The cold wind swept around Dimer's face as he stared off into the starry sky. Above, the darkness between the stars mirrored the blackness that veiled his own hand. An old legend his adoptive mother, Sarina, had told him came back like whispers carried by the wind. Long ago, the First One, Ylith, had resided upon the Earth in the darkness that swallowed it. Observing the chaos of the world, he saw beings of life struggling in the endless night. Ylith knew they could not bathe in such darkness forever, so he went to his elder brother, the Lion-Man, and asked him to bring light upon the Earth so the living might see the world. Ylith desired life to grow and flourish upon Earth, for it to become the most beautiful place in all creation.

"Earth is the planet Universe picked for life," Sarina’s words filled his head as softly as silk. So Lion-Man went to their eldest brother, Tah, to seek his counsel. Tah handed Lion-Man a crown called the Worldbinder Crown. With this, Lion-Man became the King of the Realms, while Tah abandoned his family and went beyond the skies in search of what only he could know. Before he left, Tah bestowed upon the world the Sun, a radiant gift to the First Ones. Lion-Man became the First Sundering Lord, ruling over all living beings connected to the world, including the other First Ones.

Remembering Ylith’s request, Lion-Man took the sun and bestowed it upon all creation, thus granting the first piece of order to the realms. "The Sun chased away the darkness that covered the world and gave the world its First Order," Sarina had said. Dimer felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. The legend seemed to resonate with his own journey, a path marked by shadows and light. He had always been drawn to tales of old, finding solace in the stories Sarina wove, stories of gods and kings, of crowns and realms beyond comprehension. He believed they held truth in them, if not all. While some would disagree with him he found himself idolizing the triumphs and greatness of the kings of old.

Dimer would come to this balcony to think of these stories often reflecting on them in soaking in the memories of old as if he were in one of those stories himself. He would become annoyed when he was interrupted by others, always preferring to have some alone time to himself at least once per day but it wasn’t always possible. Just as it wasn’t now. The insistent rapping on his chamber door shattered Dimer Beyk's reverie. He grumbled, a low sound in his throat. Hajr Shah rarely called for him, and certainly never after dark. The Shah kept to a rigid schedule, work by day, rest by night, with little room for deviation. Even family took a backseat to his order. Though by now, Dimer mused with a grimace, even family wouldn't want much to do with him.

“You may come in.” He called. There, by the doorway, stood a young serving girl, her eyes wide and worried. Recognition flickered in Dimer's mind, a name on the tip of his tongue he couldn't quite grasp. "Dimer Beyk," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "Hajr Shah requests your presence at the grand council. He… he says it is urgent." Urgent. The word sent a jolt through Dimer. Hajr Shah didn't deal in urgency. Urgency was for spilled wine and leaky roofs, not matters of state. He pushed himself up, the sheets tangled around him. The girl remained by the door, a silent statue carved from nervous anticipation. Dimer realized with a start that he hadn't dismissed her. He cleared his throat, the sound rough.

"Tell the Shah," he said, his voice hoarse, "that I will be there shortly."

"He… he implores you to attend with haste," the girl stammered, her voice barely audible. Dimer frowned. Implore? Hajr Shah didn't implore. He commanded. This whole situation reeked of something rotten, a sour note in the familiar song of the Shah's routine. The girl bowed, her back a rigid line, and fled from the room, leaving Dimer alone with his churning thoughts. He rose, his bare feet cold against the worn floorboards. A glance at the cluttered desk confirmed what his gut already knew – a normal night's rest was forfeit.

He padded over to the massive wardrobe, it's dark wood polished to a high gleam by countless hands. The faint scent of woodsmoke clung to it, a reminder of the ancient, ruby-red deadwood trees it was crafted from. The candlelight danced on its surface, making the intricate carvings writhe like phantoms. With a sigh, Dimer threw open the doors. Clothes, row upon row, filled the space. Rich silks and embroidered leathers, all the trappings of a noble house. Dimer winced. He hated formal wear, all stiff collars and constricting fabrics. But tonight, he supposed, comfort would have to take a backseat to propriety.

Hajr rarely summoned him to council. The reason, of course, was simple – Dimer Beyk wasn't a blood son of the Altan line. He was a foundling, plucked from the streets of far-off Cragoria. Sarina, his adopted mother, had once told him of merchants who'd brought him as part of a trade caravan, a quick coin for a life uprooted. He'd grown up alongside Derya and Tarkan, but blood always whispered louder than shared meals.

