At the western edge of the kingdom, where not even trees dared to grow, I recalled an old song.
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The gods had created two forms of life—
One was the flowing path.
The other, a tree with roots sunk deep into the earth.
The Great Forge and the Tree of Life. Two kinds of existence, two sources of breath.
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Their creation marked the beginning of discord, and soon the gods vanished from the continent.
And those who inherited the lingering thoughts of the ancient gods—those who became kings of their own lands—descended into the madness of divine memory.
Before fading into obscurity, they surrendered to the final whispers, lost their sense of self, and raised the weapons of the gods against one another.
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At the end of a war without a victor, they had forgotten the will of creation.
And in their forgetting, they splintered.
And in their splintering, they marched toward ruin.
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This song is not a celebration of victory, nor a hymn to a king’s coronation.
It is a lullaby for the forgotten, a mournful chant for those whose names remain unspoken.
Even now, the wind that brushes the ruins atop the hill seems to remember it.
Their last moments became their last testaments.
And this song, composed to remember them, is a dirge.
A song of pain.
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A melody for a grave without a name.
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All the lords had been slowly consumed by the gods within their sacred relics.
And in time, that decay became war.
Banners splintered, flags rotted, and the number of ruins only grew.
Once again, the song rises toward the nameless grave.
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Ashes stir as the wind returns.
And within that wind rides an ancient tongue, long since lost.
If someone, anyone, could call their names again—
Perhaps even this dead world might open its eyes once more.
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And then, that lost tongue whispers in my ear:
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“O kings, ye poor kings, gnawed away by the remnants of gods.
A new age draws near.
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Hollis, eternal king of Etriya.
Jacqueline, proud queen of the merfolk, golden-armed and sea-born.
Ethan, sovereign of the central Tree of Life.
Floria, radiant queen of the luminous forest.
Benedict, blessed king of Ziproai, land of the hermit.
Lawrence, shattered king of Yasnurg.
Gregory, the giant king of flame and forge.
Cecile, the ambitious queen of the Great Forge.
Esteban, king of the unknowing.
And all the other monarchs of forgotten realms…
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The laws of the world have broken.
Prepare to greet the one who shall be born anew.
Lo, a new age awakens.
On the day when all ambitions rise,
They shall meet their end.
On the day the new king is born.”
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The whisper becomes prophecy, seeping into my mind, carried on breathless wind:
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“O one who bears the mark of kingship,
Rise to the throne, and let a new age begin.
Claim every throne. Become king of all.”
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But what meaning is there in light touching the ruins?
The buildings have long since collapsed, and no footstep dares cross these stones.
Will the dead world ever wake?
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“…Wait. Just a moment.”
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A tiny sprout, kissed by sunlight.
A single drop of dew resting on its leaf, shimmering like a jewel.
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“Yes. Perhaps… this might be your story.”
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“You ask who I am?”
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A clear and delicate voice, colder than ice, laughed softly in reply.
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“Call me what you will. A mage, or a witch—either will do.”
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“Even now, kings drown in ambition, people in fury. Their eyes clouded by desire.
They long for destruction in the name of longing. Perhaps it is futile…
But tell me, what is it you desire?”
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“Think carefully. And when we meet again, call me by the name you’ve chosen.
I await your answer.”
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He opened his eyes slowly, touched by the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.
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“Ah… that dream again…”
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A dream that always came like a curse, and always vanished like mist.
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On the day the gates of the castle closed behind him, Sillion had not looked back.
No blessings, no farewell hands waved in his direction. He had left the palace in silence.
He packed alone, and no one questioned his absence.
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A bastard’s life.
A bearer of divine residue.
A child born under an ominous star foretold by prophecy—unwanted, unloved, quietly shunned.
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But Sillion had known.
He simply wanted to live—by his own will, upon his own path.
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He stepped into the deep woods north of the capital.
It was less a journey, more a retreat.
And for a fleeting moment, the light that poured between the leaves and the crisp air brushing his skin—
they whispered something close to freedom.
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But the feeling did not last.
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The next morning, rain poured in torrents.
Mud clung to his boots and soaked through his clothes.
His food supply dwindled.
Anxiety crept in.
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On a silent night, where no firelight reached, he made camp.
He lit a fire.
He warmed his final bowl of soup.
Staring into the flickering flame, Sillion remembered the day he left.
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No one stopped him.
No one sent him off.
Even he—
was unsure whether he could endure this path.
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“Was this… really freedom?”
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He murmured as the rain-drenched bread in his hand crumbled into his mouth,
a quiet, bitter meal shared with no one.
Leaning back against a tree, he fell asleep beneath moonlight—
as if it were the last candle he could afford.
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The first day, he gazed at the sky in awe, bathed in the rapture of freedom.
The second, he shivered through rain beneath trembling leaves.
The third, he tripped in a mire—his clothes wet, his body heavy.
The fourth, hunger cried aloud, and he began to ration.
The fifth, a cut on his hand festered.
The sixth, his own voice grew quiet. Even talking to himself wore thin.
The seventh, the northern cold came fast and white snow fell in silence.
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In an unknown forest, at the edge of both dream and death,
Sillion’s soul began to falter.
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—
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When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a warm bed.
Snow fell beyond the window, and someone was sitting beside him.
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“Are you alright?”
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A calm voice.
In her eyes—deep concern, and a gentle kindness.
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“I found you in the woods,” she said. “My father and I brought you here… to our little inn.”
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Sillion nodded without a word.
He wanted to say something.
But such warmth—
it felt foreign, like light to the blind.
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So he only nodded, quietly.
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For the first time in this journey, someone had spoken to him.
For the first time in seven days, someone called his name.
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And for the first time, he wanted to believe—
that leaving the castle hadn’t been a mistake.
That this journey wasn’t over.
That perhaps—
it was just beginning.