The sound of the current was soft—almost a whisper. The river wound lazily between stones and twisted roots, as though in no hurry to arrive anywhere. The morning breeze stirred the tall leaves with a rhythmic rustle, and the song of a lone bird broke the silence with slow, spaced notes, as if it too had woken late.
Rael still slept, leaning against the shadow of an ancient, thick-trunked tree that offered shelter like the arms of a weary mother. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the foliage, casting golden patches upon the grass and his wounded face. Despite the pain and the stiffness of his limbs, his body had found a momentary truce there—between forest and river.
When his eyes opened, the world seemed changed. Lighter. Less urgent. For a moment, he simply breathed—as if relearning how to do so.
Then he noticed what lay beside him.
A small bundle of cloth, coarse yet clean, rested atop a flat stone. Within it, rustic pieces of bread, still slightly damp with the fading warmth of steam, and a handful of wild berries. Beside it, a makeshift canteen fashioned from a cut gourd, filled with fresh water.
Rael looked upon it as if beholding a miracle.
He studied the food for a moment.Nothing special. No seasoning. No luxury.But his body begged for it.
His stomach growled—not with ordinary hunger, but with the desperate need of one who had hovered near death, who had bled until his very soul nearly slipped away.
He brought the bread to his lips and bit—and the world seemed to halt for an instant.
Rael leaned his head against the tree, eyes closed, chewing slowly, absorbing each sensation like a man who had never truly known what it meant to eat.
He did not wonder who had left it there. Nor did he consider traps or hidden motives. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was being alive—and tasting life again.
After satisfying his most primal needs, he felt somewhat restored.
"Thank you for the food," he said aloud, unsure of exactly whom he was thanking.
Then, he leaned back once more against the tree.
The silence was thick as mist. Only the sound of the slow-moving water and the rustle of leaves filled the air around him. A calm he had not felt in ages, not since his youth. It was as if he had returned to the early days of his training, before the burdens of princely duty—just a child again.
Rael remained there, lost in a wave of nostalgia. At some point, his gaze fell upon the sword embedded in the earth beside him—a blade as black as night, with crimson glints pulsing like a heart.
He did not know exactly what to make of it. The blade had once spoken to him, and the two had felt each other's emotions. Rael knew the blade's intent: it thirsted for blood.
The memory brought a deeper ache. His body hurt, but his mind hurt more. The sting of the dagger's betrayal burned hotter than the blade itself. The sensation of skin being pierced by one he had sworn to protect, Helena's scornful eyes gleaming, his brother emerging from the shadows like a serpent.
Rael clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms. Fresh blood dripped onto the grass. The air seemed to boil around him.
The memory of the ceremony, Nil's false smile, the hollow promises. He was the heir. The perfect warrior. The ideal son. But it had not been enough.
He looked at the sword, and for a moment, they communed without words. He felt its power vibrating through the soil, its wrath after years of imprisonment. It seemed to call to him. Whispered—barely audible—like the wind that precedes a storm.
"They will see," Rael murmured, eyes burning as he stared at the blade. "We will show them all."
It was then that he heard a soft crack—like branches breaking. His eyes snapped to the sound, his hand instinctively closing around the sword's hilt. And there, between two trees, with a bucket in hand and wide, startled eyes, stood Lyara.
She looked upon him as if beholding a spirit. And truly, it was hard to believe that the man beneath the tree's shadow—fevered gaze and aura of wrath pulsing about him—was still among the living.
Rael said nothing in that moment. He waited for her to act.She did nothing.And the silence between them stretched thin—like the edge of a blade… poised to cut.
Lyara took a step back, nearly stumbling over her own bucket. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, as though it wished to flee before she could. Her gaze did not waver from Rael's—those eyes, intense and wild, held a pain so tightly bound it felt like a wildfire on the brink of breaking free.
Rael raised a hand—not in threat, but as one who seeks to halt time itself.
"Wait…" His voice was hoarse, broken, yet steady. "Please."
Lyara froze. Still tense, but something in the way he spoke that single please made her hesitate. She remained there, unmoving, her fingers tightening around the handle of the bucket, her eyes wary, curious—and yet, somehow, compassionate.
Rael cast his eyes downward for a moment, then looked up and asked:
"Was it you? The one who left the food?"
She nodded.
"And you pulled me from the riverbank?"
"You were dying," she said, her voice soft, almost timid—but not weak. "I couldn't just leave you."
Rael straightened slightly, still leaning on the tree. He took a deep breath, as though it cost him dearly.
"Then… thank you." He met her gaze.
Lyara did not respond at once. But something in her expression softened. She set the bucket down and stepped forward, slowly, like one approaching a wounded wolf.
"Y-you're badly hurt," she murmured, pulling from within the cloth wrapped around her hair a small vial of herbs and a clean strip of cloth. She soaked the fabric in the liquid and gently began to clean one of the wounds on his shoulder.
