The jungle was thick with breath and silence.

  No birds. No wind. Just the distant creak of vines and the soft crunch of bare feet moving in practiced rhythm.

  Kaelen crouched low behind a gnarled root, fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft of a smooth, obsidian-tipped spear. His eyes tracked the slow movements of the deer ahead, grazing near a shaded pool, ears flicking as if listening to the heartbeat of the forest.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Five other hunters fanned out around the clearing, barefoot and patient, their breath held tight in their chests.

  To someone watching from afar, the tension might have seemed like a battle about to break.

  And in a way, it was.

  One of the hunters—older, lanky, breathing too loud—shifted too quickly and let fly his spear.

  It whistled through the air—then thudded uselessly into the trunk behind the deer.

  The animal jerked, lifted its head, and bolted.

  The clearing erupted in curses.

  “Too soon!” one hunter hissed, breaking into a sprint. Others gave chase, branches whipping against their legs as they scattered into the undergrowth.

  But Kaelen didn’t move.

  He had already moved.

  By the time the deer reached the narrow game path north of the clearing, Kaelen was waiting.

  He had predicted its direction—watched the pattern of its hooves, the twitch of its muscles.

  He stepped forward.

  One clean motion.

  And drove the spear into the deer’s flank just as it darted past him.

  The beast staggered, bucked once—and collapsed, eyes wide, legs twitching.

  Dead before it could cry out.

  The others emerged moments later, panting, eyes wide.

  They stared at the fallen deer—then at Kaelen.

  The one who had missed let out a sheepish whistle. “Spirits. You’re cursed lucky, boy.”

  “No,” another said, laughing as he clapped Kaelen on the shoulder. “Not lucky. That was a kill. Straight to the heart.”

  “A born hunter,” said a third, nodding in approval. “And not even thirteen…”

  They all chuckled, slapping him on the back as Kaelen caught his breath, his face unreadable.

  He stood upright now, the full shape of him catching the dappled jungle light.

  Kaelen was taller than most his age—lean, but packed with wiry strength. His arms bore the soft definition of years spent climbing, hauling, digging, training. His chest was flat but firm, his stance balanced. No longer a boy in shape—a young man formed by effort, not accident.

  One of the older hunters grinned at him, then pointed to the deer.

  “You killed it. You carry it.”

  The others whooped in agreement, teasing but proud.

  Kaelen nodded, bent low, and heaved the deer’s body over his shoulder.

  Heavy—but not unmanageable.

  He could carry it.

  He’d earned it.

  “Time moves fast,” he thought as they began the long walk back.

  “I’m no longer a child to be guarded. I’m a boy with a weapon in my hands—and they no longer laugh when I hold it.”

  Beside him, a second figure fell into step.

  Another hunter—slightly taller than Kaelen, thicker in the chest, with hands that looked carved from stone. His spear rested across his shoulders as he walked with quiet ease.

  He didn’t speak.

  He never needed to.

  Kaelen glanced at him.

  And smiled, just a little.

  “He’s been beside me since I was small. Never loud. Never foolish. He watches like I watch. Moves with reason.”

  “His name is Rehn.”

  Kaelen’s thoughts drifted back, as they often did when Rehn was beside him.

  He had first seen the boy while wandering the village alone, no older than six.

  He remembered it clearly—Imari off playing in the mud, the adults too busy with baskets and fishing lines. He had been walking the edges of the square, watching, measuring, listening.

  And then Rehn had appeared. Just standing there. Barefoot. Covered in dust. Watching him.

  Not with childlike curiosity.

  But with interest.

  The same kind of interest Kaelen had in others.

  “He didn’t speak. Just stood beside me. Like it was normal.”

  They had circled the same firepit twice before either of them said a word.

  From that day on, they had always been near each other.

  “He reminds me of someone from before,” Kaelen thought, glancing sideways at Rehn now.

  “The way he walks. The way he listens. The weight in his silence.”

  “He reminds me of Eli.”

  He didn’t know if it was reincarnation or coincidence.

  Didn’t care.

  He only knew that in this world, he had found another shadow to walk beside his own.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Not a soldier.

  Not yet.

  But maybe… one day.

  As they crested the rise toward the village edge, the trees opened to reveal the rope bridges and moss-covered platforms of Veleth.

  The deer sagged heavier on Kaelen’s shoulders, but he bore it without complaint.

  Rehn said nothing, just reached out and helped shift the weight.

  Kaelen looked toward the center square, where voices rose in song and smoke drifted from the communal ovens.

  Veleth came alive as the jungle parted around it.

