The morning mist still clung to the ground like a memory that didn’t want to lift.

  Kaelen walked alone.

  His steps were quiet, thoughtful—not in the way of a child wandering, but in the way of a boy following a route he’d already marked in his head. The village buzzed with its usual hum: the crack of axes, the rush of water from the high troughs, the lazy murmur of neighbors trading words over bundled roots.

  He ignored most of it.

  His eyes were fixed on the clearing near the southern palisade, where six men practiced with spears.

  The training grounds weren’t grand. Just a packed patch of earth, ringed with trampled grass and chalk marks for footwork. Wooden dummies leaned against trees. A pile of crude spears sat nearby—some carved better than others.

  The volunteers moved with effort, not ease. Stabs, pivots, lunges. Sweat slicked their backs. Their stances lacked discipline, but not commitment.

  Kaelen watched them like he was dissecting a creature.

  Better than before, he thought. But still sloppy. Too much weight on the front foot. Delayed recovery after the thrust.

  He sat on a split log at the edge of the training area, back straight, arms folded across his knees. Silent. Calculating.

  After a few minutes, one of the men noticed him.

  The volunteer was tall, wiry, his brown tunic stained with effort. Maybe in his twenties—young by Kaelen’s former standards, old by his current body. He wiped sweat from his brow and wandered over, half-grinning.

  “Well now,” the man said, resting his spear against his shoulder. “You’ve been starin’ long enough to memorize my mistakes.”

  Kaelen blinked once, then nodded.

  The man laughed.

  “You thinkin’ of joinin’ us when you’re taller?”

  Kaelen tilted his head, considering the question. Then answered, voice calm and clear:

  “No. I want to be higher than that.”

  The man raised an eyebrow, then laughed louder, genuinely amused. “Spirits, you sound like Nayla when she’s grumpy.” He crouched to Kaelen’s eye level. “Got a name, little general?”

  “Kaelen,” he said simply.

  Recognition sparked behind the man’s eyes. “Kaelen… Harun’s boy?”

  Kaelen nodded.

  The man’s tone shifted, his posture relaxing with something like respect. “Your father’s one of the strongest men in this village. Stronger than any of us here.”

  Kaelen blinked. “He’s a miner,” he said. “And a woodsman.”

  “He is,” the man agreed. “But before that, he led the volunteers. Years ago. When I was still learning how to hold a spear without stabbing my own foot.”

  That surprised Kaelen. He said nothing, but it showed in his eyes.

  The man smirked. “Didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No,” Kaelen admitted quietly.

  “He gave it up when your sister was small. And when you came along, well… that was it.” The man leaned his spear into the ground, voice softening. “He told me once, ‘If I keep swingin’ iron, one day I won’t come home. And I’d rather carry wood than see my wife cry.’”

  Kaelen looked down, brows drawn in faint thought.

  All his life, Harun had seemed… simple. Safe. Dependable in a way that felt ordinary. But now Kaelen saw it differently.

  It wasn’t fear. It was choice.

  And choice, when made for others, could be another kind of strength.

  Kaelen’s lips curled slightly at the edge. “Yes. That sounds like my father,” he said.

  The volunteer nodded and stood. “Well, if you ever decide you want to be higher than us—just make sure we’re not in your way, yeah?”

  Kaelen looked up at him, eyes steady.

  “I won’t be.”

  The man grinned and turned back toward the others.

  Kaelen remained seated, gaze still fixed on the spears.

  But now, his thoughts weren’t only on their footwork.

  The sun had just begun its climb when the cry rang through the village.

  “Trader! Trader on the trail!”

  The shout came from one of the lookout boys, perched high in the trees near the eastern path. His voice cracked with excitement, and within moments, heads were turning across Veleth.

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  A woman dropped her basket of moss-pouched berries. A child squealed and ran to fetch her siblings. Imari—ever the first to respond to noise—bolted toward the trail barefoot, hollering over her shoulder, “He’s got sweets, I know it!”

  Kaelen turned slowly from where he stood near the sparring fields, dust still on his ankles.

  A trader.

  They didn’t come often. Maybe once a year, if even that. The jungle’s paths were thick and treacherous, and Veleth sat far from any well-traveled trade road. But when they did come—they brought more than wares.

  They brought the world.

  By the time Kaelen reached the center square, a crowd had already begun to gather.

  At the far end of the main path, branches cracked and foliage parted as a massive cart rolled into view—wheels thick with reinforced bark and vine-wrapped joints to survive the forest’s strain.

  It was pulled by two beasts—horned, tusked, and slow, breathing like oxen but with skin like carved stone. A man sat atop the driver’s seat, arms folded, guiding them with soft clicks of his tongue and a hooked wooden staff.

  He stood as the cart cleared the path and entered the clearing.

  “Greetings, people of Veleth!” he boomed, arms spread wide. “You look well fed, well rested… and far too quiet!”

  The villagers laughed.

  “I am Varik of the Southern Routes! Merchant of wares, collector of whispers, teller of truths! And today… I come bearing both goods and news.”

  Kaelen studied him closely.

  Varik was in his late thirties, maybe older. His skin was sun-darkened, with a patchy beard threaded in silver and a laugh that came from deep in his belly. His cloak was patchwork, made of fabrics clearly not native to the jungle—silk from human kingdoms, fur from mountain trades, and beads carved in shapes Kaelen didn’t recognize.

  He was a man who moved between worlds.

  And as he climbed down from the cart, a second voice cut through the chatter.

  “You’re causing a ruckus again, Varik,” came the calm tone of Elder Nayla.

  She approached slowly, hands folded, but her eyes were smiling.

