The jungle was hushed.

  No birdsong. No rustle of branches. Only the soft crunch of boots pressing into soil, and the labored breathing of men who had tasted war for the first time.

  Kaelen walked at the head of the group, spear in one hand, a bloodstained wrap knotted tight around his bicep. His face was smudged with soot and spattered blood, but his expression remained unmoved. Unflinching.

  Behind him, twelve volunteers limped or leaned on one another. Some had wrapped wounds, others bore bruises and scrapes. Two stretchers were carried in silence—no movement from the bodies on them.

  Two dead.

  One of them still had a leather slingshot hanging limp from his belt.

  Kaelen didn’t look back.

  But in his heart, the weight pressed hard.

  So young, he thought. Their first battle... and their last.

  The village gates were ahead now—rough-hewn wooden beams bound with vine and bone. Beyond them, a crowd had gathered.

  Lureya stood near the center, hands clutched together at her chest. Imari beside her, pale and silent, hair half-undone.

  Elder Nayla stood to the right, her walking stick grounded beside her, face grim.

  The rest of Veleth was behind them—mothers, fathers, children—no longer celebrating, no longer singing.

  The festival had ended the moment the volunteers didn’t return.

  Now, they waited.

  Kaelen’s steps never broke stride. But beside him, Harun slowed.

  He glanced down at his son—at the boy who walked without fear. Who looked forward with the stillness of a man twice his age. And yet… Harun saw the slight tremor in Kaelen’s jaw. The flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

  He reached out and placed a heavy, calloused hand on Kaelen’s shoulder.

  “You did what you had to,” Harun said gently. “You’re still young, Kaelen. You weren’t meant to carry this yet.”

  Kaelen didn’t stop walking. He didn’t flinch.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  And he meant it.

  But deep in his chest, behind the iron walls of his heart, the image of the two boys lying motionless still lingered like a smoldering ember.

  Harun let his hand linger another second… then withdrew.

  The gates opened without a word.

  The villagers watched in silence as the group entered.

  Nayla’s eyes scanned the faces—counting.

  When she saw the stretchers, her lips parted slightly, and she lowered her gaze. A breath caught in her throat.

  Then, tears.

  Lureya’s hand went to her mouth.

  A woman in the crowd let out a sound—somewhere between a cry and a scream—and two parents broke from the group, rushing forward to the bodies.

  “No… no, no, no—”

  The mother collapsed to her knees. The father fell beside her, clutching her tightly, eyes wild with disbelief.

  Others gathered around, trying to pull them back, to soften the moment.

  Kaelen stood apart.

  Watching.

  Harun leaned in close again. “Give them time,” he said softly. “No one wanted this. You did what you could.”

  Kaelen nodded once, eyes unreadable.

  Then, without hesitation, he turned and walked to Elder Nayla.

  She met him halfway, her face shadowed by grief and exhaustion. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing as she looked down at the blood on his arm, the stiffness in his shoulders.

  “I need to speak with the Alkandor soldiers,” Kaelen said quietly.

  Nayla blinked. “Kaelen… you just returned. You need rest. Let someone—”

  “I’ll rest after,” he interrupted.

  His voice wasn’t cold. It was calm.

  Resolved.

  Nayla sighed, slowly. Then she murmured under her breath, “You speak like someone older. I keep forgetting the boy is just a shell.”

  Then louder: “Very well. Come. They’re being tended to near the storage hut.”

  Kaelen nodded, and followed.

  Imari moved as if to go with them—but Lureya placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  “Let him walk this part alone,” she whispered.

  The inside of the hut smelled of burnt cloth and blood.

  Herbs simmered in shallow bowls along the walls, their steam rising in pale curls. Bandages stained dark rested in piles near the back, and a dull orange glow from the central flame lit the worn faces of the wounded.

  The Alkandor soldiers were silent when Kaelen entered.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  His steps were deliberate—slow, steady, as if he carried not only his own weight but that of every fallen friend behind him.

  They looked up as he passed the threshold.

  Kaelen’s voice cut through the low murmur like a blade.

  “The Kors are dead.”

  A few soldiers stirred.

  “They won’t be chasing you anymore.”

