The Merfolk's Tear

Waves crashed against the reef, sending white foam into the air. The salty sea breeze caressed Arien's face as she stood on the castle's highest terrace, her eyes fixed on the endless azure expanse before her.

For ten years, she had searched without rest, yet the Merfolk remained elusive—not a single trace to be found.

"Your Majesty, the General requests an audience," the attendant's voice pulled her from her reverie.

Arien turned, her gown sweeping across the stone floor. "Send him in."

Kael strode in, his armor gleaming and sword at his hip—a far cry from the fishing boy she'd once known on those distant shores.

Ten years had forged him into the kingdom's youngest general. Where boyish innocence once lived, determination now resided in the hard lines of his face.

"Urgent news from the western borders, Your Majesty." Kael dropped to one knee, extending the scroll. "The Barbarians have crossed the Black Water River. Their vanguard is just three days' march from our gates."

Arien took the report, her fingers betraying a slight tremor before she steeled herself. Barely a year on the throne, and already she faced a threat to her kingdom's very existence.

"Convene the council," she commanded, her voice steadier than she felt. "And dispatch riders to our allies. We'll need their support."

"Messengers rode out at first light, Your Majesty." Kael looked up, a shadow crossing his features. "But I fear our so-called allies are dragging their heels."

Arien's fist clenched at her side. Damn them. Those neighboring kingdoms—all with their flowery oaths of eternal friendship—were sitting back to watch. They wanted to see if mighty Albion would fall to the Barbarian horde, or better yet for them, if both sides would bleed each other dry.

"Then we stand alone," Arien said, squaring her shoulders. "General, ready our forces."

Kael bowed his head in acknowledgment but lingered, seemingly caught between duty and something else.

"Your Majesty," he asked, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "are you still searching for the Merfolk?"

Arien blinked in surprise. Of all times to bring this up... "We face invasion, General. Fairy tales can wait."

"Of course. Forgive me." Kael nodded curtly and strode from the chamber.

Arien watched him go, puzzled. In ten years, he'd never once brought up the Merfolk of his own accord, despite leading countless searches at her command.

In truth, since being assigned to the task—a duty he'd clearly resented—he'd reported his findings with cold efficiency, never showing the slightest interest in the creatures.

Why now? Arien pushed the thought aside. With barbarians at their doorstep, she had far greater concerns.

The war proved more savage than anyone could have foreseen.

The Barbarians swept across the land like wildfire. Towering warriors astride shaggy northern warhorses, they left only ash and bone in their wake. Albion's forces fell back steadily, border fortresses crumbling one by one.

Arien rode with her army, leading her elite guard northward to meet the onslaught. Through it all, Kael remained her shadow, her sword, her shield.

For three grueling years, they fought across every terrain—from the frost-bitten northern peaks to the sprawling central plains—until the entire kingdom became one endless battlefield.

"They're endless," Kael muttered one night in the command tent, his face caked with blood and grime. "We cut down hundreds, and twice as many take their place by morning."

Arien studied the battle maps, her brow furrowed. "This defies reason. No tribe breeds warriors this quickly. There must be something we're missing."

"The prisoners whisper that Uruk, their warlord, wields dark magic," Kael said, lowering his voice. "They say he raises the dead to fight again. I'd call it nonsense, but..." He hesitated. "I've seen men with mortal wounds rise up and continue fighting."

A chill ran down Arien's spine. "If true, we fight against the very laws of nature."

"Unless," Kael's voice dropped further, "the old stories about Barbarian blood rituals aren't just campfire tales."

Before she could respond, rapid footsteps approached. A messenger burst through the tent flaps, dropping to one knee, chest heaving.

"Your Majesty!" The messenger thrust forward a sealed parchment, his voice breaking. "Word from our allies. They... they've refused to send aid."

Arien snatched the scroll, her eyes darting across the text. The color drained from her face. "Worse—they've tripled the price of all military supplies. Food, weapons, medicine... everything!"

Kael slammed his fist on the table, sending maps and markers flying. "Damn those spineless weasels! If we fall, they'll be next! Don't they see that?"

"They're not betting on our victory," Arien said, her voice hollow. "They're counting on both sides bleeding each other dry. Then they'll swoop in like vultures to pick the bones."