Singler: The Forbidden Treasure

SINGLER

The Forbidden Treasure

SAGA II

ALBERTO ERAZO

ENGLISH VERSION

© 2025 ALBERTO ERAZO

All rights reserved

First edition published in 2025

Total or partial reproduction

of this work is prohibited without

the express authorization of the author.

This work is protected by copyright laws.

"Every story has a beginning…

but not all of them start at the moment they are told.

Some names have been forgotten,

some destinies have already been written,

and some secrets should never be revealed.

But the past always finds a way to return.

And this time, the future has already begun."

— Alberto Erazo

Chapter 1: The Crownless Prince

I

The dawn bathed the city of Drakestone in a golden glow. The air carried a familiar scent, like freshly baked bread, and the cobblestone streets shimmered under the morning light.

In the distance, Lake Passalune stretched like an immense mirror, reflecting the warm hues of the sky. Its waters embraced the city, connecting the different districts through its vast expanse.

In a modest house, nestled along a narrow street where brick facades blurred under the morning breeze, a child sat on the floor, playing with a wooden airplane.

It was no ordinary toy. Its wings were carefully carved, its faded blue fuselage bore the scars of countless imagined adventures, and though its propellers no longer spun, it remained his most treasured possession.

—"Mom!" —the boy exclaimed, lifting the airplane above his head—. "It's flying over the water and the clouds!"

From the kitchen, Rachell turned with a smile as she placed the plates on the table.

—"Over the water?" —she asked gently—. "Could it be flying over Lake Passalune?"

The boy paused for a moment, as if he could truly see the lake in his mind, then nodded eagerly.

—"Yes! And it's so fast it can come back before the day is over!"

Rachell chuckled softly as she approached him.

—"Come here, sweetheart. It's time for breakfast."

The boy ran to the table, leaving his airplane on the wooden surface before climbing into his chair. As he took a bite of his toast, his bright eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Rachell watched him with tenderness, her fingers gently brushing through his tousled hair.

—"Have I ever told you the story of Albert Singler?"

The boy shook his head without stopping his chewing.

—"Albert Singler," —Rachell began, folding her hands together—, "was born in a place much like this one. He wasn't a prince, nor a nobleman, not even a man of wealth. He was a farmer. He had only his hands and his dreams, but he worked tirelessly. He used to say that people shouldn't be defined by where they were born, but by what they were willing to build."

The boy rested his chin on his small hands, completely captivated.

—"And what did he do?"

—"Not only did he succeed, but he changed the world." —Rachell's voice held a trace of admiration—. "He built an empire, but he never forgot his roots. His greatest creation was a school—not just any school… it's the school where the children of wealthy families go. They study there to become important people."

She paused, leaning in slightly toward her son.

—"They say that before it became a school… it was an ancient castle."

The boy's eyes widened with amazement.

—"A castle?"

Rachell nodded, amused by his reaction.

—"Yes. A very, very old one. They say it had towering spires, and from there, you could see the entire lake."

The boy frowned, deep in thought.

—"Can I go there?"

Rachell ruffled his hair affectionately.

—"That depends on you, my love. It's a very expensive school, but if you study hard, maybe one day you can enter."

The boy picked up his wooden airplane with renewed determination.

—"I'll fly my airplane to the school! And then I'll build one on every island so that all the children can go."

Rachell smiled, though in her gaze, there was a deeper longing.

—"If anyone can do it, it's you."

The boy made his airplane soar over the table, but this time, he paused, looking at his mother with the innocent curiosity of a child.

—"Mom, did he have an airplane too?"

Rachell smiled at the question and turned her gaze toward the window, where the sky was painted in golden hues.

—"I don't know… but they say one night, he disappeared and never returned."

The boy continued playing with his airplane, giving little thought to the words, but they lingered in the air, like an unfinished story.

Rachell watched him in silence, as if, for a brief moment, her face reflected something more than nostalgia.