  He stopped near the fire, gaze moving from one face to another. “You can leave.”

  A pause.

  “You will leave.”

  A young soldier—barely more than a man—stood up from where he was seated, a cloth wrapped clumsily around his shoulder.

  He offered a weak, nervous smile.

  “Forgive me, but… might we rest just one more day? Just a single—this place… it’s peaceful. We haven’t known peace in so long—”

  Kaelen moved without hesitation.

  He crossed the hut in two strides and seized the man by the collar, slamming him back against the wooden frame behind him. The soldier gasped, wide-eyed.

  Kaelen’s face was inches from his.

  “Peace?” he hissed. “You speak of peace?”

  The others stood abruptly—some in alarm, others unsure whether to intervene.

  Kaelen didn’t waver.

  “You brought war to our gates. And because of you—two of ours are dead. Two boys who had never known anything but roots, rivers, and laughter.”

  The soldier stammered, guilt flashing behind his wide eyes. “I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean—”

  Kaelen’s grip tightened for a breath more, then released.

  The man slumped forward, shaking, and Kaelen turned from him with a sharp breath through his nose.

  The captain stood then.

  Older. Weathered. Bandages bound tight across his ribs, one arm in a sling.

  He stepped forward slowly, keeping his voice level, respectful.

  “You have every right to be angry,” he said. “We shouldn’t have come this far into your lands. But we were desperate. We didn’t expect… kindness. Or courage.”

  He bowed his head low, voice heavy.

  “You saved our lives. That will not be forgotten. I swear it by my name, and by the last standard I served.”

  He straightened.

  “My name is Edric Vallan. Captain of the third border garrison, Alkandor. If I live to see my king again, he’ll hear of Veleth. And your names will not be left out.”

  Kaelen said nothing.

  He only nodded once—short. Final.

  Captain Vallan turned to his men.

  “Prepare to move. We march within the hour. Even wounded, we owe these people distance.”

  There was no protest.

  One by one, the soldiers began gathering their packs, steadying one another. No one spoke above a whisper now. And each, as they passed the doorway, turned to give a solemn nod to the elder who waited just beyond the hut.

  Elder Nayla returned each gesture with a faint bow of her head, eyes dark with thought.

  When the last soldier had limped through the gate, she turned to Kaelen, still standing in the silence of the emptied room.

  “That’s the first time,” she said quietly, “I’ve ever heard that tone in your voice.”

  Kaelen didn’t look at her.

  He kept his eyes on the fire, low and flickering.

  “It was the first time I buried someone I gave an order to,” he said.

  Nayla’s face softened.

  “You’re carrying more than you should.”

  “I carry what’s necessary.”

  She watched him a moment longer.

  Then stepped closer.

  “What do you need, Kaelen?”

  He turned finally to face her.

  “I need you to gather the village. The elders. The volunteers. Everyone old enough to understand the shape of the world.”

  Nayla blinked. “To tell them what?”

  Kaelen’s voice was calm.

  “To tell them the truth.”

  He stepped forward, blood drying on the side of his tunic.

  “The forest is no longer hidden. The war is no longer distant. We may never be safe again… unless we change.”

  Nayla’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  “I will arrange it,” she said. “But after you’ve cleaned your wounds and rested. You’re still bleeding, Kaelen.”

  He hesitated.

  Then nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  She left him in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm torchlight.

  And Kaelen stood alone in the empty hut.

  He sat slowly by the fire, the low coals crackling.

  No noise. No footsteps.

  Just the soft whisper of burning bark.

  He stared into the flame.

  And for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to feel it.

  The air in the council hall was thick with the scent of moss, oil, and smoke-root ash.

  Twelve elders sat around the great spiral table, each representing a different section of Veleth—fishermen, bark-shapers, foragers, healers, weavers, and farmers alike. Their robes varied by color and texture, dyed with the tones of their craft: soft ochres, muddy greens, stone-grays, and cloud-white.

  Harun stood near the edge, his arms folded but posture respectful.

  He was not here to speak.

  Many of the elders looked to him anyway.

  “Harun,” grumbled Elder Koriv, a broad-shouldered man with a craggy face and eyes like riverstone, “Was it you who called this gathering? After what happened?”

