Chroniclers of Europe (Contest)

[Kol Sigurdsson]

Contest Rules
● Renaming Nodes: Each participating kingdom must rename at least three intermediary nodes.
● Writing Stories: For each renamed node, a story of at least 250 words must be written and posted in this thread.
● Inter-Kingdom Engagement: Kingdoms get bonus points for creatively referencing another kingdom's story
within their own.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When you post your submissions please have the following items included at the top of the post.
1. Kingdom name
2. Node ID
3. Submission number i.e. 1, 2, 3 ( remember need at least 3)


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As there might not be an order to posts, I will go in to posts and apply a minor edit at the bottom to identify the post for the judges. This will likely be as simple as ENG1 ( England Submission 1)

[Lagertha Valhalla]

Kingdom of England

London - ID 9
York - ID 5
Edinburgh - ID 2

change (renaming points):

Oxford - ID 8
Nottingham - ID 7
Newcastle - ID 4
Floors Castle - ID 5




London – Heart of the English Kingdom

The year 1325 was a year of unrest for London. On the throne sat King Edward II, weakened by disputes with the nobility and by the discord with his own wife, Queen Isabella of France.
The streets of the city were choked with smoke, the stench of fish, and tension. The markets on the bridge over the Thames buzzed with rumors of an approaching war with the Scots and growing discontent among the people of the North.
In the Tower of London, messengers from all corners of the kingdom gathered. At night, one could hear the footsteps of soldiers and the muffled voices of councilmen arguing over whether the king should send yet another expedition north. The king was torn – on one hand, he longed for glory, but on the other, he knew that each new war might break the spine of his realm.
In the city’s poorer quarters, whispers spread that the Scots were preparing to strike again, even planning to seize Newcastle – the gateway to the North. London’s merchants began to arm themselves, and the Church warned that “God’s wrath shall fall upon those who spill their brother’s blood.” Dust and doubt hung over the city, and the king’s throne began to tremble.
________________________________________

Oxford – City of Learning and Secret Conspiracies

Oxford was then not only a center of learning but also a cradle of dangerous ideas. University masters held scholarly debates about the king’s divine right and the will of God. Among the students circulated forbidden texts about the freedom of the people and the notion that royal power must be limited by the counsel of the nobility.
In a dim chamber of the inn The Crown and Sword, men gathered with a different purpose. They were envoys from Nottingham seeking the support of learned men to obtain the king’s seal on a charter granting them greater self-governance. The Oxford scholars listened – some secretly agreed, saying, “A king who does not hear his people, does not hear God.”
By day, the city echoed with prayers and the chants of students; by night, secret seals of defiance appeared on parchment. From the libraries and cloisters of Oxford began to spread ideas that would later shake the very foundations of English power.
Thus, in the year 1325, Oxford became not only a city of wisdom – but the seedbed of revolution.
________________________________________

Nottingham – The Settlement of the Lost Men

On the edge of Sherwood Forest lay Nottingham – a town encircled by wooden walls that resembled a military camp more than a proud city. The locals called themselves the Horde of Nottingham, for to survive here was to fight for everything.
After nearby villages fell under Scottish raids, refugees, outlaws, and deserters fled to the town. From them arose a rough yet determined community. Under the leadership of a man named Gareth Blackhand, a former knight, the town transformed into a fortress of defiance.
Each night around the fires, tales were told of Scottish warriors and vengeance. Gareth vowed that if King Edward sent his soldiers, the Horde of Nottingham would rise and march north. But the king remained silent.
So Nottingham became a symbol of unyielding common fury – a place where ordinary folk refused to wait for salvation. In 1325, the horde set out north on their own, burning Scottish villages and vanishing into the forests.
The chronicles speak little of them, yet old songs still sing:

“From Nottingham came a horde that feared no king –
And in the soil of England, their name was written in blood.”
________________________________________

Newcastle – The Gateway to the North

Newcastle was the fortress of England. Its castle stood upon a rock above the River Tyne, and from its towers one could see the smoke of Scottish watchfires beyond the border.
In 1325, the town lived under martial rule. Every man over sixteen bore a sword or bow, and every woman knew the path to the caves that served as shelters. The castle’s governor, Sir William de Greystoke, was a stern but just man. Day by day he inspected the walls and noted the losses – so many horses, so many men, so much timber for new catapults.
In spring, word arrived that the Scottish king, Robert the Bruce, was preparing an incursion as far south as York. Newcastle prepared – blacksmiths worked through the nights, grain stores filled to the brim, and the townsfolk prayed that the River Tyne would remain their faithful guardian.
When the first battle came, the castle bells rang – the Scots had arrived. The fighting raged for three days and nights, and though the town held, its walls were stained with blood.
From that time on, Newcastle became a symbol of northern strength – the gate that no enemy could breach, though many had tried.
________________________________________

Floors Castle – The Watcher of the Border

On the northern frontier, in the green hills near the River Tweed, stood Floors Castle – a stone fortress belonging to the Earl of Roxburgh. In 1325, the castle was half in ruins, yet it still served as a sentinel between two worlds: England and Scotland.
The earl, Alaric de Roxburgh, was a divided man – his mother a Scot, his father an Englishman. He was the son of two warring bloodlines. When he saw the flames rising from Newcastle on the horizon, he knew the war was closer than anyone believed.
Each night he stood atop the tower, gazing north toward Edinburgh – his mother’s city. He longed for peace, but his knights called for vengeance. Thus, Floors Castle became a place of betrayal and of hope – a place where history was written not by the sword, but by the heart.
Legends tell that it was here, in 1325, that a secret pact was signed between several English and Scottish nobles who sought to end the bloodshed. Though the pact was later betrayed, the spirit of Floors Castle endured – a symbol not of the border carved in stone, but of the one drawn between war and peace.
________________________________________

