The human race had endured countless centuries, its resilience forged in fire and hardened by relentless tides of history. And so, in the 14th century- in the great land of Aizendel- four mighty kingdoms stood tall, like ancient titans amidst the earth's rolling landscapes. They were Veridia, with its emerald forests; Falkan, whose scorching deserts stretched unbroken; Caelum, proud and craggy, crowned by misty peaks; and the greatest of them all—Ignara, a beacon of power, beauty, and wealth.
Ignara, vast and opulent, claimed the fertile valleys and flowed between rivers that glinted like liquid silver. Towering walls wrapped around the kingdom's heart, their stone scarred by time yet unwavering in strength. High above, watchtowers reached skyward, and gilded spires caught the sun's last light, sending rays across the land in bold, triumphant hues. It was a land of splendor, where the wealthy thrived within the city walls, yet beyond lay the realm of the humble and poor, the villages and slums where life was defined by grit, earth, and toil.
Far from the kingdom's heart, nestled against the riverbank, was the fishing village of Navaha. Dawn broke gently over this small, unadorned village, casting soft beams across the water, which shimmered like scattered gems. Boats drifted at the river's edge, nets cast wide, and the men worked in pairs to haul in the day's early catch. Navaha, though modest, was alive with murmured voices, the creak of wooden boats, and the steady lull of the river flowing beneath the softening sky.
Boyd, sixteen, stood shoulder to shoulder with his father on the riverbank, hands wrapped tightly around the rough-hewn net. His face, browned by the sun and marked by the early sharpness of youth, was set in determination as he matched his father's effort with his own. His gaze held the river's reflection, a faint gleam of yearning flickering behind his dark eyes.
"Pull!" his father's voice barked, ringing out over the water like an order in battle. Boyd braced himself, gripping the net tighter, the thick cords biting into his palms as he heaved back with all his might. A final tug, and the net burst forth from the water, fish thrashing inside, their scales glinting beneath the dawn's light.
A smile lit up his father's weathered face, a rare moment of pride. He ran a hand through his graying hair, eyes twinkling as he surveyed their bounty.
"Ah, we'll eat well tonight." he chuckled, his laughter deep and warm. "Enough to keep us for a few good months yet, eh, Boyd?"
Boyd managed a faint smile, but his mind drifted beyond the river, beyond the fish in the net, to dreams he could barely voice. Was this life—casting nets, hauling fish—the future that lay before him?
***
As they loaded the baskets onto their donkey, his father's mirth softened, noticing the look in Boyd's eyes.
"Boyd." he said with a hint of reproach, "this life, here with me on the river—it's good, honest work. It's not so bad, lad."
Boyd glanced away, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. "If you say so." he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. But his heart ached, heavy with a yearning for something he could not name.
They walked home in silence, the dusk falling around them, painting the path in cool, muted shades. Other villagers passed by, offering nods and greetings, and Boyd's father returned each one warmly. Yet Boyd's thoughts remained dark and unyielding, his mind turning over the endless cycle of days, each the same as the last, each bound to this river and this village.
***
Nightfall found them at home, their small cottage bathed in the soft glow of a single candle. The fire crackled, casting shadows that danced along the walls as they sat in quiet, spooning warm fish stew into their mouths. Boyd's father set his bowl aside, studying him with a familiar look of concern.
"You think the world out there is better?" his father asked, a sadness in his eyes.
"Out there, men fight wars and spill blood for that glory you're always dreaming of. This is safer, Boyd."
Boyd's grip tightened on his spoon, his eyes narrowing as he met his father's gaze.
"Safe?" he repeated, a bitterness seeping into his tone.
"This is living in poverty. Working ourselves raw, only to scrape by another day."
A tense silence fell, sharp and charged. His father's eyes darkened.
"Enough, Boyd." he warned, his voice low. "This life has kept you fed, kept you safe. It may not be rich, but it's worth something."
"Is it?" Boyd snapped, his voice cold. His anger swelled, and before he knew it, his hand shot out, his bowl clattering to the floor, spilling stew across the dirt. Without another word, he pushed back his chair, storming to his room. The door shut hard, reverberating in the small cottage as he threw himself onto his bed, clenching his fists in frustration.
Sleep came grudgingly, wrapped in dark clouds of resentment.
But in the quiet stillness, there came a sound. It was faint at first—a murmur rising from the village square. Then a scream tore through the night, sharp and raw, jolting Boyd awake.
He scrambled into the main room, blinking in the darkness as he saw his father by the window, his face pale and taut. "What is it?" Boyd breathed, fear threading through his voice.
His father turned, urgency and dread in his eyes. "We're under attack." he whispered.
"Go. Hide."
"But—" Boyd's voice faltered, confusion and terror swirling within him.
"Don't argue with me!" his father barked, grabbing him by the shoulders. His voice softened, though urgency still laced it.
"Please, Boyd. Just listen. For once, listen to me." He crossed the room swiftly, shoving aside the small kitchen table and prying up a loose floorboard, revealing a hollow space beneath.
"Get in."
The roar of screams and the sound of metal clashing filled the night, closing in on them. Boyd's hands shook, but he obeyed, clambering into the cramped space, his father lowering the plank back down.
"I love you." his father whispered, his voice thick, before he vanished from sight, the door to the cottage slamming as he ran into the night.
Boyd lay in the pitch black, his heart racing, ears straining against the pounding silence. Each scream, each distant clash of steel, rattled through his bones. And then—a sound, chillingly close.
A woman's shriek, raw and desperate, filled the room above him. Footsteps thudded across the floor, and a harsh laugh echoed, followed by the sickening slice of a blade meeting flesh, a choked gasp, then silence.
He gritted his teeth, his hand pressed tightly over his mouth as he tried to keep still. Through the floorboards, a warm trickle seeped down—a thick droplet of blood, landing on his cheek, sending a shiver of horror through him.
The footsteps drew closer, stopping right above him. His heart thundered, every muscle locked in terror as he held his breath, hoping, praying the danger would pass. But a second later, the plank was wrenched away, and he was yanked out into the torchlight.
The soldier's face loomed above him, scarred and bloodstained, his eyes cold and mocking. Boyd's hands flailed, desperation clawing at his throat as he screamed, but the man's grip was unyielding. With a swift, brutal punch, pain exploded across his face, his vision going dark, his scream silenced as he fell into unconsciousness.