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In the northern wastes lies the Black Salt Plains, a realm under the dominion of Silent Salt. There spreads the Silent Land of the Dead. Its name is plain enough: nothing within it dares make a sound. Not cookies, not animals, not even insects.
They have no voices—for their throats were severed long ago.They make no steps—for their tendons were shorn to ribbons.They draw no breath—for their entrails had been churned and their lungs succumbed to failure.
Thus, the hymn of life sung by living cells finds no chorus in this land. No waterfalls tumble here, no earthquake has shaken this earth since the dawn of time, and even the wind itself seals its lips. From the first moment of creation until now, silence has reigned unbroken—save for a single, fateful century.
Ages ago, when Silent Salt yet bore the blessing of the Light of the Ages, and in some distant vestige of chivalry still stood tall, the Salt Plains were no more than a meadow of castella cake. Sweet, soft, ordinary—no different from countless other plains across the continent.
But therein lay both blessing and curse: the sponge-like soil drank too eagerly. Rain fell, and it drank. A cookie passed and spilled milk, and it drank. And when the massacre came, and strawberry jam gushed forth in rivers beneath Silent Salt’s hand, the land drank of that too.
Cookies were shattered, cakes were torn apart. Candies splintered, pies were crushed. For days upon days without end, slaughter raged unchecked. Silent Salt reigned with one-sided dominion, and the castella meadows drank the jam as parched soil drinks the storm. But the land withered. It had swallowed too much—jam, and the cookie shards that bore it.
Like a serpent glutted on prey too great for its belly, it burst. The earth itself perished of its own excess. Yet Silent Salt did not cease. He swung his sword still. Until the faint grains of salt within each cookie corpse gathered in mounds, until white dust of salt drifted across the deadened plain.
The desserts who once bore the spark of life were hewn to fragments by Silent Salt’s greatsword, rolling across the barren salt flats. Like bread caked with powdered sugar, their bodies lay salted and preserved. They remained as they had died, unrotting, unyielding. Like volcanic ash hardened to stone, they lingered through the ages, breaking only into dust when the rare wind passed, never withering, never gone.
And in the very heart of the Black Salt Plains, there rose a castle. Vaster, more magnificent than the halls of kings, it alone endured, untouched by ruin. Its walls were hewn from black rock-salt—severe, uncurved, but wrought with an austere grandeur. A beauty cold and desolate. At its gates stood guards clad in iron. Yet no living presence stirred within them. Naturally so, for inside the armor rattled only bones.
Their faces, unshielded by helm, were bare skulls and teeth. Their armor covered nothing of flesh or organ, for they were all the undead—revived at the command of Silent Salt. They stood upright without heartbeat, sustained by his dark consecration. So too the servants: maids, attendants, butlers—all had been pulled back from the abyss to serve their lord. They neither ate nor drank nor slept, but obeyed without end.
Beyond the far horizon, across the salt-blanched plain, a figure walked. A black knight in armor drenched with strawberry jam. His helm bore only a few crude slits, scarcely enough for sight. In his hand he carried something, and he strode toward the castle. The guards barred him not. They shifted aside to grant him passage. The undead upon the walls drew open the gate, and the knight entered. His gaze fell upon the cookie heads nailed upon the walls, upon the suits of armor standing silent—trophies of his past glory.
He walked still. Through halls, up stairways. His path led unmistakably toward the highest chamber of the keep. Step by step, he climbed the spiraling stairs, until at last he stood before a door. From beneath it drifted a faint fragrance—a scent already carried down to the stairwell. He paused, then pressed the handle. The door yielded with a groan.
At once the thick air beyond rushed forth, heavy with the perfume of lilies. The knight drew in a long breath. The sweetness filled his throat, coiled through his lungs, made the mind swim. Yet his gaze held steady, fixed forward. His eyes swept the chamber. It was a royal chamber, though stripped of gaudy splendor. A black carpet stretched wide, shelves of books lined the walls, a table bore open tomes beside a flowerpot, and upon the bed, with knees drawn close, sat a woman. The knight stepped toward her.