Edinburgh – Heart of the Scottish Kingdom

Edinburgh in 1325 was proud and defiant. After Robert the Bruce’s great victory at Bannockburn (1314), the Scots held their independence, and their city grew in beauty and strength. The stone castle upon the rock stood unconquered, and the royal council met in halls adorned with hides of English war banners.
Yet even here, peace was fragile. War had exhausted the land; hunger stalked the people, and many wondered whether the price of freedom was too high.
In the lower town gathered merchants and mercenaries, bringing word of English armies massing in Newcastle and of turmoil in London. Among them spread the legend of a man from Nottingham – Gareth Blackhand – who had vowed to bring the English horde to the very gates of Edinburgh.
The Scots prepared. Beacon fires blazed on border towers, and new weapons were forged in secret cellars. King Robert Bruce was already ill, yet his will remained iron.
In his chronicle for the year 1325, he wrote:

"When the day comes that England and Scotland shed blood only for land, and not for truth, then honor shall die.
But as long as we fight for freedom, the mountains shall sing our name.”

(ENG1-7)

[Alice_Olsson]

Kingdom of Sweden


Node #21 - Kungsund


The Baltic funnels into a fist at Kungsund, and Sweden clenches it tight. No ship slips past without the sundmen’s eye. No merchant, no smuggler, no king’s fool daring to test the chain. The brass bell, pocked by salt and time, doesn’t ring; it growls. Three strokes mean pay up. Five mean run. Seven? Seven means the stakes are rising from the shallows, and God help whatever keel’s dumb enough to be there when they do.

We call it the mirror-mark, our little joke with the Danes. Helsingør takes their coin with ledgers and smiles; we take ours with a wink and a warning. Last winter, a Lubecker tried to sneak past in a fog. Found his hull scraped raw on the rocks come dawn, his cargo of Rhenish wine "confiscated" for the king's table. The captain? Sent back with a cask of our worst aquavit and a note: "Next time, ask for the lane." Now they toss us an extra silver just to avoid the taste.

The ledgers tell the truth here. One for gold, one for promises. Broken ones get carved into the jetty posts. Fishermen spit on the third one, where some traitor's name rots under the tide. And when the herring come, the fires burn all night, not just for light, but so the Danes across the water see us counting their losses.

Old Erik's lantern still swings in the watchtower, though he's been dead twenty years. Swore he'd haunt any man who cheated the Crown. Maybe he does. Maybe it's just the wind. But when the chains rattle and no hand's on the pulley? Even the Hansa cross themselves.

So aye, pay your dues. Bow to the stag on the token. And if you've got the sense the gods gave a gull, you'll say the words when you pass: "Kungsund keeps what's hers." Then row like hell for open water. The sea's honest here. Brrutal, but honest. Cross us, and you'll learn the difference.

(SWE-1)

[Visar Morina]

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #22: The Weight Before the Stone

The stone stream was called Stenbäcken. Not because it flowed, but because it wouldn't. Half marsh and half granite, the land was hard to work with. Every time they tried to build something, it sank into the mud or broke against the frost. At Node 22, the road almost broke down.
It was the most isolated part of the route between Stockholm and Copenhagen because it was too far from either capital to get steady support and too deep in the interior to get supplies easily. It took days of travel to bring in every resource, and the terrain was hard on every wheel and boot.

The masons brought their tools, but the real work had already started. None of it was easy: wood, iron, gravel. The haulers were the first to cut the path. Farmers with wagons, woodsmen with sledges, and even men walking alone with bags on their backs. They crossed rivers without bridges, pushed through forests without paths, and faced storms that turned the ground into mud. Some people made the trip twelve times. Some people never came back.

The masons carved their names into the side of the road when the last stone was put down. But below it, someone carved a second line that was rough, uneven, and almost forgotten: För dem som bar bördan. "For those who carried the weight."

Stenbäcken, is not a monument to craftsmanship; it is a monument to endurance. People who never held a chisel built the road, but without them, there would be no stone to lay down.

(SWE-2)

[Kozlík]

• Frisian Kingdom

1 ID 46 – Utrecht
2 ID 43 - STARUM
3 ID 47 – DOKKUM

• 1 Utrecht
  
  - Rebirth from Ashes
  
  “Fire! It’s burning, people, it’s burning!” cried out a terrified woman, desperate to save her miserable, bare life. In the endless struggle against the flames, so many good people perished. Chaos, ruin, and ash everywhere.
  
  The year is 1253 and the city of Utrecht, which was known as the center of long-distance trade for many kingdoms around and especially for the Kingdom of England, looked as if a swarm of looters had passed through it. The ruins of burning buildings, smelly burnt corpses and crying orphans. But it was not so. A natural disaster contributed to the near destruction of this beautiful city.
  
  King Radbod, who was the king of the Frisian kingdom at the time, knew the importance of this place. And he left nothing to chance. With his highest royal decree, he forced the Frisian people to action. And not only them, but also buyers and sellers from different corners of the country. Everyone contributed their part to the restoration of this unique place, even if they didn't want to.
  
  Across the entire kingdom, a royal decree appeared, which read as follows:
  
  Royal Charter for the Reconstruction of the City of Utrecht
  
  We, Radbod of the House of Saint Frisia, lord of the northern territories and protector of free cities, hereby declare by this official and binding decree that the city of Utrecht, destroyed by fire and ruin, shall be rebuilt by the hands of the faithful Frisian people. For as a new flame rises from the ashes, so too does our strength arise from misfortune.
  
  Therefore, we command that every man and woman, capable of labor or trade, shall assist in the restoration of the city, its marketplaces, and its walls.
  
