The two days had gone by as if he’d never lived through them. It had been so quick and gone, so empty and dull that he could hardly recall a memory of a breath he had taken in those two days. Hajr had told Tarkan that in times the dullest moments made the time go by.
“Your own mind acts as its own world. So a different time. A different world. And… what else?” He asked, turning to him. Their tutor room hadn’t been very large but Tarkan had never minded the size. He never stood up from his chair either way. Hajr looked at him, narrowing his eyes, waiting for an answer from Tarkan and he knew mediocre wouldn’t pass. The answer for this question seemed to be locked behind years of experience though and Tarkan was a mere age of twelve. He didn’t understand how Hajr expected him to know the answer to this question but if he expected something he knew it was possible.
Tarkan chewed on his lip, brow furrowed like a knight wrestling a stubborn portcullis. Hajr's words hung heavy in the air of the cramped tutor's room, stale as year-old bread. "Another world," he muttered, the taste of parchment clinging to his tongue like dust. "Another place..." He squeezed his eyes shut, the scratchy wool of his tunic an irritation against his skin. Hajr wouldn't settle for a simple answer, not on something like this. It demanded a truth, something Tarkan had wrestled with himself. His mind drifted back to his friends, when they had been roasting chestnuts on a hearth together as a family. Back then, everyone had been together. He could almost smell the woodsmoke and roasting sheep, hear the murmur of voices and the clatter of tankards.
But most vividly, he recalled the sensation. The way a gripping tale spun by a seasoned bard could transport him entirely. One moment he was a Tarkan Altan hunched on a stool, the next a fearless knight charging through a battlefield, or a cunning scout slipping through enemy lines under the cloak of night. In those stories, he wasn't Tarkan, the Daydream King. He was whoever the bard wove into existence, living a thousand lives in a single breath. A realization dawned on him. Hajr wasn't just talking about another location, a physical space marked on a map.
He was talking about another way of being. Stories weren't just entertainment, they were portals. They could transform you, make you feel a thousand emotions, live a thousand experiences, all without ever leaving your chair. Tarkan opened his eyes, a flicker of understanding chasing away the fog. He wasn't sure if it was the answer Hajr sought, but it was the truth, his truth.
"Another being," Tarkan declared, his voice firm. A flicker of amusement danced in Hajr's eyes, and he offered a gentle pat to Tarkan's head.
"Not quite, but a valiant attempt. A most unusual answer, to be sure. One that has not graced these dusty halls before." A hint of pride flickered in Hajr's voice. Tarkan flushed, a touch of disappointment warring with the unexpected praise.
"Then what is the answer, Hajr?" Tarkan pressed, tugging at his tunic to ease the scratchiness. Hajr ambled to the door, his hand resting on the knob.
"That, young Tarkan, is a question you must answer yourself. Every worthy warrior carries within them questions that burn for a reply. Let this be yours to unravel." With a final, enigmatic look, Hajr swept from the room, leaving Tarkan alone with his thoughts and the lingering words of his Shah.
The journey to Tidal reach had been slightly annoying since Tarkan had forgotten it was a day's journey away from the kingdom. The last time he had been here was years ago when they had gone to visit the Ignis family, on the Dragons Back. If Tarkan had known a day of travel would waste his last two days here he would’ve gotten prepared quicker but the summons had arrived earlier than he had expected. Thankfully the servants had packed his things and he had been ready to go, but he hadn’t been quite ready to go in his mind. He had hastedly given his last goodbyes until the next time he would see the dwellers in the castle. To the kind servants and the good chefs. To the guards who protected him and to his old tutors.
Tarkan didn’t own anything he truly cherished except for a crown his mother had made for him long ago. Fashioned from pyrite, it mimicked the grandeur of the Shah’s crown. Always too large, it would slip from his head onto his shoulders. Despite his frustration, he had paraded it around the castle, calling himself the Shah until Kadir had swiftly put an end to his play. Ever since that day, he had kept it hidden in his closet under layers of cloth, waiting for the day it might fit him properly. He had debated bringing it along on this journey but ultimately decided against it.
