Thick stone walls, ancient and impenetrable, rose like mountains around the city—a city untouched by time. Generations had come and gone under the illusion that theirs was the only civilization left, the only remnant of humanity. Beyond the walls lay endless wilderness, ruled by shadows and whispers, but within these barriers, life flourished.
Inside, the world mimicked a time long past. Cobblestone streets wound like veins through quarters of stone and timber houses. Lanterns hung from iron hooks, casting warm golden glows after dusk. Men wore doublets and cloaks, women in long gowns and laced boots. The clinking of horse hooves, the scent of baked rye, and the murmur of market haggles filled the air. A still world, preserved like a secret.
At the very center of this bastion stood the Palace of Sol—home of the reigning king, a man descended, they said, from the Sun itself. Around him thrived a population divided in quiet belief: some claimed the Sun as their divine origin, others the Moon. Yet for all their differences, the city remained peaceful. At least, on the surface.
But peace had a price.
Beyond the great gates, past the guards in gleaming steel, past the patchy fields and dying trees, lay a forgotten corner: the Outsider. A shantytown hidden in the jagged embrace of the wild. There, fifty or so souls clung to life in crumbling huts, survivors of rejection. Born from the jungle, denied by the city.
Among them lived Arya.
Seventeen, wild-eyed, and full of thorns. The kind of boy who made promises to himself in the mirror, barefoot, honey-slick hands clenched in determination. He dreamed not of riches or fame—but of entry. He wanted nothing more than to live behind the walls that had always denied him.
He would try. Again and again. And always fail.
His mother, gentle and sun-worn, watched him return each evening, dust on his shoulders, hope dimmer than the day before. She asked for little: just a quiet life, enough to eat, and that he stay away from the fort and the pain it brought.
Arya did not argue. But he never stopped.
Each morning, he would harvest honey from the forest hives—his skill unmatched. It was sweet beyond reason, gold with the flavor of hidden flowers. And each afternoon, he would carry jars of it to the city gates, presenting his permit with a crooked smile, slipping inside to sell it to a sharp-nosed shopkeeper who paid him only half of what it was worth.
The city folk smiled at Arya. But not warmly.
They saw his patched clothes and sun-kissed skin and remembered the stories of wild men and cursed blood. Still, they took his honey, and he took their coins, though never enough.
And then came the anniversary.
Eighteen years since the great war—when the Moon Prince, just sixteen, had risen against the very city of his birth. Using unspeakable magic, he created human-like soldiers from ants, an army crawling with horror. The prince vanished in the war's final moment, leaving only a stone behind, carved with a chilling vow:
"I shall return to claim the throne, and darkness shall kneel beside me."
The city never forgot.
Now, every year, the people lit torches and sang of victory, of how a Sun-descendant king had vanquished the darkness, though he died from his wounds soon after. His son now wore the crown—young, proud, and watchful.
The celebrations began with banners and music, the streets filled with laughter. Arya watched from a distance, jar in hand, wondering how it must feel to belong.
And that night… three people disappeared without a trace.
No screams. No blood. No witnesses.
Just silence, and the lingering chill of something ancient returning.