  To ensure the success of this endeavor, we establish the following privileges and rewards:
  
  • 1. Anyone who contributes their effort or materials to the construction of the city shall be exempt from all taxes for the duration of the work.
  • 2. Merchants and craftsmen who establish their workshops and trades in the new Utrecht shall receive royal protection and the right to trade freely during the construction.
  • 3. Whoever opposes the royal decree shall be executed.
  Let the city of Utrecht rise again, stone by stone, as a symbol of the courage and unity of our people. Let everyone who reads this decree know that wherever the Frisian banner flies, there dwells strength and honor.
  
  Radbod, King of the Frisians and Protector of the Northern Lands
  
  Seventy-two years later, in the year 1325, as Jacob van de Brouwer sat upon the throne in the capital of the Frisian Kingdom, whispering a silent prayer within the dark, damp walls of his castle, he gave thanks to his forefather for this act of salvation and renewal. He knew that, had it not been for the deeds of his great ancestor, the Frisian Kingdom would never have preserved its independence — and long ago would have fallen under the rule of another crown. Perhaps, he thought, he himself might never have existed at all.

• 2 STARUM
  
  -The Legend of Poppa van Friesland Daughter of Wind and Sea, Messenger of Peace from Starum
  
  In the days when Frisia was a kingdom of free men and women—when every city had its own judge, and every wave its name—there was born in the harbor of Starum the daughter of a ruler. Her name was Poppa, and it was said that when she came into the world, the gulls above the sea cried so loudly that people feared the child would not be human. Her mother died the moment she kissed the girl, and her father, the ruler of Frisia, entrusted Poppa’s upbringing to the scholars and monks of the city’s great church. They taught her the language of the stars, the wind, and the sea currents. Poppa grew up in a hall with high ceilings, hung with maps and sails from faraway lands. She learned to read runes and Latin prayers, and spoke the tongues of the Normans, Angles, and Saxons. When storms came, she did not hide. She stepped outside, faced the wind, and said:
  
  “You cannot tame the wind; you must learn how to speak with it.”
  
  She was a wild child, a tempestuous girl, and grew into an untamed yet wise woman. In those times, a man ruled in the north—Haraldr Hárfagri, Harald Fairhair—who sought to unite the Norwegian clans under a single crown. Many bowed before him; others rose in defiance. Frisia then stood between the sea and freedom—neither a kingdom nor an empire. When Harald sent messengers to ask for marriage with a woman of Frisian blood, hoping to gain ports and allies upon the sea, the ruler of Starum had but one daughter. Thus he decreed that Poppa should go north. Poppa is said to have replied calmly:
  
  “If a man who wishes to be king fears a woman, he should not rule over men.”
  
  And so she sailed across the sea. On a ship with sails white as snow and bearing the blue lion of Frisia, she crossed the North Sea. At the Norwegian court, King Harald received her with both respect and suspicion. He was unaccustomed to women who spoke as men did and who met his gaze without fear. But Poppa was unlike any other. She appeared before the king wearing a cloak the color of night and said:
  
  “Your hair is fair, Harald—but remember, a crown woven from pride will fall into the sea."
  
  If you wish to unite your people, you must first unite your heart.” The king laughed, yet that evening he wrote her words into his chronicle. And when a month had passed, he asked for her hand—not out of power, but admiration. Poppa stood at his side, yet never ceased to feel herself a daughter of Frisia. She taught Norwegian women to read and write, founded schools near the harbors, and spoke in the temples with monks about how faith without freedom is but a silent chain. She earned the people’s reverence—they called her Havfrú Poppa, the Lady of the Sea. Many of the king’s counselors despised her. Some said she was too wise; others, that she was foreign. Yet Harald protected her, until war once again called him to sea. When the king departed, Poppa resolved to return to Frisia, for she had heard that her father had fallen ill. Her ship set sail at dawn, and the wind was calm. But near the shores of Jutland, a storm rose such as the sea had never known. The last man to see her was a young fisherman, who told that upon the bow stood a woman with hair red as Harald’s, holding a seashell in her hands and whispering a prayer to the sea:
  
  “Royal blood may fade, but the name of a free woman shall never vanish.”
  
  As the wave broke over the ship, a swallow rose from the foam and flew against the wind. Since that time, the Frisian sailors say that a swallow circling above a stormy sea carries the soul of Poppa van Friesland. And the women on the shore, as they weave cloth or light their lamps for their husbands, whisper:
  
  “Poppa, daughter of the wind, guide our ships safely home.”
  
  Thus ends the legend of the woman who united the sea and the north, Frisia and Norway, freedom and love. The son of King Harald and Poppa survived—and carried on the love his parents had begun. The present King of Norway is said to be his descendant. And perhaps, when he remembers the tale once told to him by his grandfather, he will find in it a simple lesson: That war is never the true road.

• 3 DOKKUM
  
  -The Legend of Werenfrid of Dokkum
  
  In those days when Frisia did not yet know peace and the people worshipped many gods and spirits of the forest, Saint Boniface came down to our shores of Dokkum with a company of brothers. Many of them were learned, but only one of them had a calm face and a gaze as calm as the sea—his name was Werenfrid. He carried books, not weapons, and his voice was soft, like the wind passing through snow.
  In the summer, when the sun was low and the villagers, whose hearts were often divided by strife and envy, stood before the people of Dokkum.
  
  He said: “I have come to break the idols of wood and stone, for wood breaks and stone cracks, but God remains.”
  
  But the Frisians, who at that time still sacrificed to the sea, lightning, and forests, were terrified by the strange word. On the night when he was to consecrate a new chapel, they burst into the camp with swords and shouts. Boniface preached not to resist — and so he fell with almost all his brothers. Of those who survived, Werenfrid was the only one.
  