"This might sting a little."
I've endured worse, the young man thought.
The silence between them now had changed. No longer the tense hush of suspicion, but the fragile stillness of two worlds colliding—and perhaps, for the first time, trying to understand one another.
Lyara sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on a coarse handkerchief. Rael, still leaning against the tree trunk, gazed up through the canopy—the sky clearer than he remembered, as though the world had moved on without him.
He broke the silence, his voice firmer now:
"Tell me… where am I?"
Lyara turned to him, surprised by the directness of the question.
"This village is called Eloren, my lord. It is small… quite isolated. Hardly anyone passes through, except merchants on their way to the borders—or those who wish to disappear."
Rael knew the name.
Even in his weakened state, his trained mind sifted through memories like a general revisiting positions on a battlefield. Eloren was a southern village, nestled at the foot of the Veorn Hills, some three days' ride from the capital. Officially annexed to the Kingdom of Cronos just over two decades ago, during the unification of the Lesser Peoples. He had studied its map, its resources—even the name of its mayor—Halgen, an aging, complacent man, more merchant than magistrate.
There was a news courier in the village who received reports from the capital once a week—perhaps more frequently in times of unrest. Royal knights occasionally passed through Nandor—not often, but often enough that their presence would not draw undue attention. It was discreet enough to hide a man… yet close enough for word of his presence to spread, should someone recognize him.
A chill ran down Rael's spine.
He was safe—for now. But not for long.
His eyes returned to Lyara, who still watched him with quiet intensity. Why had she not turned him in? Why care for him—a man who was clearly no simple peasant?
Rael nodded slowly, his brow furrowed.
"And how long has it been since…" He paused, choosing his words. "Since I was found by the river?"
"Four days." She looked up at the sky, as if recounting the time in her mind. "You were badly hurt. You slept almost the entire time."
Four days.
Rael clenched his fists, a tightness gripping his chest. In four days, countless lies could have already taken root. Perhaps the kingdom was even mourning him by now.
"And… any news? From the continent? The Kingdom of Cronos? The royal palace?" His gaze locked onto her, sudden and intense. "Have you heard anything?"
Lyara seemed to weigh the question, then answered:
"Some travelers said the crown prince was assassinated… on the night of the succession ceremony. The kingdom is in shock. There are rumors that an old criminal—a sorcerer imprisoned in the dungeons—escaped and killed the prince. No one knows how he got out. But…"
She bit her lip, hesitant.
"But?"
"Some don't believe it. They say the royal guard is… strange. That the prince's younger brother is leading too many hunts. And that the king… hasn't slept in days."
Rael felt the world reel. It was like hearing a twisted version of his own story.The truth had been buried—with him.
He fell silent, letting the words echo within.
"This 'sorcerer'… was there a name?"
"Not one I heard," said Lyara. "Only that he was dangerous. A traitor."
Rael stared at the ground, his hands trembling faintly.
"A traitor…"
The sword beside him, still embedded in the earth, seemed to pulse softly—as if it heard his thoughts.
"You're not… the traitor, are you?" the girl asked carefully.
"I would never betray my kingdom," Rael replied—though it was more to himself than to her. A heat was rising within him. He was truly beginning to feel anger now.
"Lyara!"A male voice rang out from the trail, coming from the direction of the village.
The girl jumped. Her eyes widened, and she glanced quickly at Rael, who merely watched in silence. He saw the fear in her.
"I… I have to go," she said hastily, grabbing her small cloth pouch. "Please, stay here. I promise I'll come back later. If you need anything… just wait."
Rael only nodded, too weary to speak. His eyes followed her slight figure as she disappeared among the bushes, her hurried steps crunching dry leaves in her wake.
Why that reaction?
[VILLAGE OF ELOREN]
The wooden door creaked open with a sharp crack.
"Where were you?" roared the heavy voice of the man standing in the middle of the dim room.
The mayor of Eloren was a man of middle age, thickset and cold-eyed. His unkempt beard half-concealed a scar that ran across his left cheek. The room already reeked of cheap wine.
"I only went to the river, sir…" Lyara answered, her head bowed.
"The river?" he stepped toward her—and before she could react, his open palm struck her across the face. Lyara fell onto a wooden bench, knocking over a bowl and several clay pieces that shattered across the floor.
"How many times have I told you to tend the house before playing at being a noble maiden?"
She bit her lip, holding back a sob. Slowly, she began picking up the shards with trembling hands, her silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
"Clean it up! Hah, this generation—always looking for an excuse to slack off!"
He stumbled out of the room, muttering curses and tripping over his own feet, while Lyara knelt amid the broken pieces. She cleaned the mess with wounded fingers, wiped the tears that would not stop falling—and wiped away the fear that had long since become routine.
Outside, the day was beginning to die.And in the shadowed stillness of the little house in Eloren, the young woman wished only to be taken away from there.