—"Maybe… But now finish your breakfast. The park is waiting for us."

The boy stood up, airplane in hand, but as they stepped out of the house, something in the morning light seemed different.

Before closing the door, Rachell glanced at the wooden airplane, left behind on the table.

For some reason, she felt that the little toy carried a fate far greater than it appeared.

II

The streets of Drakestone were a reflection of life itself—constant movement, overlapping voices, the sound of footsteps echoing against the worn pavement. In the distance, Lake Passalune stretched beyond the buildings, its vastness surrounding the city like a silent guardian.

Rachell and her son walked hand in hand, moving through the bustling streets. The boy continued to play with his wooden airplane, gliding it through the air as if it were truly soaring through the skies.

—"Mom, can boats fly too?" —he suddenly asked, pointing to a small boat floating in the water nearby.

Rachell smiled at the innocent logic of a child.

—"No, sweetheart. Boats sail, airplanes fly. Each one has its own path."

The boy pursed his lips, thoughtful.

—"Maybe my airplane can do both."

She laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair.

—"If anyone can make that happen, it's you."

The boy nodded, satisfied with the answer. To him, the world was still full of endless possibilities.

As they reached the entrance to the park, a loud, warm laugh pulled Rachell from her thoughts.

Marianne Okoro was there.

She carried a large basket of laundry on her hip, her strong and confident stance commanding respect without needing words. Her three sons ran around her, their laughter filling the air.

—"Well, look who's here!" —Marianne exclaimed in her energetic tone.

Rachell's son let go of her hand and ran toward Marianne's children, holding up his airplane proudly.

—"Look! This airplane can fly all the way to the lake and back in a second!"

The boys gathered around immediately, fascinated.

—"Can we try it?" —the eldest asked.

The boy hesitated for a moment before extending the airplane toward them with pride.

—"Yes, but be careful. This airplane has a magic light right here" —he pointed to the front— "so it never gets lost, even in the dark."

The children took turns tossing the airplane into the air, their excitement contagious.

Marianne set her basket down with a sigh of relief and sat on a bench.

—"That boy of yours has a good heart," —she remarked as she got comfortable.

Rachell sat beside her, pulling a small piece of fabric and sewing pins from her bag.

—"So they say. Though I hope life doesn't take that away from him over time."

Marianne glanced at her from the corner of her eye.

—"That depends on you. Children are like clay—life shapes them, but what you teach them is what holds them together."

Rachell let out a quiet sigh, focusing on her stitching.

—"If only it were that simple."

—"Simple?" —Marianne let out a hearty laugh— "Woman, nothing in this life is simple."

Rachell looked up, watching the children play.

—"At least you have someone to help you. I have to do everything alone."

—"Oh, honey, sometimes having a husband doesn't mean you have help." —Marianne clicked her tongue—. "You know how some men are. They say a woman's place is in the home, but when there's no food on the table, not even a roof can keep us safe."

Rachell nodded with a bittersweet smile.

—"And how do you make sure it doesn't weigh on you too much?"

Marianne lifted her chin with pride.

—"I make the most of what life gives me. If I wasn't given an education, I find ways to learn on my own."

Rachell looked at her with curiosity.

—"What do you mean?"

—"I taught myself French," —Marianne said matter-of-factly— "I didn't go beyond basic schooling, but when I had the chance to learn something, I took it. By listening, asking, imitating."

Rachell blinked, surprised.

—"All on your own?"

—"Who else was going to do it for me?" —she shrugged— "But tell me, you always have your nose buried in a book. What's the last thing you've learned?"

Rachell set her sewing down on her lap and smiled somewhat shyly.

—"Reading is more of an escape than anything else."

Marianne scoffed.

—"Then you should make it useful. A full head won't put food on the table."

Rachell lowered her gaze. She had never thought about it that way before.

Marianne observed her with a knowing smile and nudged her gently with her elbow.