  He fled to the marshes of the north, where he lived for three days in the rain and grass. There, a voice spoke to him that was neither human nor angelic: “Do not return with weapons, Werenfrid, return with faith that does not bow to power.”
  
  After three days of silence, Werenfrid returned. He found the city burned, the houses destroyed, and where the chapel of Boniface had stood, only a well filled with blood remained. He fell to his knees and wept. The people saw him dip his hands in the water and say:
  
  “Dear Lord, turn the blood into a spring, so that from the pain the water of life may rise.” And it happened.
  
  The water became clear, a cross flashed in it, and when he scooped it up in his hands, it smelled of salt and sea. That same day a woman came to him with a blind child. Werenfrid rubbed the child's eyes with the water—and the child saw. Thus the news of the Miraculous Well of Boniface began to spread. Werenfrid began to preach in the harbor where the people of Dokkum came. He did not forbid them their old songs about the sea, but only said: "The God I speak of is not an enemy of the sea. He is the wave and the wind, and the silence between them."
  
  So the Frisian people, who had previously offered sacrifices to the waves, began to throw bread and salt into the sea instead of blood, saying: “May the sea make peace with us, not blood.”
  
  Werenfrid built a church from driftwood that had been thrown up by the sea after a storm. On its altar hung a seashell—the symbol of the pilgrim. It was the first church of St. Boniface in Dokkum.
  One winter, a great flood came to Frisia. The sea broke the dikes, houses collapsed, and people were dying. Werenfrid gathered the survivors and led them to a spring that had miraculously withstood the storm. When he prayed to it, the water from the spring rose like a silver pillar and spread over the fields, replacing the flood that had destroyed the crops. The people did not believe it until they saw the crops that were supposed to be destroyed.
  
  This was Werenfrid's test: to show the people that faith is a force that knows no fear of storms or human evil.
  
  After many years, Werenfrid, old and weary, thought by the well where he had once healed a blind child. "Not every hero carries a sword. Some carry only a spring and a heart open to God."
  
  Gradually, the Frisians learned that faith is like the sea—sometimes calm, sometimes wild, but always present. The children grew up by the spring, learning from Werenfrid and his followers, and the Christian faith took firm hold among the people of Dokkum.
  
  Werenfrid died peacefully in the monastery he had built.
  
  Thus the legend of his life and death became linked to the spring, the miracles, and the teachings that became the heart of the faith in Dokkum.

[FRI 1-3]

[Mustafa]

OTTOMAN BEYLIK

Ottoman Beylik - ID 203 (A node whose name was changed to grant Ferhunde the title of Princess of Ottoman Beylik)
Manisa - ID 205 (It is the city that the crown princes ruled in the Ottomans until the day he became Sultan)
Amasya - 206 (It was an important city for both the Ottomans and the past civilizations that lived in Anatolia)

A series of writings composed of three different stories. Each story respectively focuses on the characters named Ferhunde, Mustafa, and Hasan, who are currently being played in the Ottoman Beylik. The stories follow the renamed nodes in sequence. Additionally, each story occasionally references the kingdoms featured in the game.

All of the stories were written by Mustafa.

---

The Tale of Princess Ferhunde: Tulip Gardens of the Ottoman Palace

The year was 1325, in the Ottoman Beylik. In Sultan Mustafa’s palace there lived a princess, whose looks were the talk of the land: Ferhunde Hatun. A sister of the Sultan, and not just a beauty; Ferhunde was also famed for her literacy and intelligence. With a keen engagement with classical Ottoman poetry, she was well-versed in reading the stars and engaged secretly in the painting of miniatures.

From childhood, her steps had been precisely traced, having been educated by the eminent poets and scholars of the Ottoman court her entire life. Every dream and desire of Ferhunde was fulfilled, and she lived a life of comfort and protection, like a jewel in the palace. However, she felt an emptiness of the heart in spite of all the royal splendor. Neither the combination of star reading and poetry nor golden embroidered dresses fed her soul. The life she lived was a destiny created by others, not claimed by her own happiness.

One day a strange visitor came to the Palace. It was a traveling knight from Scotland named Sir Alex, who was travelling to discover the secrets of the East. He arrived with accompanying caravans and had fascinating stories, maps, and ancient books. Sultan Mustafa decided to host the educated knight.

Sir Alex convened with the youth around the garden of the palace and in the vicinity of the madrasa, sharing stories from European history, telling different northern legends, and the origins of various cultures. With maps, he followed the footprints of history, explaining the causes of wars and the value of peace through the historical lineages. His stories not only provided a wealth of knowledge but a path into imagination. His teachings encouraged questioning and exploration, unlike the traditional madrasa education.

His contributions were not exclusively of an academic nature, as he was granted permission by the palace guards to start training young soldiers in fighting techniques. His teaching focused on Scottish swordsmanship, strategies of defense, and body control and quickly garnered attention. The disciplined and balanced style he implemented offered Ottoman warriors a fresh perspective. Many of the young soldiers regarded him as a man of wisdom, a warrior committed to principles, and had adopted Alex as a role model. In this way, he was beginning to establish a presence in Ottoman lands as an icon of both intellect and bravery.

From the first day, Alex’s eyes were drawn to Ferhunde. She was fascinated by Alex’s northern legends, star maps, and journeys to faraway places. They began comparing poems in the tulip gardens in back of the palace. Ferhunde recited verses of Fuzuli while Alex whispered Scottish ballads. Despite coming from different languages, their two hearts beat together.

If anyone found out about this love, it would be considered a scandal. The marriage of an Ottoman princess with a knight from another country would not have been accepted by either a tradition or the court. So, the meetings continued at night in the moonlight with silent steps and secret letters.

