The Western Edge of the Kingdom. A Settlement near Sarholm

  The settlement was small.

  A handful of homes with farms formed two short streets. Fences, livestock, and narrow passages between buildings. Life here was simple and easy to understand.

  To the left, almost pressed up against the settlement, stretched the military camp of King Serain.

  Rows of tents stood evenly, without chaos. Everything was arranged as if the camp was meant to remain here for a long time.

  At the edge of the camp, beneath an old tree, stood a large but unremarkable tent. No banners. No markings. This was the headquarters.

  Inside sat five people.

  Serain was in good shape for his age. His body still carried the posture of a king and a warrior. His face did not. It held everything he had lived through: defeats, betrayals, decisions that demanded payment more than once.

  Beside him stood his son, Cael. Young, roughly Lenar’s age. Nature had been generous with him, giving him an appearance that spoke easily of status and wealth. Yet there was no arrogance in his manner. Cael was well-mannered and spoke easily with soldiers, something that never went unnoticed.

  Across from them sat Kordain, the kingdom’s First General.

  His armor stood apart from everything else in the camp. A different style. A different tradition. A different origin. Everything about him marked him as an outsider.

  During the uprising, Kordain had fought on Fernus’s side. After the defeat, it was Serain who offered him the post of First General. Not out of mercy, but to end the civil war.

  Nearby stood Nahir, the royal suggestor. His presence was quiet, almost invisible, yet everyone in the tent felt it.

  And Orven, the king’s personal physician. The one who knew more about Serain’s condition than anyone else.

  An officer finished his report on the army’s assembly.

  “…the full force will be ready in three days. Provisions are distributed. Reserves have been moved into position,” he concluded.

  Serain and Kordain listened carefully.

  “Thank you,” the king said. “You may go.”

  The officer left.

  Almost immediately, a guard entered the tent.

  “King Serain,” he said, “Stecepiy has arrived for his ward.”

  “Good,” the king nodded. “Send him in.”

  Stecepiy entered the tent. Behind him came his ward, Mativ.

  Both wore light gray-green armor. No ornaments. No shine. Scout gear, meant for silence and invisibility.

  “Greetings,” Stecepiy said. “I’m glad to see you in good health… in times that are far from ideal.”

  “You arrived quickly,” Serain noted. “We didn’t even have time to prepare an assignment.

  Introduce the man you brought with you.”

  Serain shook Stecepiy’s hand. The others followed.

  “This is Mativ,” Stecepiy said. “He’s from the north. He commanded our unit on the border. I took him under my wing three months ago.”

  “Honored to serve the king,” Mativ replied crisply.

  “Yes. Good,” Serain said, patting him on the shoulder.

  Mativ remained rigid, unmoving.

  Serain unrolled a map.

  “Listen carefully. In the West, we have several reconnaissance units.

  Your task is to collect all their reports and maintain constant surveillance of the west border. We cannot allow Solmar saboteurs to reach our rear.”

  He pointed to a section of the map.

  “Stecepiy,” Kordain interjected, “Manurds' mercenaries operate there. A serious enemy.

  Under no circumstances engage them in open combat. Observation only.”

  “Do you understand?” Serain looked at both of them. “You observe and eliminate only isolated Solmar individuals.

  If you encounter a full unit, do not attack. Track them. When they move deeper, we will destroy them. If we know exactly where.”

  “I understand,” Stecepiy replied. “And how do we recognize them?”

  “They won’t be dressed like beggars,” Cael said dryly.

  “Well,” Stecepiy smiled faintly, “that’s something I’ve learned to tell.”

  Cael, Stecepiy, Nahir, and Orven laughed.

  Mativ stood there, confused, unsure whether it was a joke or a test.

  “Go,” Serain said. “Get the maps and equipment from the quartermaster.

  By tomorrow, we’ll prepare a full assignment and pass it to you.”

  “Understood,” Stecepiy replied.

  “Yes, sir,” Mativ said.