—"Don't look at me like that, woman. I'm just saying that with how smart you are, you could be doing more than sewing."

Rachell raised an eyebrow.

—"And what about you? When will you learn to sew?"

Marianne burst out laughing.

—"Touched a nerve, huh?"

—"Maybe. But you're right about one thing: it's never too late to learn."

Marianne winked.

—"That's the spirit."

The children were still running and laughing, their world untouched by worries.

Marianne watched them with warmth in her eyes.

—"Sometimes, children understand life better than adults."

Rachell looked at her son. He still didn't see the barriers the world placed between people.

"I wish I could let him be a child for a little longer…" she thought as she continued sewing, the sunlight glinting over her hands.

III

The golden hues of the afternoon sky painted the horizon as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves in Drakestone's Central Park. Rachell remained seated on the bench, needle in hand, finishing a small stitch on a piece of fabric while Marianne watched the children with a contented smile.

The joyful shouts and laughter echoed through the playground, where her son continued sharing his wooden airplane with Marianne's children. To them, there were no differences—only stories to create, imagining they were flying over Lake Passalune or exploring unknown lands.

—"Look at them," —Marianne said, crossing her arms with satisfaction—. "They don't care where they come from, what they have or don't have. To them, everyone is the same."

Rachell nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

—"They find happiness in the smallest things… sometimes they remind me of what truly matters."

Marianne sighed, her tone thoughtful.

Then, movement on the gravel path caught both their attention.

A tall, elegant woman, wrapped in a pristine white coat, walked gracefully toward the playground. By her side, a dark-haired boy dressed in polished attire held onto her hand. The moment they reached the sandy area, the child released his mother's grip and ran excitedly toward the group of playing children.

—"That's Eleanor Duval," —Marianne whistled under her breath, leaning slightly toward Rachell—. "If wealth had a face in this city, it would be hers."

Rachell recognized her immediately. She was the founder of Maison Duval, the most prestigious fashion house in Drakestone, known for its exclusive designs worn by the city's elite. Her boutiques were synonymous with luxury, and her creations appeared in the most significant social events in the region.

Marianne let out a quiet chuckle.

—"Well, I guess money doesn't stop rich kids from wanting to play in the same park as ours."

Eleanor approached with an effortless elegance, and upon noticing Rachell, her expression softened into a genuine smile.

—"Rachell, what a surprise to find you here," —she greeted warmly.

Rachell, caught off guard, set her sewing down and quickly stood.

—"Mrs. Duval, it's a pleasure to see you."

Eleanor's gaze drifted toward the playground. Her son had already blended into the group, laughing and running as if he had known the other children forever.

—"Children have a remarkable ability to make friends without hesitation," —Eleanor mused with a light chuckle—. "I wonder what they must be imagining right now."

Marianne, never one to miss a chance to add humor, smirked.

—"They're probably thinking that airplane is a magical ship and they're on an expedition to the end of the world."

The three women watched the scene in silent fascination. Despite coming from vastly different worlds, the children played without reservation.

Eleanor then turned back to Rachell, studying her for a moment before speaking in a more serious yet kind tone.

—"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your work."

Rachell blinked, surprised.

—"My work?"

—"Yes." —Eleanor folded her arms with poise—. "A few months ago, you altered a dress for a friend of mine. She hasn't stopped talking about how exquisite it turned out. She even said it looked like a high-fashion piece after you worked on it."

Marianne discreetly nudged Rachell with a grin.

—"See? Told you so."

Rachell felt a mix of excitement and nervousness.

—"That means so much to hear, Mrs. Duval. I try to do my work with the utmost care."

Eleanor nodded approvingly.

—"And it shows. That's why I want to make you an offer. I'm looking for someone to work with me at Maison Duval—not just for alterations, but to craft exclusive designs as well."

Rachell felt her heart race.

—"Work with you?"

Eleanor nodded.