  The scent of roasted tubers, treefruit, and smoked barkfish drifted through the humid air. Colorful cloths were being strung across suspended bridges, and children darted between huts carrying carved masks and painted drums. Lanterns—some shaped like jungle birds, others like starbursts—swung gently above the walkways, each waiting for dusk to bring them to life.

  It was the day before the Festival of Threads.

  And the entire village buzzed.

  Kaelen walked quietly into the center square, the deer slung over his shoulder, the other hunters trailing behind, laughing, already calling out to their wives and children.

  He moved toward the butcher’s station—an open-air canopy ringed with bone hooks, carved boards, and blackened pots. The man tending it was short but wide-shouldered, with arms like braided rope and a scar that split one eyebrow clean in half.

  Kaelen dropped the deer at his feet.

  “Hoho,” the butcher grinned, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. “So you’re the one who caught it, eh?”

  “I helped,” Kaelen replied, brushing hair from his eyes.

  The man laughed deep from his chest. “Well, hunter or helper, you brought me good meat. I’ll treat it like a gift from the gods.”

  “Thank you, Burak,” Kaelen said with a nod.

  Burak raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased the boy remembered his name. “I’ll have it cleaned and hung by dusk—save you a strip of flank, eh?”

  Kaelen smiled. “Only if you don’t eat it first.”

  Burak laughed again, already dragging the deer toward the block.

  Kaelen turned away—and then something heavy slammed into his back.

  He staggered forward a step with a grunt as two arms wrapped around his neck and a laughing voice crowed in his ear, “What’s this? My little brother hunting deer like some jungle king?!”

  Kaelen twisted, a half-smile forming as he looked over his shoulder.

  Imari.

  Seventeen now. Nearly a woman, though she’d punch anyone who dared say it to her face. Her black hair was tied high in a braided loop, streaked with jungle-dyed thread. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, and her smile was all teeth and confidence.

  She had grown tall, strong, and—despite all attempts to hide it—beautiful.

  Too beautiful.

  Kaelen had already overheard the whispers from the other boys.

  “Imari from the Harun house… did you see her carry two bundles alone?”

  “She outran Jarev last week and beat him in wrestling.”

  “I asked her for tea and got a bruised shoulder instead.”

  Imari laughed as she let go and stepped around to face him, hands on her hips.

  “You killed that deer?” she asked, looking down at the blood still drying on his hands. “You cheat. You totally cheated.”

  Kaelen shrugged. “Some of us are just talented.”

  “Ohhh,” she said, mock offended, “look at little brother now, with his big words and bigger head.”

  He chuckled softly, brushing dirt from his arm. “I learned it from watching you.”

  Imari beamed. “Smart boy.”

  She ruffled his hair roughly—then froze mid-gesture, realizing he was too tall now for her to do it comfortably. Her expression flickered, just for a second. A glint of realization.

  He wasn’t her tiny shadow anymore.

  But before the moment could settle, a familiar voice broke through the crowd.

  “Well done, Kaelen.”

  They both turned as Elder Nayla stepped toward them, leaning on her carved walking stick, eyes sharp and kind as ever.

  The crowd parted slightly around her. Even during festival preparations, her presence commanded space.

  Kaelen dipped his head. “It was the hunting party’s work, not just mine.”

  Nayla chuckled. “A modest killer. Dangerous indeed.”

  Imari smirked and folded her arms.

  Nayla gestured toward the sound of flutes and hollow drums rising from the center square. “Come. Join the others. I suspect the festival will need a few more steps danced before the sun falls.”

  Imari grabbed Kaelen’s hand without waiting for permission and dragged him forward.

  He let her.

  But as they walked, music rising and laughter swelling around them, Kaelen’s gaze shifted to the treetops—to the horizon beyond the jungle’s quiet canopy.

  “I know what lies behind the trees,” he thought.

  “The war between Alkandor and Krothmaar nearly tore the heart from the continent.”

  He had studied every map. Reconstructed every campaign from secondhand news and trader whispers. He knew the fall of Valmere, Griswall, and then High Fenrow—three great keeps lost in less than a year.

  Krothmaar had surged like wildfire, unstoppable, until the Vel’aralai intervened.

  The elves had broken centuries of neutrality. Not to save Alkandor—but to preserve balance.

  If Krothmaar had taken the eastern riverlands, the Dervan might have joined. The Issar’Sai might have followed. The scale would have tipped—and never leveled again.

  “So the Vel’aralai marched,” he remembered.

  “And Krothmaar stopped.”

  For now.

  No treaties were signed. No peace declared.

  Only the fighting stopped—mostly.

