You said the Princes could warp reality if their names are spoken. Is that why the Morosi appeared? Did someone say its name?"

Winter shook her head, though her expression betrayed her uncertainty. "I don't know. The Princes' movements are unpredictable, and the Morosi's presence south of Cordia makes little sense. What I do know is that the Morosi doesn't act without purpose. If it's here, it's because a Prince commanded it."

She hesitated for a moment, then added, "And that should terrify you far more than the karnen ever could."

Daenys shivered faintly, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "You said there were eight Generals—one for each Prince. Does that mean each General is as dangerous as the Morosi?"

Winter tilted her head slightly, considering the question. "Not all Generals are alike. Their strength depends on the Prince they serve and the role they're meant to fulfill. Some are more powerful than others, but all of them are dangerous in their own way. The Morosi is particularly lethal because of its intelligence and its… adaptability."

"Adaptability?" Mirak echoed, his voice soft.

Winter's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression darkening. "Yes. The Morosi—and others like it—can adapt to any threat it encounters. It learns, evolves, and grows stronger with each battle. That's what makes it so dangerous. It isn't just a mindless beast. It's a predator in every sense of the word."

The fire crackled again, sending sparks into the air. For a moment, none of them spoke, the weight of Winter's words settling heavily over the group.

Finally, Daenys exhaled softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "So what do we do if we see it again? The Morosi, I mean. What do we do?"

Winter's gaze flicked to her, and for a brief moment, there was something almost soft in her expression. "You run," she said simply. "You run as far and as fast as you can. Because if you stand and fight, you won't win."

The mood around the fire remained tense for the rest of the evening. Even Akash's usual bravado was muted as they finished their meal and began preparing for the night ahead.

Daenys laid out a simple bedding of leaves and cloth, her movements mechanical as her thoughts remained elsewhere. Mirak busied himself with his books, scribbling notes in the dim firelight.

Winter, however, remained still, her gaze fixed on the flames as her mind churned. The karnen, the Morosi, the Prince of Primeval… all of it pointed to something larger, something far more dangerous than she cared to admit. The Princes of Ruin rarely acted without cause. Whatever game they were playing, it was only beginning.

But what concerned her most was the group sitting around her. They were strong-willed, yes, but they were also inexperienced, naïve, and far too reckless. They didn't yet understand the weight of the world they'd stepped into.

Winter's grip tightened faintly around her staff. It was her responsibility to guide them, to protect them as much as she could. But the road ahead was treacherous, and even her strength had limits.

"Get some rest," she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. "We leave at first light."

Akash muttered something under his breath but didn't argue. One by one, they settled in for the night, the fire crackling softly as the forest around them darkened.

Winter remained awake, her back pressed against the trunk of a tree. The Atta in the air swirled faintly around her, brushing against her skin like a cold breeze. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, letting the flow of energy soothe her frayed nerves.

The forest was quiet, but it was not peaceful. Somewhere in the darkness, she could feel it—the faint, lingering presence of something watching.

Something far older, far darker, than the karnen they'd faced.