Chapter 1: The First Steps
The morning air in Zakaria was thick with silence. A dim golden light from the eastern sun touched the roofs of mud-brick houses. The smell of bread baking and incense from the temple nearby drifted lazily in the air. Inside a small, humble home at the northern edge of the Roman Empire, a boy was preparing to leave the only life he had ever known.
John Coyal stood in front of his parents, his bag fastened tightly across his back. It was heavy with food, flasks of water, some warm clothes, and scriptures. He wore a long robe, weathered boots, and a thick woolen scarf around his neck. His mother's hands trembled as she fixed the folds of his clothes for the fifth time. His father stood behind her with both hands clasped together, eyes deep with worry.
"John," his mother whispered, her voice breaking, "must you really go?"
John looked into her eyes and smiled softly. "I must, mother. I have to try."
His father stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then before you do, let us pray."
The three of them knelt. His father spoke first, voice firm and reverent. "O Lord, Creator of All, guide our son on his journey. Let him walk under Your watchful eye, let Your mercy follow him in every step."
His mother continued, her tears falling freely. "Shield him from wicked men, from evil spirits, from hunger and despair. Let him never forget the teachings of the man who wore the crown of thorns."
John then finished, "Let my journey be pure in Your eyes. Not for glory or gold, but for the hope of peace. Let Your will be my guide."
They stood again, embracing each other for a long time. His mother kissed his forehead. His father pressed something into his hand—it was a small wooden carving of a fish. A symbol of their faith.
"Keep this close," his father said. "And never forget who you are."
John nodded, his throat tight with emotion. He stepped outside, the morning now brighter but still quiet. He walked toward the road heading south, his boots crunching softly against the earth. As he passed by the low walls and narrow paths of Zakaria, familiar voices called out to him.
"John!"
He turned to see a group of his childhood friends standing at the corner where they used to play with sticks and chase each other through the olive groves.
"You're really going?" one of them asked.
"I am," John said.
"If you find the crown and become king," said another, "will you still be our friend?"
John smiled. "Of course. If I become king, then you'll have a friend who sits on a throne. But no matter what happens, I'll always be John from Zakaria. You're part of my life, and I will never forget you."
One of the boys stepped forward and hugged him. Another clapped him on the back. They all stood there a moment longer, then watched as he continued down the road.
He walked in silence for a while, listening to the wind. Birds called in the distance. As he passed by the edge of the village, he came to a house with clay-red walls and a wide wooden door. He paused. This was his uncle's house—his mother's brother. A man once known for his strength in war, now known for his ale and his stories.
John saw him sitting outside on a stool, a jug in one hand, eyes half-shut.
"Boy," the man called out, spotting him. "Is that you?"
"It is, Uncle."
The man stood up slowly, wiping his beard with his sleeve. His eyes were red but kind. "You're off to chase that golden crown, eh?"
John nodded.
The old man stared at him for a while, then turned back inside. He returned moments later with a long, curved sword in a leather sheath. He walked to John and held it out.
"You might not be good with it yet," he said, "but a sword by your side is better than a prayer alone when wolves come."
John accepted the sword with both hands. It was heavy. "Thank you, Uncle. I'll remember your lessons."
His uncle gave a crooked smile. "I hope you don't have to use it. But if you do, swing it hard and don't blink."
They embraced. His uncle patted him on the back hard. "Make your mother proud."
John continued walking. The land began to stretch out before him, flat and dry. The road turned to sand and stone. His legs ached, but he pressed on. Behind him, the rooftops of Zakaria slowly disappeared. He didn't look back.
Tears welled in his eyes. This was real now. No turning back.
He started to run. The heavy bag bounced against his back. His scarf flapped in the wind. He ran until his chest burned and his breath caught. Then he stopped, hands on his knees, gasping. The sun was higher now. The heat pressed down on him.
He drank from his flask and continued walking.
The desert was endless in every direction. Only dirt and dry air. But John knew that if he kept going south, he would reach Clweso, the next village. From there, maybe more travelers, maybe stories, maybe even signs of the crown.
Hours passed. The land slowly changed. The air became cooler. He saw hills in the distance and low trees. The desert was ending. A forest lay ahead, dark and cold, still far away.
Then, in the distance, he saw something moving. A figure on a camel.
The camel came closer. The rider raised his hand. It was an old man with a long gray beard and a wide smile. John recognized him.
"Old Man Rom!"
"John! Praise be! It's been two days since I saw another soul out here. What are you doing alone, boy?"
"I'm heading to Clweso. I seek the Crown of Crayilaos."
Rom raised an eyebrow and nodded. "A brave thing. Brave or foolish. But your heart is strong. Come, ride with me."
John climbed onto the camel behind the old man. The camel moved slowly but steadily.
"There's a camp not far from here," Rom said. "Ftizolo. A place where wanderers stop to rest. No matter where you come from or where you go, all pass through Ftizolo."
John held on tight, feeling the wind against his face. The camel's footsteps were steady, like a song. As they traveled, John watched the land unfold—a wide world ahead, filled with danger and hope.
'Its quite cold for a desert...' he thought.