Derya was similar to him. Sarina’s sister and Derya’s mother were giving birth at the same time as fate would have it and cruelly so she died while giving birth to Derya. At that moment they handed Derya to Sarina and she had held both children in her arms, her love no greater for one over the other. Dimer could almost feel himself tearing up.

Crowns and thrones held no sway over Dimer. He was a tool, a blade honed for Hajr's hand. Tonight's summons were no different. But a cunning glint sparked in his eyes. He reached for a cloak, crimson as spilled wine, the initials "DO" stitched on the back in gleaming copper wire. The fur at the collar, softer than any memory, was a birthday gift from Hajr, a reminder of the day they bought him. Draping the cloak around him, a shield against watchful eyes, Dimer emerged from his chamber.

The halls stretched before him, vast and echoing. Crimson carpets bled onto the cool stone walls, a mismatch that spoke of time's relentless march. Each doorway held a solitary sentinel: a portrait of the first to claim that space. A dusty tome somewhere chronicled these past lives, but Dimer held no interest in its faded pages. His gaze, however, was drawn to the portrait across the hall. Bayar Shah, Altan's son, the second of his line, stared back with eyes that held a chilling familiarity.

The man in the portrait held Dimer's gaze with eyes like cold chips of slate. Discomfort prickled Dimer's skin, a familiar sensation whenever their eyes met. Time, however, had dulled the edge of his unease. He'd even delved into dusty scrolls, piecing together fragments of Bayar Shah's life. As Dimer strode down the echoing halls towards the Grand Council room, his boots thudded against the crimson carpet. He imagined Bayar treading these same stones, a phantom king haunting the past. But surely Bayar's steps had been more frequent, a constant presence unlike Dimer's own. A question, long simmering in Dimer's mind, bubbled to the surface.

Why had Bayar's chambers been tucked away, distant from the halls of power? Abid, the blind son of Hajr's sister, had once offered a fair answer.

"A king needs to learn the value of time, so was the test placed upon Bayar by Altan to see for his readiness for the throne," Abid had rasped, his pale eyes fixed on nothing. A faint smile played on his lips. Dimer frowned, not understanding.

"But I'll never be king," he said confused. Abid's laugh, a dry cough punctuated by a sniff, echoed in the memory.

"Every man benefits from knowing what makes a king, little lord. For power shifts like desert sands, and you, with your own eyes, must judge who holds true worth." Dimer hadn't grasped the meaning then. But when Tarkan declared his ambition to be Shah, a new awareness bloomed. His gaze seemed to cling to Tarkan's every move – a twitch of the lip, a narrowed eye. A fascination, a silent study, of his brother, the boy who walked and spoke like a king in the making.

In the heart of the hall, a massive oak door marked the entrance to the Grand Council room. A cacophony of voices spilled from within, a stark contrast to the usual hushed tones. Dimer paused, his curiosity piqued. What weight of matter could rouse such a tempest? A final glance fell upon the portrait flanking the doorway. The first hand of Altan, a man some claimed bore a likeness to Dimer (though the resemblance was fleeting). The same raven hair, the same emerald eyes – a reflection, perhaps, of a shared lineage but that may be of more wishful thinking.

Dimer pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the council chamber. The room fell silent, a dozen eyes swiveling in his direction. Discomfort prickled his skin under their scrutiny. Instinctively, his gloved hand drifted to his back, a gesture that offered a flicker of reassurance. It straightened his spine, a subtle defiance against the sudden weight of attention. The glove, a worn leather sheath, concealed his blackened hand. Tarkan wore one as well, a concession to Dimer's insistence. Derya's hand was adorned with a different sort of covering, a shimmering gauntlet of gold, crafted to obscure her own mark. Even Kadir bore a glove, a curious thing fashioned from the rosy bark of deadwood trees. He claimed it grounded him, a connection to the earth and Turukhan.

"Come, Dimer," boomed Kadir's voice, a stark contrast to the scowl that had marred his face earlier. "Stand with your brothers." Dimer navigated the silent sea of stares, his own unease pricking at him like nettles. He reached his siblings, their hushed words a counterpoint to the tense quietude of the room.