When he returned, stronger and wiser, perhaps then the crown would rest upon his head as it should. He left it in his room, hoping no one would disturb its resting place while it awaited his return. Donning his traveling clothes, Tarkan left the castle, ushered by Hajr’s Shah-Keep to make a swift exit. Outside, he found his friends and Hajr waiting for him. It was Bataar, not Hajr, who sat on the horse, signaling that Hajr would not be joining them. Bataar was to take them safely to Tidal Reach and then accompany them to Niran.
To Tarkan’s further disappointment, Esen would also be joining them to speak on behalf of the kingdom. Hajr had not sent them off empty-handed. Along with their pack, he gifted them new servants named Tün, Tog, Ün, Igm, Ums, and Ner—two for each of them. He smiled as he explained this. Additionally, he provided all the books they could ever want and all the supplies needed to write back home. As if that were not enough, he assigned a Servant Knight to each of them, ensuring their protection and service throughout the journey.
"Hajr seems to be more prepared for our departure than we are," Dimer observed flatly. Tarkan lingered by the doorway, his fingers tracing the worn grooves of the stone archway. A tightness constricted his chest as he looked back at the ramparts, their familiar silhouette stark against the twilight. He shuffled toward his horse, boots heavy on the cobblestones. None of them had, he was pretty sure, but Derya suggested that perhaps their marks were indeed a bad omen, echoing Tarkan’s own worries. To Tarkan’s disappointment, no one else came to bid them farewell. More citizens had gathered to watch than members of his own family.
The Altan household had always been distant, rarely appearing throughout Tarkan’s life, and they seemed to have found more important matters to attend to now as well. Kadir told him they always thought more of themselves than others, so he shouldn't be so disappointed. Their journey began at a steady pace until Dimer and Derya were distracted by some merchants on the road. The merchants, upon seeing the heraldry on their cloaks, offered them wine for free. Bataar initially refused, but Esen had already broken open a bottle. The downside was having to endure Esen's ‘religious melodies’ as they traveled through the night. They hardly stopped to rest, pausing only to let their horses drink. Tarkan attempted to converse with his new guard, but the guard seemed more interested in glaring at Tarkan than engaging in any meaningful dialogue. Tarkan did end up learning his name though.
His name was Zeno, a man whose origins lay beyond these lands, as evidenced by his name, so unlike those of their culture. Zeno possessed hair as dark as a raven's wing and eyes as cold and blue as a winter sky. He bore a greatsword nearly larger than Tarkan himself, a weapon that seemed an extension of his formidable presence. Tarkan couldn't help but marvel at the man, silently praying they might encounter trouble on the road just to see Zeno wield the sword. But to his disappointment, their journey remained uneventful. They arrived at Tidal Reach just as dawn broke, ending their second day of travel.
Bataar wasted no time in ushering them onto a ship of considerable size, one that seemed disproportionately large for their small group. Tarkan found no fault in this, except for the glaring absence of a proper crew. Bataar assured them they would learn to manage the ship during their voyage, but Tarkan thought this a reckless plan. Their passage across the waters promised to be challenging, even if it was to be brief. "A week's journey," Esen declared, smiling. The ship was called Sea's Gape, a name derived from a legend that it had once saved its crew from a whirlpool. Tarkan scoffed at the tale, but the storyteller held his tongue, casting wary glances at the Prince, too fearful to challenge his skepticism.
When their journey commenced aboard the ship, the first few days passed quickly and without incident. However, the seas soon turned treacherous for Dimer and Tarkan, both succumbing to seasickness. The sailors offered no solace, only laughter at their plight. Angry and miserable, Tarkan longed for the solitude of his room, regretting that he hadn't chosen to suffer in private, away from mocking eyes. One evening, forced to leave his cabin for dinner, Tarkan encountered the ship's chef, a man with a penchant for unsettling tales. As he prepared Tarkan's meal, the chef began his story.