Until one day, the palace guard discovered a Scottish brooch in Ferhunde’s room that was brought by Alex, and reported it to Sultan Mustafa. He became suspicious and decided to exile Alex. Ferhunde knew that she could not oppose her brother, but her heart was broken.

On their last night, moonlight joined the silence of the palace. The tulip garden became another world; the wind drifted through the tulips, and leaves rustled with sadness. Ferhunde made her way toward the garden in her silk robe, her every step weighed down by heartache. In her hand was a small handkerchief she had been stitching for days. A tulip motif she had stitched herself was formed with beautiful stitches, and the surrounding patterns alluded to maps of the stars, they represented for her that Alex was a stranger fallen from the sky.

Alex waited in the garden’s most private corner. He had tired eyes, but still had a glimmer of hope. When he spotted Ferhunde, time halted. As they approached each other, they said nothing; there were no words for the moment. Ferhunde offered the handkerchief to Alex with trembling hands. Alex accepted it gently. Here was a beautiful tulip-shaped motif in the center, with a verse beneath it:

“What can the heart do after being burned by love? Every particle is reduced to a pile of ash in the fire of separation.”

Alex’s eyes were moist as he read these words. These words expressed all the feelings in his heart. He placed the handkerchief over his heart as if he was sealing Ferhunde’s love to his soul. He gazed into her eyes and said, his voice trembling but firm, “One day before sunrise, I will return.”

But Alex never came back to see Ferhunde again. She would spend years painting miniatures for him, looking at the stars, and visiting the garden on the night she knew the moon was full. Their love started to fade in the chapters of history, and yet the story is still told in the Ottoman Beylik: one night in the tulip gardens, the stars witnessed the love of an Ottoman princess and a Scottish knight.

Even though Ferhunde never uttered her secret love, the reason for her melancholy was known by many. Sultan Mustafa wanted to ensure his sister’s future and arranged her marriage to the rising star of the state, Grand Vizier Halil Pasha. Halil was powerful and a man of wisdom, but there was no official title that could first replace the mark that Alex had made on Ferhunde’s heart.

The wedding was hailed as one of the grandest in Ankara. Ferhunde smiled in her golden-embroidered gown, but her eyes betrayed an empty soul. Halil Pasha honored and respected her, but he was aware she was broken over another love. She was no longer a princess, but a grand vizier’s wife. Every night she contemplated the stars and thought of Alex.

With determined resolve, Alex committed to keeping his promise and embarking on the weeks and months of travel to return to Ottoman lands. He still heard her voice in his heart and felt the handkerchief in his pocket. He attempted to travel through Bulgaria before winter arrived and froze the Balkans. The mountain trails were narrow and foggy, but his spirit and resilience never wavered.

One morning, bandits ambushed him in a forested pass near Sofia. They were many and vicious. Alex drew his sword and fought bravely. He felled several, but eventually began to tire. A quick blow struck his chest, and he fell, the handkerchief he carried was stained with blood.

The bandits took his goods and ran away. They didn’t notice the handkerchief. The wind very gently returned the small piece of cloth to Alex’s chest. In that moment, only the wind whispering into the silence of the mountains remained, and the promise unfulfilled.

Love transcends time and fate; but sometimes, the greatest love is the one that never finds its end.

---

In the Shadow of Sultan Mustafa: The Tragic End of Prince Ahmed

Sultan Mustafa was seated on the Ottoman throne. He had been raised by his father, Sultan Osman, and had always admired his justice and strength. But Mustafa’s heart was not as strong as his father’s. The Ottoman Palace in Ankara was full of scheming, and the shadows in the palace clouded his judgment, leaving his mind and his conscience murky.

Ahmed, the oldest of the princes, was the governor of the province of Manisa. Even at his young age he had won the hearts of the people. And even more, his wisdom and fairness brought him the admiration of the Byzantine and Bulgarian nobles, who started to call him: “Magnificent Ahmed”

Ahmed was happy to be living among the people. He was far out from the palace and his interaction with nature and humanity distinguished him. He would walk through the vineyards of Manisa, sharing stories with children, and hearing the villagers’ suffering. The Ottoman people admired his sense of justice. “We’ve never seen a person like Prince Ahmed,” they would say. “He ought to be our Sultan.”

The rumors reverberated throughout the hallways of the Ottoman Palace, including the ears of Anastasia of Kiev, the wife of Sultan Mustafa. She had bewitched the court with her beauty, and with her guile, she had poisoned its veins. She brought with her the icy winds of Kiev, and from the moment she had arrived, she had whispered her toxins into the ears of Mustafa. “Ahmed has tied the people to him,” she said. “He’ll steal your throne. The Bulgarians and the Byzantines already see him as their Sultan.”

At first, Sultan Mustafa dismissed her remarks. “He is my son,” he said. “I have no doubt of his loyalty.” But Anastasia never tired. “You have read his letters,” she suggested. “He pretends to be devoted, but between the lines, he desires the throne.” Therefore, Mustafa read the letters again and again, assessing the words. He found nothing, but when the seed of suspicion gets planted, it can grow.

In the meantime, Prince Ahmed worked hard to win the love of his father. He wrote a few letters to the Ottoman Palace, swearing loyalty to him. Each letter began with “My Sultan, my father,” words. “The prayers of Manisa’s people come with you. I am but a servant in your shadow, governing in your name.” But Anastasia had these letters for weapons. “See,” she said to Mustafa. “What a traitorous rotten person he is. He speaks of loyalty, but they call him Sultan.”

One night, in a dark chamber in the palace, a decision was made. Sultan Mustafa called for his son. Ahmed was excited to receive the call. “Perhaps then, he will finally consider me,” he thought. He left Manisa with only a few loyal men with him on the way. The people were in tears as they bid him farewell, saying “Our Sultan is coming.”