  “Stecepiy,” Cael suddenly spoke up. “Wait for me outside. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Stecepiy nodded and left.

  For a moment, the tent fell silent.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Stecepiy and Mativ stepped out of the tent.

  Dusk was already settling over the camp. The torches hadn’t been lit yet, but the light was fading faster than one would like. The smell of smoke, horses, and damp earth hung in the air.

  “What was that about?” Stecepiy threw over his shoulder without slowing down.

  “What do you mean?” Mativ barely kept up.

  Stecepiy stopped and turned.

  “You stood there like a statue. Relax. The king’s a decent man.”

  “I get that…” Mativ hesitated. “But why does he look so pale? Is he sick?”

  Stecepiy waved it off.

  “Don’t worry about it. That’s just his face. He’s still capable of plenty.

  It’s just that he… wasn’t born a king.”

  “What does that mean?” Mativ didn’t understand.

  “Forget it,” Stecepiy cut him off. “Cael’s coming.

  Head to the quartermaster. I’ll catch up.”

  Mativ nodded and walked off.

  Cael appeared from between the tents, moving quickly, without an escort.

  “Stecepiy,” he smiled, “some friend you are. Ungrateful.”

  “You’re the ungrateful one,” Stecepiy grumbled. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “Oh? Didn’t sleep well?”

  “I come back to the tent after training, filthy as the plague, wearing Palm armor, and she looks at me, laughs, and asks:

  ‘So now you have two kings?’”

  Cael burst out laughing.

  “She didn’t care about your armor. She rode twelve hours just to see you.”

  “I get it,” Stecepiy sighed. “Still, you could’ve warned me.”

  “I did. I told you to wear something clean.”

  “Clean is Palm armor!”

  They laughed loudly, honestly.

  The laughter cut off abruptly.

  Cael grew serious.

  “Stec… be careful. Don’t play games with Manurds.

  Atrion told me about them. There aren’t many, but they’re very serious fighters.

  And your unit is the best we have. I don’t want to lose you at the start of the war.”

  Stecepiy nodded, no jokes this time.

  “Well, if Atrion says so… I’ll keep a lower profile.”

  “Glad to hear it.

  All right. See you tomorrow. Father wants a word with me.”

  They embraced.

  Stecepiy headed into the camp.

  Cael turned back toward the headquarters.

  Night had fully taken hold.

  Near the tent, Kordain and Nahir stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder.

  Orven carefully examined King Serain’s hands.

  “Serain,” he said at last, “no training tomorrow. A light run, or stretching at most.”

  “Fine, fine…” the king muttered. “When will this finally be over?”

  “Soon,” Nahir replied calmly. “I think by next year you’ll be fully ready.”

  He paused.

  “And the mines? Who’s handling that?”

  “Rianes is already there,” Serain said. “He has arrived with all of his people.

  After the mines are cleared, they’ll sweep the nearby forests. Push the scavengers farther away.”

  “Balrek would’ve just burned the entire forest,” Nahir noted.

  “Balrek is far away,” the king replied. “Two weeks’ travel.

  And Atrion is currently recovering in Hariv.”

  “Rianes would be useful here,” Kordain said quietly.

  “They all would,” Nahir answered.

  “But if the mines aren’t cleared and others find out…they’ll decide it’s their time too. Just like the Palmers.”

  Kordain snorted.

  “Maybe the Palmers are exactly why they’ve become active again.”

  “Then this time,” he continued, “I’ll find out how Rianes outplayed us at the crossroads.”

  Serain smiled faintly.

  “He’ll say it was all my fault again.”

  “As always,” Kordain agreed.

  The king straightened.

  “All right. That’s enough for today. We meet tomorrow morning again. In two days, we’ll be ready to move.”

  He stepped outside the tent.

  Orven followed him immediately, already continuing his quiet lecture about rest and restraint. Kordain went after them, glancing once toward the darkening camp.

  Within a moment, their voices faded into the night.

  Only Cael and Nahir remained inside the tent.

  For a while, neither spoke.

