The forest.

The drums of celebration echoed through the quiet mountain village of Elmir. Perched on a cliff overlooking a sea of trees, it was home to Ali’s grandmother—a kind, stoic woman with a silver braid and hands hardened by decades of herbal medicine.

Ali, the only son of King Hamir, had arrived two days ago to visit her, his first journey outside the castle walls. Only nine years old, Ali was bright and curious, his laughter contagious as it rang through the humble village. He was protected by two loyal knights, who stood watch even as Ali played with the village children.

But joy is fragile in times of unrest.

That night, as the villagers danced around a bonfire, a low horn sounded from the distant trees. It came once, then again, closer. The knights tensed. The celebration froze.

Then came the shadows—riders in black armor, their swords gleaming red with the reflection of fire. The sky cracked open with screams. The raid had begun.

Ali’s grandmother grabbed his wrist. “Run,” she whispered, pressing a leather pouch into his hand. “To the east. Never stop until the sun rises.”

Ali hesitated, frozen by fear. One of the knights grabbed him, hoisting him onto a horse. “Go!” the knight roared, slapping the horse’s flank. The animal bolted into the night, galloping into the forest.

Behind him, the village of Elmir burned.

⸻

The horse collapsed at dawn, its flank pierced by an arrow Ali hadn’t noticed in the panic. Dazed, heartbroken, and covered in soot, Ali tumbled into the mossy forest floor. The trees loomed over him like ancient guardians, their leaves whispering secrets he couldn’t understand.

He was alone.

The first days were a blur of tears and hunger. He survived on berries and river water, hiding beneath fallen logs and thick brush whenever he heard noises. Wolves howled at night, but none came close. Perhaps even beasts respected the sacred blood of a fallen king.

By the seventh day, Ali stopped crying. Survival had become instinct. He built a lean-to shelter from sticks and leaves, mimicking what he’d seen in picture books. He learned to fish with a sharpened branch and scavenged bird eggs from nests.

Each night, he gripped the leather pouch from his grandmother. Inside it were only three things: a silver pendant with the royal crest, a tiny dagger with his initials carved into the handle, and a scroll with a map of the kingdom—drawn in her delicate hand.

⸻

Years passed.

Ali grew with the forest. He learned its paths, its moods. He tracked animals, understood which berries to eat and which to avoid. He befriended a red fox with a notched ear, naming him Kiro. The fox became his silent companion.

One rainy season, he fell ill—delirious with fever and visions of his father, his kingdom, and the fire. Kiro stayed by his side, curling into his chest, bringing him warmth. When he recovered, Ali took it as a sign: the forest had accepted him.

But acceptance was not peace. Every night, he dreamed of the castle—his father’s voice, the golden banners, and the throne room filled with light. He remembered the lessons of kingship: justice, courage, and wisdom. He remembered the sword his father carried—the Blade of Rael, said to have chosen the king.

“I’m not dead,” he would whisper to the stars. “I will return.”

⸻

When Ali turned twelve, a strange smell drifted through the forest—smoke, but not from firewood. Human.

He climbed a tree and saw a group of men camping near the river. Mercenaries, from the look of them. One of them wore the crest of the kingdom—but it had been changed. The crown was broken.

Ali’s heart pounded. His father’s kingdom had fallen.

That night, he took the scroll from the pouch and traced the map with his fingers. Elmir. The old capital. The river roads. His eyes sharpened. He could make the journey. He had to.

“I’ve survived fire. I’ve survived the forest,” he whispered to Kiro. “Now I’ll take back what’s mine.”

⸻

And so, barefoot and hardened, Ali began the long walk home—through mountain passes and ancient trails, through ruins of towns once loyal to his father. The kingdom had changed. Villages now bore strange flags. Roads were patrolled by soldiers with cruel eyes.

He hid in shadows. He studied his enemies. He listened.

He learned that a usurper now sat on the throne—Lord Kael, a former advisor turned tyrant. After the king’s death, Kael had claimed the throne, declaring the royal line broken. His soldiers burned Elmir to prevent any survivors from sparking rebellion.

But the fire had missed one ember.

⸻

On the edge of the capital, Ali stood atop a cliff and saw the palace again—its spires blackened, its banners foreign. But the stone still stood. His throne still stood.

Kiro yipped beside him.

“I’m coming, Father,” Ali said.

He tightened the pendant around his neck.

The wind blew behind him like a royal decree

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