"What's the matter?" Dimer leaned towards Derya, his voice barely a whisper.

"Nonsense," she muttered back, her brow furrowed in confusion. "They've been yapping on for ages, but it's all gibberish to me and Tarkan." Tarkan chimed in, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Taykori. They speak Taykori, actually. Just too fast for their own good." Derya snorted, a fleeting smile gracing her lips.

"Well, then perhaps you should hone your skills, brother." Dimer joined in the banter, a light jab at Tarkan. His brother's reply was a steely glare that sent a shiver down Dimer's spine. A moment of unease passed.

"Everyone's watching," Derya murmured, her voice laced with concern. Dimer tore his gaze from Tarkan, the tension momentarily forgotten. Hajr sat upon his throne, his attention fixed not upon the three siblings but upon the words etched above him. The faded inscription held the weight of generations:

"The Land We Took, The Land We Gave. Our Responsibilities To Our Graves."

Kadir cleared his throat, his voice firm, but a sharp interruption cut him off. Noyan, the Keeper of Laws, stepped forward, his presence demanding immediate attention.

"Their whispers hold no sway over us," he declared. "Let them glean what they can from our hushed words, if their wits are keen enough." The pronouncement sent a chill down Dimer's spine. Derya, responding quickly, shot Tarkan a warning glance, her hand darting out to cover his mouth before another outburst could escape. A wiry council member, Şenay, spoke next, her voice laced with doubt.

"These markings… perhaps they are a burden, not a boon." Esen, the silver-tongued diplomat, countered with unexpected fervor. He raised his hands towards the ceiling, his voice echoing in the chamber.

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"Or a sign of destiny! A mark of the sun, a divine blessing upon our bloodline! Perhaps even a mark of favor, a promise of a vassal touched by the gods!" Dimer stole a glance at Derya. A flicker of unease mirrored his own feelings in her eyes. Esen's piety, once a source of quiet admiration, now felt stifling. A resounding crack shattered the stillness as Kadir slammed his fist on the table. All eyes snapped towards him, the air thick with anticipation. Even Hajr, his gaze previously fixed on the inscription overhead, finally turned his attention back to the council.

"Mind your words, Esen. She's just a girl. She-"

“She is a girl that has received her duties and at last can come to us as an Altan true in blood.” Interrupted Esen bristling.

“They may be worth more than any gold could ever be,” Tör said. All heads swiveled to him, the Keeper of War. “So why give them to the Nirans?” Dimer frowned, confused. He had only ever heard of the Nirans in short poems his mother had told him about when he couldn’t go to sleep. She said they were the first beings created that lived in darkness and ruled the entire earth until one day they all mysteriously left.

"Gold secures loyalty," Hajr continued, his gaze unwavering. "It may not forge friendship, but it can establish a connection. A bridge between two peoples, a path towards understanding."

Kadir leaned forward, a skeptical glint in his eye. "A bridge of gold? Risky business, Hajr. What happens when the gold runs dry?"

“We give them our gold so why would they not use it?” He replied confidently.

“I still feel it is foolish to give them our gold then.” Tör said, crossing his arm. He wore an eye patch but even with one eye you could see this man was not one to jest with. He had hairy arms as large as the trunks of a tree and his face was scarred from countless experiences in battles. He had hardly any hair left on his head and any that remained had grayed away.

“Mind yourself.” Kadir said again. Hajr lifted his hand, silencing Kadir.

Hajr turned sharply, his eyes piercing Esen's. "The Nirans, ancient mark users, why would they harm their own? And Derya, a Vassal among us, why would they harm her? They can't take such power; they'd nurture it instead. It's not passed down through generations—it's nearly impossible."

Dimer couldn’t understand anything they were saying. Derya a God? Derya wasn’t a God nor a vassal. These men spoke without sense.

“Who are these Nirans?” Tarkan demanded suddenly. Everyone at the council table looked at each other giving themselves looks Dimer couldn’t understand.

“Had your mother never told you in yer bed?” Laughed Tömör their blacksmith. Tarkan stiffened. Kadir glared at Tömör.

Kadir explained to Tarkan, "The Nirans, ancient beings, once dwelled on the Rejected Piece. It seems some have returned to their homeland."

“What does this have to do with us? You talk of marks and speak of us as gold. You act as if we cannot hear you.” He finished sharply.