"Oh, poor chap, I must say," he began, rubbing his nose with one grimy hand before handling the bread. "There was a lad, just like you, first time on a ship. Poor soul thought he’d gotten worms in his belly from my cooking. But no one gets worms from my cooking, no sir. The lad decided to stick one of me claws down his throat to rid himself of the imaginary worms." The chef burst into laughter. "The poor lad choked and died on that stick. Never did see those worms."The chef's apron hung askew, crusted with grime. He wiped his brow with a forearm that sported a dark smear of what could have been anything. As he reached for a loaf of bread, a plump, green beetle scuttled across his calloused fingers. The chef flicked it away with a nonchalant flick, then tossed the bread onto the chopping block with a slap. He decided then to subsist on the dried meats stored in the cupboards. Dimer and Derya, upon witnessing the chef's habits, quickly followed his lead. The chef seemed unbothered by their avoidance. On the fifth night of their voyage, they sailed past the Every-Eye Islands. Derya thought she saw a dragon in the sky, a claim that Dimer dismissed with a laugh, insisting that dragons were no more than legends.
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The word "anymore" that Dimer used sent Tarkan's mind reeling back to the old stories Cem once told him. Cem had ventured to the Shattered Kingdoms, where he had witnessed a cloud so high and ominous in the sky that it resembled a true dragon.
"It covered the sun and blotted out any hope of warm winds," Cem had said wryly, wrinkling his nose. If that encounter was the closest anyone could get to a dragon in these times, Tarkan wondered why there had ever been any at all. No bones were left of dragons, nor were their scales. The world seemed devoid of any remnants of these mythical creatures.
A chorus of shouts, rough as the sea itself, finally pierced Tarkan's sleep down in his cabin. He stumbled onto the deck, squinting at the gathered crew. Their usual boisterousness was replaced by a hushed reverence, a stark contrast that sent a shiver down his own spine. The land loomed ahead, shrouded in an unsettling silence. Though Tarkan saw no cause for alarm, the sailors' fear was palpable.
Perhaps years of whispered rumors and campfire tales had painted the isle in shades of dread. He scoffed inwardly, but the unease lingered. Tarkan, ever the pragmatist, became the first to set foot on the alien soil. The ground felt strangely cold beneath his boots, and an unsettling sensation, a prickling at the back of his mind, refused to be ignored. Was it a flicker of guilt, a tremor of foreboding? He pushed it aside, a fleeting notion extinguished by the harsh light of duty. The sailors, their initial enthusiasm dampened, unloaded the supplies with a sullen efficiency. When at last it was done they packed up and left them there making Tarkan realize Esen was here to stay as well. Now everyone stood on the island alone and abandoned in unknown lands.
Bataar's voice held as much cheer as scraping lichen off a rock. "We make camp here," he declared. "The three of you can remain while we prepare supplies." He barked orders at servants and knights, but Tarkan's own sworn sword seemed more interested in honing his blade with an ancient whetstone than following commands. Dimer materialized beside Tarkan. "Enough provisions for a month," he noted. That gnawed at Tarkan. Hajr seemed to genuinely believe in their mission's success, which now filled Tarkan with prickles of doubt.
"Perhaps we should… finish the task," Tarkan murmured, lowering his voice.
"The order wasn't spoken, but the intent was clear." Dimer frowned. "Little lords and high lords, they rise and fall like leaves in a storm. Stewards or knights, what's the difference in the grand scheme? We shouldn't dwell on it. Maybe we'll become wardens in these new lands, Tarkan." Dimer's optimism was a tempting melody, one Tarkan feared might lull him into carelessness. All voices held value, even naive ones brimming with childish hope.