  Outside, the camp murmured — horses shifting, armor clinking, distant voices carried by the wind.

  Cael leaned against the table with the map.

  “You know,” he said finally, “everyone keeps talking about Lugu, Suggestion, stages… as if it’s obvious.”

  Nahir looked up at him.

  “And it isn’t?”

  “I know the terms,” Cael admitted. “But not the story. Not the beginning.”

  Nahir studied him for a moment, then pulled a stool closer and sat down.

  “If the prince wants the story,” he said calmly, “then perhaps it’s time he heard it properly.”

  He folded his hands.

  “It began about six hundred years ago,” Nahir said.

  The world shuddered.

  The earthquake was not the strongest ever recorded, but it became one of the most significant. Old fractures in the mountains split apart, stone masses shifted, and where there had once been solid rock, a gorge opened. Deep. Narrow. Hidden from the eyes of generations.

  The first ones went there. Not heroes. Not conquerors. Seekers. Shepherds. A few scholars. And those who simply wanted to be first.

  In the gorge, they found Luga.

  A green substance with a distinctive smell, sharp and alien. It was neither a plant nor a liquid in the usual sense. More like a living presence, impossible to understand at first glance. It was there that the kingdom of Lugarn would later arise, the only state of that era to survive into modern times as more than just legend.

  The first experiments were primitive, almost accidental.

  One researcher, lacking better ideas, mixed Luga with water and gave it to sick livestock. The animals survived. More than that, they recovered. Wounds closed. Fever faded. Diseases retreated as if they had never existed.

  Humanity quickly understood Luga’s greatest advantage. It began to be used everywhere. In villages and cities. For people and for animals. Illness became rarer. Mortality dropped. Life grew longer.

  But the drawbacks appeared just as quickly.

  In roughly one out of twenty people, Luga caused changes. Sometimes it meant a sharp increase in muscle mass, a heavy, coarse body. Sometimes the opposite: weakness, fragility, excessive flexibility. In many, skin pigmentation changed, shifting toward dark blue or nearly black tones. They were called the Rejected. At first, the word carried no malice. Later, it carried far too much.

  Yet the true nature of Luga was not understood immediately. That realization took years.

  The turning point came from accidental cruelty.

  A yard dog, given water mixed with Luga, tore another dog apart while defending its territory. Nothing unusual. Such things happen. But over time, the owner noticed something else. The dog had changed. It became the center of the pack. Other animals submitted to it without fighting, without barking, without fear.

  It turned out that consuming the blood of a creature that had already come into contact with Luga opened another possibility. Manipulation.

  Thus was born the process that would later be called Suggestion.

  A being could impose a picture of the world onto others, one that did not exist. Not hypnosis. Not a command. But a rewriting of perception. A person could be made to see themselves drowning in water while actually standing in the middle of a field. From the outside, it looked absurd: the victim flailed their arms, clawed at their throat, fell, and convulsed for no visible reason.

  But to them, it was water. Cold. Heavy. Lethal. They suffocated. And died. Drowned… in a field.

  To focus the Suggestion, specially processed Glass began to be used. Its fragments were mined, refined, polished, shattered. Glass became more than a tool. It became a conduit.

  From that moment on, the world split. Not by war. By choice. Humanity is divided into several factions.

  The first were those who accepted Luga to live longer and fall ill less often. They sought nothing more. Stability and statistics were enough for them.

  The second went further. They studied Suggestion, resistance to it, or advanced applications of Luga-based treatment. They risked themselves at every stage, knowing that Luga could kill them as easily as it could heal them.

  The third were the Rejected. With bodies that became too strong and unwieldy. Or too weak, yet astonishingly flexible. They were never asked whether they wanted to be part of this world in such a form.

  And the fourth were those who had refused Luga for generations. They chose shorter, but fuller lives. With a natural immunity to Suggestion. And with a path to high office, because in a world where suggestion had become a weapon, immunity to it was power.

  Thus emerged a world where disease had retreated, but reality itself was no longer shared.