“The Nirans in the legends were known to have incredible affinities with their marked magic. Beyond what any human could. In reality it is difficult for any human to ever get a mark so one getting one is beyond a miracle.” Dimer flexed his own blackened hand and saw Tarkan do the same, balling it into a fist.

“So you want to send us to them to have them train our marks.” Derya finished off the question. Kadir nodded his head.

“Have you even discussed this with them? Have we ever talked with them or had any communications?” Dimer demanded.

Kadir nodded, his voice steady. "Truth be told, we haven't.”

“So what makes us think they would ever accept this absurd offer?” Dimer spoke again in the same demanding tone.

“Because our marks aren’t ones meant for humans.” Derya answered again. She looked down at her hand before looking back at Tarkan, searching for confirmation in his eyes. He had taken off his own glove and was staring into his blackened hand.

“Dimer, you should take an example from Derya,” said Bataar, the Leader of their Shah-Keep. Dimer turned on him, annoyed but not quite understanding what he said. “She answers the questions you ask, yet you both have gone under the same tutoring and were raised from the same teat.” He told him, almost smirking.

"Enough of this prattle," Kadir barked, his voice thick with impatience. "We spin tales like a drunken fool's song, achieving nought but wasted breath." His gaze, cold and sharp as a winter wind, swept across the chamber, settling on Hajr. Hajr spoke calmly.

"Three of you shall journey to Niran, there to hone your marksmanship, assuming you possess any marks to hone. Serve as our wardens, eyes in the distance, ever watchful, ever reporting. Fail in this duty, and by the First Ones, you'll answer for it. I trust none of you to paint the council fools, so see you don't." Dimer bristled, his blood warming with a simmering anger. Leaving held no appeal, yet his voice remained stubbornly silent. Tarkan, frustration etching lines upon his youthful face, stepped forward.

"Why send us away, Shah? What guarantee have we the Nirans will accept such... guests?" Kadir studied him, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.

"A valid question, Tarkan, I will grant you that. But know this: whatever path you seek here, it shall be smoother walked amongst the Nirans. This discussion ends now. Prepare yourselves, for you depart in two days' time." The pronouncement hung heavy in the air. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until finally Tör snorted, a humorless sound that shattered the tension. He rose to his feet, and with a shake of his head, muttered a curse under his breath. The council was done, yet none moved.

With a muttered complaint, he turned and headed for the exit. "A leader ignores no voice," Tör rumbled, his tone heavy.

"But recklessness brings ruin, and that's no friend to anyone. Had you not learned this by now?" Hajr responded not looking towards the man. Tör lingered by the door for a moment, then vanished into the hallway without another word. The others quickly filed out, offering hurried farewells to Hajr and Kadir. Once alone, Derya's curiosity bubbled over.

"Why not Kadir? Why can't he train us?" Kadir chuckled, removing his glove.

"Our abilities are like night and day, and likely yours will be as well, from what we understand. The old texts say each mark is unique. Besides, I've only ever encountered one other marked person myself." His gaze flickered to Hajr, seeking confirmation. Hajr tapped his fingers on the table, then rose and exited the room, leaving Kadir waving after him with a faint smile. Dimer turned to Tarkan and Derya, his voice laced with wonder.

"Who could it be?" Tarkan shrugged, settling into Hajr's vacated seat. He propped his legs on the table and leaned back, lost in thought.

"With so many out there, guessing who it is would be like searching for a needle in a haystack," he sighed, his voice heavy with disinterest. Dimer couldn't help but notice his posture lacked its usual regal bearing. Derya nudged Tarkan playfully.

"You shouldn't be sitting there. What if someone sees you and gets the wrong idea?" Tarkan straightened with a mischievous grin.

"Then they'll have nothing to report but an empty seat." Derya rolled her eyes but couldn't help a smile.

"Why Niran, though?" Dimer muttered, brow furrowed in confusion. "They send us away from home without explanation. There has to be a bigger reason behind it all."

Derya tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I doubt they'd send us somewhere unsafe. But you're right, there's likely more to it than they're letting on."

"Maybe they only want to be rid of us," Tarkan offered, glancing at his blackened hand with a hint of bitterness. "Maybe they think these marks will make us too dangerous." Dimer wasn't sure if he was serious, but Tarkan's gaze held a flicker of seriousness.