"He should have spoken plainly," Tarkan muttered, unease gnawing at him. A part of him wondered why he'd accepted this task with barely a murmur. Perhaps there was no way out, or maybe another part, a curious one, craved more knowledge of their target. But that curiosity hadn't waned since the very beginning.
"He has no doubt we'll succeed. Let's not falter," Dimer said with a sly grin. "Exploring the woods together holds appeal," he continued, his voice crackling with excitement. "Perhaps we'll even encounter these Niran folk."
"A warm welcome's a long shot," Tarkan countered. "Blades are readied faster than words are spoken." But his caution was lost on deaf ears. Dimer whisked Derya along and plunged into the forest before Tarkan could object. Bataar's voice, laced with annoyance, halted their progress.
"No one leaves until we've assessed the safety of this place," he snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Grant us weapons, then," Tarkan shrugged. "That should be enough to keep us safe." Bataar scoffed.
"A weapon is useless against the Niran. Legends say they're hulking giants of stone with eyes like embers. Think you can fight that?" Tarkan dismissed the warnings with a dismissive gesture. He summoned his sworn sword, Zeno, who emerged from his brooding with a look of annoyance. Tarkan barely noticed.
"How about now?" he said with a forced sweetness that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Bataar snorted but only cautioned them against a lengthy or far-ranging exploration.
Derya frowned at Bataar's harsh words, then turned to Tarkan with a question in her eyes. She seemed to change her mind and muttered something to Zeno instead. Tarkan held his tongue, suspecting he wouldn't like the answer anyway. "Sounds like a rushing river nearby," Zeno rumbled, interrupting the tension. "Why not waste some time there while the grown-ups get down to business?" A hint of amusement colored his words. Tarkan couldn't recall ever seeing Zeno fight, and the man's bravado sparked a sliver of unease.
"Can you keep us safe? That sword looks cumbersome," Derya said as they walked towards the river. Zeno chuckled, a deep sound that echoed in the trees. "
It moves as easy as a summer breeze." He winked, and Derya seemed satisfied. Dimer's eyes gleamed with a touch of hero worship as he gazed at the weapon.
"I'd love to see that in action." Zeno threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Let the foes come, boy, and you'll witness my blade dance like a spring freshet. But when there's no threat, I see no point in tiring myself with practice. Dull work for a sharp blade." He grinned, revealing sharp teeth. "Besides, it wears down the hilt."
Tarkan puffed out his chest. "I didn't necessarily need your help. Just… circumstances." Zeno's expression remained unreadable.
"They offer protection," Zeno muttered, barely above a whisper. Tarkan pretended not to hear. Derya and Dimer raced ahead, eager to find the river. Zeno shrugged indifferently, which irked Tarkan. This was supposed to be their protector, yet he seemed unconcerned.
"Shouldn't you be with them?" Tarkan demanded. "What if they get hurt?" He spoke through clenched teeth. Zeno simply ignored him. Frustrated, Tarkan stepped in front of the man, blocking his path. Zeno easily shoved him aside and pushed through some brush. Tarkan hesitated for a moment, then followed through the opening. Tarkan grumbled under his breath, brushing twigs and leaves off his red tunic. A stray thorn scratched him, drawing a curse. He emerged from the brush to find Zeno settled by the riverbank, with Derya and Dimer splashing in the shallows.
"Tarkan, join us! The water's lovely!" Derya called out, sending a playful spray towards Zeno. He feigned annoyance with a playful scowl. Tarkan approached the stream, watching as his companions frolicked. He paused for a moment, his gaze drawn to the water. It flowed steadily, its course seemingly unchanged by the playful chaos. It navigated around rocks with a quiet persistence, always seeking its path. He knelt and dipped his fingers in the current. A serious expression settled on his face. The water, it just... kept going. Like it had a purpose, a destination. He almost muttered to himself,
"It's relentless. Almost ambitious, in a way." He glanced around quickly, feeling a flicker of self-consciousness. But then, with a yank on his cloak, Dimer sent him tumbling headfirst into the cool water. Tarkan sputtered and surfaced, ready to unleash a good-natured retort. But seeing the laughter on everyone's faces, even a hint of amusement in Zeno's eyes, he couldn't help but grin. The tension of the journey seemed to dissipate with the cool spray. He decided to join the fun, shrugging off his cloak, tunic, and shoes to join his friends in the refreshing water.
