The moon hung low over Lysimar like a silver coin pressed into the sky’s dark palm, casting its pale light upon the city that once gleamed with the sheen of captured starlight. The spires of Lysimar, tall as frozen pillars of water, still stood proud despite their tarnished edges, where veins of moon-silver ran through stone like fractured glass under a stormy sky. These were monuments to an age when the kingdom’s prosperity had been boundless and its people untouched by shadow. Now they loomed in silent vigilance over fields that no longer held the white lilies so revered as symbols of purity, but instead bore jagged roots gnawing at blackened soil.

  The Gloomroot was a slow hunger, an invisible rot spreading through Lysimar’s veins like ink spilled upon parchment, consuming all it touched. It began in forgotten corners, along riverbanks where the water darkened and thickened with sludge; within abandoned mines that echoed faintly to no one but the whispering roots of its growth, and then crept outward, unrelenting and patient as a thief who had long since mastered his craft.

  Among those fields stood an old tree on the edge of town. Its bark was cracked like aged leather, twisted into shapes resembling fingers reaching for escape from some unseen horror. The branches were dead but still bore thorned blossoms, Cinderblooms, and even in daylight they seemed to pulse with a sickly glow as if fed by their own decay.

  The Gloomroot’s reach had become relentless and its effects more pronounced daily, though many feared it most for what could not be seen. It was known that those who entered the infested zones sometimes never returned, but when they did, there were no words left to describe them; only silence and hollow eyes where once a man’s soul might have been.

  The Gloomroot had become more than just an enemy, it had transformed into something else entirely: a specter in every shadowed corner of Lysimar. And yet the city still stood, defiant if not fully whole, its people carrying on with their lives under the ever-encroaching threat as though they were blind to it.

  It was here that Princess Emily Loriet walked among her subjects beneath these crumbling spires and whispering shadows. Her presence brought a strange mix of awe and unease; she wore her role like an armor, each movement precise yet graceful, effortless even in its formality. She carried herself with the dignity expected of royalty but also something else: the cool detachment that set her apart from those around her.

  Emily approached a small stone memorial nestled between two buildings where dozens more stood side by side, all bearing names lost to time and forgotten griefs. The white lilies she placed upon each marker were not merely symbols; they represented hope in Lysimar’s darkest hour, a fragile beauty that still bloomed against the encroaching darkness.

  As her fingers brushed over one of the flowers, an especially large bloom with petals so pure and delicate it seemed to glow under moonlight, Emily paused, watching as a single droplet rolled down its petal. It was not rain; she had seen this before in other parts of town where the Gloomroot’s touch left no mark but an absence.

  She looked up then toward the city walls that encircled Lysimar like some ancient beast waiting to be stirred from slumber. From her vantage point, one could see how the fields outside were slowly being overtaken by darkness, trees withering into twisted shapes and flowers wilting under unseen pressure as if trying desperately not to fade.

  The people around Emily murmured prayers or spoke softly of their fears, but she listened only for a moment before turning back toward her attendants. “Make sure these are replaced regularly,” she instructed matter-of-factly, as though the task were mundane and unremarkable despite its significance.

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  It was then that another figure appeared at the edge of the crowd, a knight clad in armor so worn it seemed to have been through countless battles but remained unmoved by time itself. His name was Nine Pyrot of the Vigilant Thorn, a man whose presence brought both comfort and unease among those who saw him.

  He stood slightly apart from the other knights, his posture disciplined yet there lingered an air about him that spoke more to weariness than discipline alone. The moonlight caught on the silver scars criss crossing his face like faded tattoos of some forgotten war, each one a testament to battles fought and lives lost in service.

  Nine’s gaze was distant as he observed something beyond even Emily’s line of sight, perhaps a sign that Lysimar itself had become an open wound for him. He stood there silently until the ceremony ended, then with measured steps made his way toward her without speaking or making eye contact first. This alone said more than words ever could.

  Emily watched as he approached but kept herself composed in manner and expression. It was no secret that many of Lysimar’s knights had grown weary under their duties to protect a kingdom slowly being consumed by the Gloomroot, yet none wore this burden quite like Nine Pyrot did. His role within the Vigilant Thorn made him one of its most trusted leaders despite his unspoken burdens.

  The moment he was near enough for them both to hear each other’s words without speaking aloud, though they would not have done so even if it were possible, he inclined his head slightly in greeting before saying, “There is unrest among the patrols. The Weeping Wall has begun to weaken.”

  Emily nodded slowly but did not respond immediately; instead she allowed her gaze to drift back toward where the Gloomroot’s touch was beginning its slow invasion of Lysimar itself.

  “It seems we are all growing tired,” Emily said finally, though there was no emotion in her voice. It remained perfectly even and composed as if this were merely a discussion about weather or another matter entirely unrelated to their current situation.

  Nine looked at her then but did not meet her eyes directly, perhaps because he understood that doing so would be an act of defiance rather than respect given how she had already spoken, despite the silence between them. He nodded once more before turning away without waiting for a response from her or any other knight who might have been nearby.

  Emily watched him go but said nothing else at first, simply allowing herself to feel something within that was not quite warmth nor coldness, but somewhere in between; an awareness of his presence and the way he carried himself with such quiet strength despite whatever burdens must weigh on his shoulders. It made her think about how easily one could become lost within their own duty when it became all there was left.

  And yet, she did not feel sympathy for Nine Pyrot, not truly, and that thought unsettled even herself more than she cared to admit at this moment in time.

  The Gloomroot continued its slow advance through Lysimar’s heart. The moon-silver architecture would one day be nothing but rusted remains beneath the weight of shadow, and yet Emily Loriet had no intention of letting her kingdom fall into such an end without first claiming everything it might offer for herself, especially if there was someone like Nine Pyrot who could still stand tall amidst all that decay.

  She turned back toward where she came from with a final glance at the memorial. The white lily in her hand seemed brighter than any others, as though refusing to fade despite what lay ahead of Lysimar and everything it represented.

  For now, there was only silence between them both, between Emily Loriet’s calculated facade and Nine Pyrot’s quiet burden, and perhaps that too would become part of the Gloomroot's next chapter.