In the palace courtyard, a wall of silence surrounded him. No embrace. No smile. Until, at a high balcony, Anastasia watched. Sultan Mustafa, with a look of uncertainty in his eyes stood in front of his son. “The people are calling for you to be Sultan,” the sultan said. “You must be punished for this betrayal.”

Ahmed kept his eyes locked on his father, and replied. “I am your son. I do not want the throne, I want your heart.” But the cloud of poison of Anastasia surged forward and erased the power of Ahmed’s words. The executioners of the palace stepped forward, who were always dressed in black, and always silent.

Five executioners lunged at Prince Ahmed, and he battled fiercely, striking blow after blow, until tiredness overcame him. Minutes later, he could struggle no more and was strangled with a rope. His blood remained unspilled, as was the custom for royalty. His last words would be: “Father, I loved you.” And in the garden, a rose withered that would never bloom again.

The Ottoman people grieved. In Manisa, crowds filled the streets with prayer and lamenting. They vigilantly sat beside Ahmed’s grave for days. Children learned his name and elders spoke of his fairness. Sultan Mustafa was kept awake at night from the echoes of the prince’s voice. He, too, found no peace. Even sitting beside Anastasia. Because each night, he would drift off, waiting for silence to fill the palace when Ahmed’s voice returned with the wind: “I am your son...”

Months went by. Silence prevailed in the Ottoman Palace. Anastasia celebrated her victory, while Sultan Mustafa stared into space. Her influence diminished. The palace became cold to her existence. Meanwhile Mustafa, full of regret, visited his son’s grave and wept. “I failed to protect you,” he said. “For my throne, I have lost my beloved son.”

One morning, the palace was shrouded in stillness. Anastasia stepped from her room dressed in her embroidered robe with gold thread. Her face presented its customary sense of entitlement. She walked toward the Turkish Bath, intending to evaporate into vapor, to cleanse herself and her spirit. Perhaps to erase the memories of the past. The palace had ceased to be her refuge. It had become a place of judgement.

As she walked, a small cadre of around ten harem servants came quietly through the bath entrance. The fury was clear on their faces, and the years of agony that had rested in their eyes was apparent. Each had lost their family, their hope, their peace, all because of Anastasia’s actions. They would no longer be quiet.

Anastasia recoiled as dark figures left the mist. “What are you doing?” she yelled. “I am the Sultan’s wife!” But no one paid attention to her. Her name no longer signified fear, it became a name of hate.

At that moment, the comforting warmth of the bath transformed into a cold justice. The attendants released a violence of years of silence and moans of screams and tears. Anastasia fell to the cold marble floor. She screamed, she pleaded. No one came to her. The palace woke deaf to her cries.

A son lost his life unnecessarily, swept away in the crosses of palace jealousy while attempting merely to be fair. A beautiful woman, whose ambition belied a cruel heart, extinguished his brightness. She ascended in power, ruled in fear... And eventually, she died alone. No one wept, no one saved her. Justice came too late, but it was not forgotten.

---

The Legend of Hasan Balaban: Into the Depths of Wallachia

Hasan Balaban came to this world in a village called Merzifon which is in Amasya. Hüseyin Ağa, who is Hasan’s father, was a sipahi who fought in Sultan Osman’s campaigns. Hasan’s mother was a Turkmen bey’s daughter. Hasan began to learn horseback riding, archery, and swordsmanship at a young age. Before he turned fifteen years old, he had already gained some reputation in village wrestling matches due to his big stature and agility. This is how he gained the nickname of “Balaban.” Hasan was strong, imposing, and fearless.

One day, Hasan was wrestling with some friends at the stream just outside the village. The stream, having swelled from the spring rains, was rushing fast. When one of Hasan’s friends, drenched in sweat, went down to the stream to wash his face, he lost his footing and fell in. The rush of the stream took him quickly downstream. As the other friends on the bank screamed in panic, Hasan immediately jumped in. The water was cold, but he reached his friend with his strong arms, grabbed him, and started swimming. They both exited the water breathless, their hair and clothes dripping with mud. By that time, the commotion had summoned several villagers to the scene. And Hasan’s bravery was on everyone’s lips.

Hasan had always craved to go to war. He listened to stories of the epic of Young Osman, and he wanted to fight courageously at a young age, like Young Osman. “A warrior grows not by land, but by heart,” his father used to tell him. Hasan made it his motto in life.

In the year 1327, Sultan Mustafa announced a campaign against Wallachia. Vlad Dracula had ended his vassal’s allegiance to the Ottomans, impaled the envoys, and knelt in blood in the border villages. When the call reached Amasya, Hasan joined the army without a second thought. His mother bid him farewell in tears, while his father strapped on his sword and said:

“Never forget, my son: the sword cuts, but the heart conquers.”

When Hasan joined the military camp on the outskirts of Ankara prior to the campaign in Wallachia, it was evident from day one that he was a different kind of soldier. He hit every mark in archery practice, floored his instructors during sword drills due to his nimbleness, and moved like the wind during mounted drills. The direct commanders admired his discipline and gumption. Especially in survival drills at night in the woods, his navigation skills propelled him into the vanguard slot. He was seen and recognized as trustworthy enough to carry the Ottoman banner.

As the troops assembled and entered Rumelia, Hasan made many friends along the way. One such friend was Kadir, who hailed from Konya. Kadir admired Hasan and said, “It’s an honor to fight next to you.”

Upon entering Wallachian territory, Ottoman troops were met with a rather harrowing silence. The stench of burned buildings, corpses on sticks at the edge of the woods, and the frozen stares of terrified peasants were obvious signs of impending death. A few young soldiers trembled at the knees; some prayed, others closed their eyes and lowered their heads. One sergeant of janissaries yelled, “This is no land for men, this is the gate of hell!” The pashas attempted to tighten ranks and keep morale high; there was clear fear in the air however. Hasan, on the other hand, never took his eyes from the scene and held the banner firm in his hands. His firm stance provoked courage in the shaking soldiers.