“So you come at me?” Dimer said in mock challenge. Tarkan felt so incredibly stupid for their actions, when they were here to potentially train and grow stronger. Tarkan felt as if he were forgetting his goal when he splashed water towards Dimer and Dimer splashed him back. Derya only giggled. When Tarkan looked at her marked hand he realized it was still gloved and so was Dimer’s. Tarkan had chosen to leave his own behind at the camp area not caring since everyone here already knew of its existence anyways. Suddenly Tarkan stopped splashing his momentarily gained joy fading away in moments.
Tarkan's voice dipped low. "Derya, have you sensed anything new from the mark?" Zeno, stretched out beside them, cracked open one eye to observe them with cool detachment. Derya rubbed her shoulder, a touch of nervousness in her eyes.
"Not truly. It still thrums with power, but that's been the case all along."
"May I see it?" Tarkan asked, wading closer. Derya's nervousness deepened as he reached for her hand. He peeled off the glove, the cold water sending a blush to her cheeks. When Tarkan saw the mark, a shiver ran down his spine. There was a depth to it, something Derya couldn't quite grasp, and for some reason, it unsettled him deeply. He looked down at his own darkened hand, then back at hers.
"What troubles you?" Dimer asked, approaching with a curious tilt of his head. Tarkan fought down the urge to flinch. The disquiet that had plagued him around Dimer had returned, sharp and unsettling. Why now?
"When you received your mark, it seemed to cure the darkness near the lionstone," Tarkan spoke, his voice carrying across the water. Derya nodded slowly, their hands still clasped. Dimer's eyes flickered with surprise. "Then why wouldn’t it work for me?" Tarkan pressed, his gaze intense as it met Derya's. She drew a sharp breath.
"I- I don't know how to control it," she stammered, her grip firm. "My mark… it just reacted on its own." Tarkan brushed his marked hand against hers, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
"Can you will this darkness away from me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Derya looked hesitant but when she saw Tarkan’s eyes her resolve hardened. Tarkan squeezed her hand, a strange sensation washing over him. He felt Derya return the pressure, her eyes narrowing as she focused. Dimer could only observe, tapping his fingers against his leg anxiously. Even Zeno stood, his gaze fixed on them. The air around Tarkan crackled with energy. A fleeting vision flickered across his mind: a butterfly with a dark body and white spots like moons.
Tarkan watched in fascination as the mark on his hand transformed. The darkness seemed to recede, drawn towards Derya's own mark in a strange dance of energy. His grip tightened on her hand, a reflex fueled by the intensity of the moment. Derya winced slightly, but remained still. Dimer's gaze flickered between them, a silent question hanging in the air. Tarkan's focus burned with an unnatural intensity, his eyes locked on the shifting marks. The darkness retreated steadily, leaving behind a strange emptiness.
When Tarkan finally opened his hand, Dimer realized with a jolt that he'd squeezed Derya's too hard, drawing blood. Anger washed over him as he mumbled an apology. Derya dipped her hand in the stream, and to his shock, there was no mark. Dimer's eyes widened as he looked at Tarkan, searching for answers. But Tarkan only stared at his palm, a deep frown etched on his face.
"What happened?" Derya asked softly, concern in her voice. A slow smile crept across Tarkan's lips. He extended his hand towards them, palm facing up. The mark had changed. Gone was the ominous darkness, replaced by a symbol that resembled a moon – unassuming, yet somehow significant. Tiny specks of light surrounded it, and a faint, distant sun seemed to complete the image.