The woman lifted her gaze to the knight. She was a vision of beauty. Her hair, white as snowbell blossoms, was braided into a single shimmering strand. A translucent mantle draped over her shoulders, and a gown of glistening green flowed around her. Her wide eyes, the deep hue of pomegranate, were veiled beneath heavy layers of white icing, lending her face a sorrowful, ethereal air. Slender arms, delicate hands, and dainty feet rendered her fragile in aspect—like a fae creature sprung from legend.
Yet her expression was far from serene. At the sight of the knight, she drew a sharp breath, the muscles of her face tightening. She tried, perhaps, to hide her distaste, but faint threads of fear and loathing slipped through. Whether her revulsion was for the knight himself or for the sticky strawberry jam that coated his armor was uncertain—though in truth, it was almost surely both.
As he neared her, her face contorted further, until it seemed pitiable. She longed to retreat, but pressed against the wall, there was nowhere left to go. When at last he stood before her, he extended what he carried, offering it not with pride or hesitation but with a dry, almost mechanical gesture. The lady lowered her gaze.
It was a lily, crimsoned like a rose, drenched in strawberry jam. Its stem, stained red as though it had been steeped in a jar of bloodied sweetness, and the few untouched patches of white upon its petals, told that it had once been a pure blossom. What had he done? Pierced someone with the flower itself? In truth, the answer hardly mattered. The jam that clung to his hands betrayed the manner of its gathering. He had carved his way through a lily field, severing heads of men and flowers alike. It was not the first time—she knew this. Her voice came, soft as a whisper:
“I do not need such a thing….”
The knight gave no reply. Only the sound of his heavy breath seeped through the holes of his helm. Drops of jam fell upon the bed—one by one, staining the white sheets. Yet the lady refused to take the flower, turning her head away in defiance.
When she would not yield, the knight seized her left hand, pried it open, and pressed the flower into her palm. At once her skin was stained red. Her face twisted further, as though she would cast it aside that instant. Whether she did or not, he cared nothing. He simply looked at her, and she, reluctant and bitter, looked back.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, until at last she turned her eyes away. Even then, he stared upon her, unblinking. Only after time had passed, as if his task was complete, did he turn to depart. He offered no command, no warning, no counsel—only abandonment. And then, with reluctant breath, the lady called to him.
“Wait. I have words for you.”
The knight turned his head, his posture silent, granting her leave to speak. She asked:
“…When will you release me?”
He did not answer. His gaze fell instead upon her ankle, bound with a heavy shackle. A chain of dark sorcery, forged from blackened candy. No ordinary cookie could break it, nor could one so bound wield their magic. Thus it was that White Lily, a being of vast and radiant power, lay helpless in fetters.
Yes. The ancient hero, bearer of the Light of Freedom itself, was now imprisoned in this castle. Stripped of every art save the power of healing. Clutching the fabric at her breast, White Lily asked again, voice trembling:
“Tell me. When will you set me free?”
“…….”
He did not answer.
“…Will you ever set me free?”
“…….”
He did not answer.
“It has already been a week. How much longer must this continue?”
“…….”
“Please… answer me….”
Still he did not. His mouth was clamped shut as though sealed by iron. White Lily pleaded desperately:
“Demand my Soul Jam, if you will. Mock me, if you must. Beat me until I crumble into dust—anything! It would not matter, so long as you speak!”
“…….”
“But you do not. You do not utter a word, and so I cannot fathom what it is you desire….”
“…….”
“So tell me. What is it you seek?”
Her words fell like the prayer of one cornered, crying out to a god. Yet they were met with nothing. The knight turned his head, let his cloak billow behind him, and strode from the chamber.
The door slammed shut with a thunderous crack, the sound of the lock falling into place. White Lily was left alone, with nothing but the jam-stained lily clutched in her hand. Once more, she was caged. She bit her lip and glared at the door. There was no resignation in her eyes—no trace of the defeated cookie. Only unbroken resolve. Her whisper was low but firm:
“My will for freedom shall not break… Silent Salt.”