As the army advanced into Wallachia, Sultan Mustafa ordered an incursion into Vlad’s castle in the night. Hasan stepped forward to serve as the vanguard and was given the honor of carrying the Ottoman banner. Sultan Mustafa met for hours with his pashas, examining and detailing every aspect of the attack.

The expedition was to remain secret, with only the pashas and selected commanders in the know. But the plan began to leak. Words carelessly let slip by a pasha were heard by a villager, who was one of Vlad’s spies. Vlad now knew everything.

Later, when the Ottomans were moving into the dark to execute the plan, Dracula’s soldiers ambushed them in the woods. When Hasan drew his sword there wasn’t a hint of fear in his eyes, only resolve. With his sword in one hand and the Ottoman banner raised in the air above his head in the other, he led from the front and rallied those behind him. In the first minute of the engagement, he’d already cut down three foes with his sword. No one could seem to stop him.

The battle was fierce in the woods. Arrows surrounded them like a storm and the sounds of swords clashing echoed through the night. Then, Kadir was struck by an arrow in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground. Hasan rushed to his aid without thinking twice. “I will not leave you, brother!” he yelled while carrying Kadir on his back. Covered head to toe in blood and breathless, he powered through the remaining enemies, keeping the banner raised high, and securing Kadir on his back. Each step was a victory, each breath uttered in a moment of friendship and loyalty.

At that moment, an arrow struck Hasan in the chest. He stumbled, but did not let go of the banner. He knelt, eyes still in the forward position. Then he silently released and collapsed, never to rise again. By dawn the Ottomans had taken Wallachia. They had won, but Hasan was gone. His body was motionless beneath the banner he had trusted and carried with his heart.

When Sultan Mustafa learned of Hasan’s valor, his eyes filled with tears and he fell quiet for a moment. When the commanders told him that Hasan had fallen under the banner, he lowered his head and took a long breath. “As long as we have such warriors, the Ottoman army will never buckle to the enemy,” he said. Then, for all to hear, he declared: “The conquest of Wallachia was won by the heart of Hasan Balaban. He defeated the enemy and fear itself.” With that statement, Hasan Balaban’s name became synonymous with valor.

The body of Hasan was transported to Amasya. He was interred on a slope in the village of Merzifon, while his family lamented. His grave still stands, with the following writing on it:

“He is Hasan Balaban of Amasya, who stood up to the Impaler Voivode, and followed Young Osman.”

Even now, the elders of Amasya tell this folk song to children:

“He who did not bow to the Impaler Voivode, was Hasan Balaban, who stood like a mountain.”

(OTT 1-3)

[Alice_Olsson]

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #29 - Vargö

No one claims Vargö. Not truly. The island is a jagged tooth in the Baltic's maw, where the pines grow twisted and the fishermen pull their nets up quick when the sun dips low. They say the wolves here don't just hunt deer. They watch the water. Wait for something.

The first settlers built a watchtower on the cliffs, thinking to guard against pirates. But the fires always went out. The men woke to find their blades rusted overnight, their salt pork torn open by something that left no tracks. Then the howls started. Not from the woods. From the water.

Now, only the foolhardy or the desperate dock at Vargö. The tower still stands, its stones slick with something darker than seawater. The locals whisper that the island isn't named for the wolves that live there, but for the ones that swim there. Old Gunnar, the last man to spend a night in the tower, came back with his beard frozen solid and a single word on his lips: "Hungry."

The sundmen at Kungsund laugh when you ask about it. “Vargö? Aye, it’s ours. When the tide’s low and the wolves are asleep.” They’ll take your coin to row you over, but they won’t stay. Not even for double. The ledger at Kungsund has a page for Vargö. It’s blank. No gold, no oaths. Just a single claw mark, inked in years a

Last winter, a Danish trader swore he saw shapes moving beneath his ship's hull near the island. He didn't stop to look. Smart man. His cargo made it to Stockholm intact, but his dog went mad three days later, snarling at the waves until they dragged it away.

The king's cartographers call it a navigational hazard. The fishermen call it a warning. And if you listen close on a still night, you'll hear it too: not a howl, but an answer.

[SWE-3]

[Alice_Olsson]

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #23 - Glömsjö

The elders of Dalarna call Glömsjö a wound in the earth, a place where the water remembers what men forget. The lake sits cupped in the hills like a dropped shield, its surface never rippling, even when the winds scream through the pines. The villagers of Falun say it wasn't always so still. Once, it was loud with life. Children laughing on the shore, fishermen hauling silver perch from its depths, and the great iron bells of the drowned church ringing on Sunday mornings. Then came the winter of the blood-moon, when the ice turned red and the church, bells and all, sank without a trace.


Now, Glömsjö is a place of offerings. Not of coin or grain, but of names. Every Midsummer, the old women lead the children to the shore at dusk. They carve the names of the lost into birch bark. Those who vanished into the forest, those who never returned from the mines and set them adrift on the black water. By dawn, the bark is gone. The names are "remembered," the villagers say. The lake is "fed."

Three years ago, a traveler from Uppsala, a man who scoffed at "peasant superstition," camped on its banks. He woke to the sound of bells underwater. They found his boots by the shore, laces neatly tied, his journal open to a single sketch: a steeple, half-buried in the silt, its cross twisted like a drowning man's fingers.

The king's men came once, dragging chains to dredge for the church's iron. The chains snapped. The divers never resurfaced. Now, the only ones who dare approach are the desperate. A mother whose son wandered into the woods will leave his shirt on the shore. A widow will whisper her husband's name to the water. And sometimes, if the mist is thin, you can see them. Shadows moving beneath the surface, their hands pressed against the mirror of the lake as if trying to climb back.