  Now, the travelers brought quieter news. Rumors of skirmishes, border fires, lost patrols. Nothing large. Nothing official.

  But war had a way of breathing through cracks when no one watched.

  Kaelen’s eyes drifted back to the festival.

  Children ran between painted tents with reed-cakes in hand. Dancers spun in circles, bark-drum beats keeping time with their feet. Bright powders were tossed into the air like confetti, and the sky above Veleth turned gold with late afternoon light.

  “As long as it doesn’t reach here…” he thought.

  “We’re fine.”

  He let out a slow breath and turned toward the firepit where the meat was roasting, his steps syncing with the rhythm of the drums.

  “Let the war sleep a little longer.”

  “Tonight, I’ll dance with the living.”

  The music hadn’t stopped.

  The drums still rolled like riverbeats under the feet of dancers. Children shrieked with joy as they chased each other between fire pits, faces painted in powdered dye. Imari hoisted a basket of fruit high above her head, daring the boys near her to snatch it.

  But something was wrong.

  Kaelen felt it like a change in the air pressure—subtle, quiet, real.

  He noticed it in the way two volunteers near the edges of the crowd exchanged glances and slipped away without a word. Another, standing near the butcher’s stall, casually rolled up his sleeves and walked east, hands loose but steps too focused.

  Too precise.

  No one else noticed.

  But Kaelen had studied movement his entire life—first as a general, now as an observer.

  These were not men fetching water or checking a snare line.

  They were converging.

  His eyes scanned the outer edges of the square.

  Then he saw Harun.

  His father stood by the well, speaking calmly with one of the basket-makers, a smile tugging at his lips.

  Then—a whisper.

  One of the younger volunteers leaned in and spoke close to Harun’s ear.

  The smile faded.

  Kaelen watched as Harun gave a single nod, set down the ladle he was holding, and walked eastward—not quickly, but with weight in his steps.

  Kaelen rose from the bench near the outer ring of lanterns, brushing dirt from his palms.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He began moving—not fast, not rushed—but weaving between villagers as though heading toward the fruit stalls. His path curved, then bent east.

  He caught a familiar presence behind him.

  Rehn.

  The boy stood still at the edge of the crowd, one hand resting on a bundle of firewood, the other tucked against his hip. Watching, like always.

  Kaelen met his gaze and gave a small tilt of his head.

  Then a subtle flick of his fingers.

  Follow.

  Rehn didn’t speak. Didn’t nod.

  But he moved.

  Together, they slipped past the second torch circle, where the dancers whirled tighter. Past a cart draped in painted hide, where women handed out tea-soaked sweets.

  No one stopped them.

  No one noticed.

  The air shifted again near the palisade.

  The music faded behind them as the jungle took back the sound.

  Now Kaelen could see it clearly—volunteers assembling in quiet lines. Some still in festival garb. Others barefoot. A few adjusting leather chestwraps or untying old spears from bundles stashed behind homes.

  Harun was there, speaking low with two scouts.

  Kaelen crept closer, Rehn a few paces behind him.

  He caught enough.

  “Twelve figures,” a scout said. “Moving fast. Not beasts. Two limping. Crest of Alkandor.”

  Harun’s voice came low, firm. “How far?”

  “Close.”

  Kaelen’s jaw clenched.

  Twelve soldiers of Alkandor. Here? Why?

  His eyes scanned the edge of the jungle—dark, thick, trembling slightly in the wind.

  And then—

  They emerged.

  Twelve men, limping, staggering, broken.

  Their armor bore Alkandor’s sun-and-sword, though most of it was cracked or burned. Faces bruised. Some barely conscious. Two were being dragged. One clutched a blood-soaked rag against his leg.

  Kaelen stepped forward instinctively, but Harun raised a hand.

  One of the soldiers stumbled ahead and fell to his knees.

  “Please…” the man rasped. “Help us…”

  He looked up, face caked in soot, eyes wild with exhaustion.

  “They’re behind us,” he gasped. “Krothmaar. A war party. Not raiders—soldiers. Maybe a day behind. Maybe less.”

  Another man collapsed behind him.

  “We ran,” the soldier choked out. “We ran… but they’ll find us. They always do.”

  The volunteers stiffened.

  Not one reached for a weapon—but not one relaxed either.

  Kaelen’s blood turned cold.

  Twelve years of silence.

  Twelve years of distance.

  And still, war had found them.

  He felt Rehn step up beside him, saying nothing.

  Kaelen’s thoughts echoed louder than the drums behind them.

  We are a village without kings.

  Without soldiers.

  But war has come to our trees anyway.