"Nonsense, Derya," scoffed Derya. "Remember what Esen said-"

"Esen said you are a God or… or a Vassal of some sorts," Tarkan grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "Perhaps Hajr thinks the same? He speaks of gold but who has ever wanted blood coin?" He trailed off, muttering to himself. Dimer shivered, though he couldn't explain why. Tarkan's words held a strange weight, even if they seemed far-fetched. Hajr had always seemed dedicated to a higher purpose. How could getting rid of them be part of that? Surely Hajr would want to use their abilities, even if it wasn't always comfortable.

Derya waved Tarkan's words away."You speak with empty words." Tarkan tapped the armrest, his gaze distant.

"Even a wolf on an iron chain can turn and bite," he murmured. Dimer hesitated.

"Maybe there's some truth to it," he ventured, then quickly added, "But we are no wolves on chains. We have grown up here with Hajr above us. We’ve shared his meals and sat with him." He glanced at Tarkan, who didn't respond with any words but his gaze held enough. Quietly Tarkan gathered his robes and went to the door to leave.

"Where are you off to?" Dimer called after him. Tarkan didn't answer, leaving them alone in the room.

"Tarkan wrestles with too many thoughts ofttimes," Derya said, her gaze lingering on the spot where he'd stood. Dimer wasn't so certain. Tarkan aspired to a king's mind, that much was true, but it might lead him down paths far from where he stood. "Yet there's a flicker of something admirable in it," Derya admitted, settling onto a council seat, her weight resting on her palms. Dimer felt a warmth rise to his cheeks. "He ponders the man he will become," Derya said, a hint of amusement in her narrowed eyes as she turned to him. "Who are we to say he isn't that man already?" Dimer considered this, his hand finding her shoulder. Was she right? In Tarkan's own eyes, he was already the king-to-be. Yet, for others, he remained the child who clung to his mother's side. Since then, Tarkan's voice had grown stronger. Even at four, a memory flickered in Dimer's mind, a harsh exchange between Cem and Kadir that he'd overheard. A cold whisper of a conversation, meant for ears that wouldn't understand. Yet, Dimer had understood every word.

'Some are born with rusted gears,' Cem had said, his voice like winter wind. 'And Tarkan might be one of those.' Even now, the memory sent a shiver down his spine.

"Well, we leave in two days," Dimer said, shifting the conversation to banish unwelcome thoughts. He glanced away, feigning indifference. Derya rose, stretching her limbs gracefully.

"I wonder what Narin is like," she mused, her eyes clouded with distant visions of the fabled land.

"The legends always said that it was a haunted and cursed land," Dimer replied, methodically working his hands.

"Since when have Hajr and Kadir ever believed in those stories?" Derya countered, stifling a yawn. She was right in that notion. Hajr and Kadir had always dismissed such tales, though they never dictated what to believe. Tarkan remained enigmatic about his own beliefs, but Dimer knew he enjoyed the stories as much as they did, even if he never admitted it. The memory of their name day ceremony gnawed at Dimer. Why had Hajr insisted on a ritual he didn't believe in, especially one honoring the First Ones, whom he clearly disliked? Dimer had never mustered the courage to question him directly, nor had he found the right moment. Yet, he recalled something Derya had overheard from the servants. Hajr, during a dinner with a Frostheim diplomat, had spoken of ships lost at Altan's Landing. To compensate, he had promised the rare deadwood trees, prized in Frostheim for their scarcity.

When they had been signing the papers, the Frostheim man had insisted on sealing the agreement in the name of Kaelar, but Hajr had refused, commanding him to leave his kingdom. The man, furious and vengeful, had sworn that Kaelar’s doom would befall upon them. Yet, the promised calamity never came. Derya always said it was because Kaelar recognized the good within their kingdom, sparing it from destruction.

The man who had invoked Kaelar's wrath had eventually met a grim fate, perhaps a divine punishment for daring to speak on behalf of a god. Hajr couldn’t be foolish enough to take such risks, could he? He had always been the quietest at any table, his eyes observing and mind whirring, devising the best solutions. His decision to send them to Niran must be another calculated move. Inside, Dimer felt a spark of reassurance, finding solace in his thoughts. Hajr knew what was best for his kingdom and for them, and he had acted accordingly.