People joke that Glömsjö is where Sweden buries its ghosts. But they won't go near it. Not even for the king's gold. The last man who tried, a tax collector named Erik, returned with his ledger soaked through, every page blank except for two words, written in a hand that wasn't his: "We hunger."

Some say the lake is bottomless. Others say it's a door. But everyone agrees on this: if you stand too long on its shores, the water starts to look back.

[SWE-4]

[Alice_Olsson]

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #24 - Solbacken

Nestled in a valley where the sun lingers even on the shortest winter days, Solbacken is the heartbeat of Sweden’s craftsmanship and trade. Unlike the grim tales of cursed mines or haunted lakes, Solbacken thrives on light, laughter, and the clatter of creation. This is where the kingdom’s brightest smiths, weavers, and inventors gather, drawn by the town’s legendary Midsummer Market, a festival so grand that traders from Denmark, Norway, and the Hanseatic League brave storms and bandits to attend.

Solbacken’s secret isn’t gold or iron. It’s ideas. The town is built around a massive, open-air workshop called "The Forge of Many Hands", where blacksmiths, carpenters, and even glassblowers work side by side, sharing tools and secrets. The air hums with the rhythm of hammers on anvils, the scent of freshly baked bread, and the lively chatter of merchants haggling in three languages. Here, a farmer’s daughter might barter a new plow design for a bolt of silk, while a traveling storyteller swaps tales for a night’s lodging above the bakery.

The town’s pride is its Great Clock, a marvel of wooden gears and brass, built not to tell time but to celebrate it. Every hour, the clock chimes with a different melody, composed by the townsfolk themselves. At noon, it plays a tune so joyful that even the sternest sundmen from Kungsund tap their feet. The clock’s face is adorned with scenes of Solbacken’s history: the first Midsummer Market, the day the river was diverted to power the mills, and the time a young queen danced in the square until her slippers wore through.

But Solbacken’s true magic lies in its Guild of the Curious, a loose collective of tinkerers, artists, and dreamers who believe that “every problem has a solution. You just haven’t thought of it yet.” They’re the ones who designed the floating bridges that connect the town’s islands, the windmills that grind grain and pump water, and the famous “sun mirrors,” polished bronze disks that redirect winter light into the town’s darkest alleys. Their latest project? A mechanical stag, a towering automaton that parades through the streets during festivals, its antlers crowned with lanterns.

The town’s rivalry with the Danes is friendly but fierce, especially when it comes to the Great Brew-Off, an annual competition where Solbacken’s honey mead goes head-to-head with Copenhagen’s dark ale. Last year, Solbacken’s brewers won with a spiced mead so smooth that the Danish judge demanded the recipe and was given, instead, a job in the brewery.

Solbacken doesn’t just trade goods; it trades stories, skills, and smiles. Travelers leave with more than they came for: a new tool, a new friend, or a new way of seeing the world. And if you ask the locals why their town shines so brightly, they’ll grin and say, “Because we’ve learned to share the light.”

[SWE-5]

[Alice_Olsson]

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #19 - Himmelsbrant

High in the northern reaches of Sweden, where the mountains scrape the belly of the clouds, lies Himmelsbrant, a cliffside sanctuary said to be the last place the gods touched before they left the world of men. The locals call it the Stairway to the Sky, for on the shortest night of the year, when the sun barely dips below the horizon, the rocks of Himmelsbrant glow with an eerie, silver light. Some say it’s the reflection of the Bifröst, the rainbow bridge of the gods. Others whisper that it’s the tears of the stars, weeping for what was lost.

At the heart of Himmelsbrant stands the Eldsteinn, the Old Stone. A monolith covered in runes that no scholar has ever deciphered. The runes shift when you aren’t looking, rearranging themselves into patterns that seem almost alive. According to legend, the stone was a gift from Odin himself, left behind as a marker for those brave enough to seek wisdom. But the wisdom of Himmelsbrant doesn’t come cheap. Those who touch the Eldsteinn are said to receive visions, but the visions are fragmented, like pieces of a dream you can’t quite remember. A farmer might see his fields flooded with gold, only to wake and find his crops withered. A warrior might glimpse victory in battle, only to lose his nerve when the time comes. The stone gives truths, but it gives them in riddles.

Every generation, a seeker arrives, drawn by the stories: a young woman who dreams of her lost brother, a king desperate for an heir, a poet searching for the perfect verse. They climb the winding path to the cliff’s edge, where the wind howls like a choir of ghosts, and press their palm to the Eldsteinn. Some return changed, their eyes distant, their words laced with prophecy. Others never return at all. The villagers below say those who vanish are the ones who understood too much.

The most famous tale of Himmelsbrant is that of Astrid the Wise, a shieldmaiden who spent seven winters meditating at the foot of the Eldsteinn. On the seventh dawn, she vanished, leaving behind only her cloak and a single rune carved into the cliff: ᚾ (Naudhiz), the symbol of need and constraint. That same night, the northern lights burned so brightly that they cast shadows on the ground, and the people of the nearby villages swore they heard a woman’s voice singing in the wind. Some say Astrid ascended to the halls of the gods. Others believe she’s still there, trapped between worlds, her voice carried on the wind as a warning or an invitation.

The Swedes scoff at the stories, calling Himmelsbrant a place for fools and dreamers. But even they won’t venture near on the night of the summer solstice, when the silver light of the Eldsteinn burns brightest. “Some doors,” they mutter, “shouldn’t be opened.”

Yet, every year, someone tries. And every year, the mountain keeps its secrets.

[SWE-6]