  Harun shook his head slowly. “No. I did not.”

  A few elders exchanged confused looks.

  Then, Elder Nayla stood, her walking staff thudding softly against the living wood.

  “It was not Harun who summoned us tonight,” she said, voice calm but clear. “It was the one who led the defense when we had none. The one who faced down the Kors, not with strength of body—but of mind.”

  She turned toward Kaelen, who stood quietly in the shadows near the archway.

  Her voice warmed. “Kaelen. Son of Harun.”

  All eyes turned.

  Kaelen stepped forward, not in a rush. Not with fear.

  He walked to the center of the table and placed both hands upon it, looking at each face until the silence settled.

  He bowed once. Then straightened.

  “My words won’t be long,” he said. “But they will be sharp.”

  The silence grew deeper.

  “I speak first of those who fell,” Kaelen began. “Teren of the Bark Circle. And Harn of South Pool. They were young. Brave. And they died not because they lacked heart—but because they lacked training.”

  He paused.

  “They were raised as hunters. Not warriors. And yet they faced warriors.”

  His words were not dramatic. Just steady. Like truth forged into steel.

  “I do not blame the village,” Kaelen continued. “We have known peace for many years. But peace is not something you’re given. It’s something you guard.”

  He let that sink in.

  “Others guard it,” said Elder Mira of the Riverfolk, her wiry gray braid wrapped with blue glass rings. “Like Maereth’s tribe. We’ve known of them for years. They fight because they must. We do not live near the edge. We are not like them.”

  Kaelen nodded. “You’re right. They had no choice.”

  He leaned forward slightly. “But we are running out of choice.”

  A murmur rippled around the table.

  Kaelen continued, voice low but clear:

  “Soldiers from Alkandor stood at our gates. They now know Veleth exists. They will speak of it. That knowledge will spread.”

  He turned to Elder Koriv. “What will you do when soldiers come in the hundreds, maybe thousands, and demand food? Or land? Or children to conscript?”

  Koriv stiffened but said nothing.

  Kaelen let the silence speak.

  “Will you meet them with baskets of grain?” he asked. “Or with spears crafted from farming tools?”

  Another elder, long-bearded and hunched, leaned forward—Elder Taval, keeper of lore and herbal records.

  “We don’t know war. We’re not warriors. How would we fight them even if we agreed?”

  All eyes drifted to Harun.

  Harun stepped forward slowly. “I will not lead them.”

  The elders blinked.

  “But—”

  “My time is past,” Harun said. “And… my son is already ahead of me.”

  He nodded once, then turned to Kaelen.

  “I’ve seen what he can do. What he sees. What he knows.”

  Kaelen’s throat tightened for half a second—but he held firm.

  “I’ve studied the Kors,” Kaelen said. “I’ve seen the formations of Maereth’s warriors. I know what they do well… and what they lack.”

  His eyes swept the council.

  “I can teach both. I will train those who are willing. I will make defenders out of hunters. Spears out of ashwood.”

  “Even if it’s only a few,” he added. “That is enough to begin.”

  More murmurs.

  Elder Mira frowned. “You think you can teach war like weaving?”

  Kaelen’s answer was immediate. “No. But I can teach survival.”

  The table broke.

  Elder Loris of the South Groves slammed her hand down. “We invite more blood by preparing for it!”

  “No—we invite slaughter by doing nothing!” snapped Elder Denor, youngest of the council, eyes sharp and fists clenched.

  “It is unnatural!” barked Koriv. “To arm children!”

  “He is no child!” Taval shot back. “He saved your sons!”

  The noise rose—words overlapping, anger folding over fear.

  Kaelen stepped back, letting the storm swirl.

  Elder Nayla sat quietly, her eyes on him the whole time.

  Then… she closed them. Whispered something under her breath.

  A prayer, maybe. Or a memory.

  As the voices clashed in the sacred hall, Kaelen stood in the center.

  Calm.

  Unshaken.

  His hands rested by his sides.

  He had led men before.

  But never like this.

  Never as a child.

  And yet—this moment felt more dangerous than any battlefield.

  Because here, the enemy was not Kors.

  It was denial.

  And if they didn’t act now…

  Next time, there would be no forest left to defend.