  Varik turned toward her and bowed with dramatic flair. “Long time no see, Elder Nayla! You look as radiant as ever—though I see you’ve hidden your good herbs again. No scent of mint in the air.”

  Nayla rolled her eyes, smiling. “And you still have the tongue of a fox with a stolen chicken. Come to trade?”

  “And to tell stories,” Varik said, voice lowering a little. “And to speak of things that shouldn’t stay unknown.”

  The villagers hushed at that.

  They formed a circle around Varik’s cart, which was now being unpacked by a quiet younger man Kaelen hadn’t noticed before—likely an apprentice. Items were laid out: bright cloth, jars of fermented fruit, bundles of spices, small metal tools, polished stones, and vials of something glowing faintly green.

  But it wasn’t the goods they wanted most.

  It was the world he brought with him.

  Varik leaned slightly on his staff and cleared his throat—not shouting, but speaking in a deliberate, measured voice that cut clean through the crowd.

  “There is war again in the east. Real war. Not border fights. Not raider noise. Kingdom war.”

  A hush fell.

  “Alkandor bleeds. The Kingdom of Men has lost not one, but two castles—Valmere, shattered in a single night, and Griswall, after a siege that lasted just seven days.”

  The name Valmere stirred murmurs.

  “Krothmaar marches. Not in bands. Not in skirmish lines. In ranks. With war horns and siege engines—things they haven’t used in a generation.”

  Someone gasped. Imari stopped bouncing beside Kaelen and went still.

  Varik continued, darker now:

  “They’ve broken the mountain border. The mountain holds no longer. And the men of Alkandor are retreating faster than they admit.”

  “I passed merchants fleeing with broken carts and cut wagons. I saw villages once flying Alkandor’s banner now flying none at all—smoke rising behind them.”

  Nayla’s eyes were hard now. She nodded slowly. “And the kings?”

  Varik gave a bitter half-smile.

  “Arguing. Divided. Some want to rally, others want to negotiate. One lord was found dead in his sleep—his own wine poisoned.”

  Kaelen was still as stone.

  Two castles gone. Organized legions. Poison in the courts.

  This wasn’t just a clash.

  It was a campaign.

  And worse… the other kingdoms hadn’t moved.

  Varik spoke again, shifting slightly:

  “The Vel’aralai are watching from their highwood towers. They say little. Do less. Some say they prepare to flee west. Others say they prepare something worse.”

  “The Dervan close their gates. The mines deepen. Their banners stay folded.”

  “The Issar’Sai…” he paused here, letting the name hang in the air, “have crossed their southern border. No one knows why. Or where they’ll stop.”

  By now, the villagers were murmuring—some in fear, others in disbelief.

  But to Kaelen, it was confirmation.

  The world outside wasn’t just stirring.

  It was breaking.

  Varik raised his arms with practiced theatricality.

  “Now, I bring salves, stone oils, honey-wrapped roots, and maps if you wish to barter. But I ask this: Don’t mistake peace for permanence. When the roads run red, even the trees will hear.”

  He clapped his hands once, sharp.

  “Come now. Who’s here to trade?”

  The spell broke. The villagers began moving again—chattering, bargaining, inspecting goods.

  But Kaelen stayed back.

  Staring.

  Processing.

  This wasn’t a story. Not to him.

  It was a warning.

  Night had fallen, soft and silver over the village.

  The jungle no longer hummed with life but whispered in low, rhythmic pulses—leaves brushing against each other, branches creaking with the weight of dew. Lanterns swayed gently from ropes strung between huts, casting long shadows across the ground.

  Kaelen sat cross-legged beneath the overhang outside his family’s home, a blank strip of bark parchment stretched across his lap.

  A stub of charcoal was pinched between his fingers.

  Before him, the world was taking shape.

  He didn’t copy Elder Nayla’s map this time.

  He rewrote it.

  Lines marked known rivers, notations etched where Varik had spoken of fallen keeps and border sieges. He drew mountain ranges with gaps where the Krothmaar had broken through. He circled regions—some named, some not—that had been mentioned only briefly in passing.

  Around each kingdom, he added his own symbols—small, quiet notations in a system only he understood.

  And below all of it, nestled in a blank stretch of jungle, he carved one simple mark:

  Veleth.

  No defenses. No army. No alliances.

  Just a village in the trees.

  Inside, he could hear Lureya humming softly, preparing herbal cloths near the stove. Harun’s footsteps shifted across the floor. Imari’s laughter bubbled up as she told a story about the trader’s odd apprentice who’d blushed when she stole a sweet from his hand.

  They were safe.

  For now.

  Kaelen looked up at the stars.

  In his old world, he had no one.

  No mother to hum while mixing herbs.

  No father who gave up danger to stay alive.

  No sister who shouted his name every morning as if it gave her joy just to say it.

  He had led armies. Commanded thousands.

  But he had died alone.

  And that life…

  That life had been his choice.

  This one wasn’t.

  He hadn’t chosen to be reborn. To be given a second name. A second chance.

  But now that he was here—he would not waste it.

  He looked back down at the map, his eyes scanning each symbol again.

  There was no doubt in him now.

  The world was shifting.

  Borders bleeding. Kingdoms fraying. Peace unraveling like an old tapestry—thread by quiet thread.

  And when it tore—Veleth would be the first forgotten.

  Unless someone changed that.

  He pressed his thumb against the mark that represented his village, smearing it slightly—marking it.

  Then, beneath it, he etched one more symbol.

  One he hadn’t used before.

  A crown with no jewels. No throne. No name beneath it.

  Only the shape.

  A symbol of will.