—"It would be a stable salary, and if things go well, we could discuss something long-term. You have talent, Rachell, and it shouldn't go to waste."

For a moment, Rachell's world seemed to pause. It was the opportunity she had dreamed of.

Before she could respond, Marianne clapped her hands together with enthusiasm.

—"Well, this calls for a celebration!"

Eleanor chuckled gracefully, her refined demeanor never wavering.

—"Well, first let's see if she accepts."

Rachell looked toward the playground. Her son's laughter still filled the air as he played, carefree and full of life.

She thought of the countless nights spent sewing until dawn, the times she had counted every coin to pay rent, the moments of doubt when she feared she would never achieve something greater.

She took a deep breath and lifted her gaze with newfound determination.

—"I accept, Mrs. Duval. Thank you for this opportunity."

Eleanor smiled with satisfaction.

—"Wonderful. I'll stop by your house this week to discuss the details. In the meantime, enjoy the afternoon with your son."

Rachell couldn't contain her smile.

—"I will."

Eleanor bid them farewell with a graceful nod before walking toward her son, calling him back. With some reluctance, the boy left his new friends and rejoined his mother.

As she disappeared down the path, Rachell felt a lump form in her throat—not from sadness, but from happiness.

Without thinking twice, she rushed toward her son, who, upon seeing her, welcomed her with a beaming smile.

—"Mom, did you see? The airplane is a spaceship now!"

Rachell lifted him into her arms and held him close.

—"Yes, my love, I saw!" —she whispered against his hair—. "Everything is going to be okay."

From the bench, Marianne watched with a wide smile.

—"Looks like destiny is finally smiling at you, my friend."

Rachell closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of her son in her embrace.

For the first time in a long while, everything felt like it was falling into place.

And in her mind, a new goal took shape:

"With this job, I'll be able to save. One day, my son will study at Singler Academy. He will have a better life."

IV

The park, once filled with laughter and movement, was now sinking into an eerie stillness. The sun had dipped lower into the horizon, casting long shadows across the worn pathways. The streetlights flickered intermittently, struggling against the growing twilight.

One by one, the last few mothers gathered their children and left, exchanging goodbyes with the ease of those who felt no weight in the air. But Rachell felt it. Something had changed. It wasn't supposed to be this cold in summer, yet a sharp breeze sent a shiver down her spine.

—"Mom, can I play a little longer?" —the boy asked, his voice filled with the innocence of someone untouched by fear.

She hesitated. Marianne had already left with her children, and the night was closing in fast. But the tenderness in her son's eyes made her surrender.

—"Alright, but just for a few more minutes." —she relented with a small smile.

He ran toward the playground structure, clutching his wooden airplane tightly. Rachell watched him from the bench, adjusting her shawl as the wind stirred her hair.

And that's when she saw him.

A tall figure, standing at the border where the park met the dense woods.

He did not move. He was simply there, watching.

The air around him seemed unnaturally still, and the silence was so heavy that every step her son took on the gravel sounded too loud, too sharp.

A cold prickle of unease spread through her chest. She straightened immediately, every instinct screaming at her to call her son back. But before she could, he had already noticed.

—"Mom…" —the boy murmured, tightening his grip on his airplane— "There's someone over there."

Her heartbeat quickened. She swallowed, trying to sound calm.

—"It's just a man, sweetheart. It's nothing."

But the words felt empty, even to her.

Then, the stranger took a step forward.

A nearby streetlamp illuminated him partially, revealing the details of his appearance. He wore a pale, flowing cloak, its fabric moving lightly despite the lack of wind. Covering the lower half of his face was a golden mask, etched with intricate engravings that seemed to shift under the flickering light.

—"Fascinating," —his voice was deep, controlled, and carried a weight that sent a fresh wave of dread through her— "You noticed me before I revealed myself. That doesn't happen often."

Rachell instinctively positioned herself between the man and her son.

—"Who are you?" —she demanded, her voice steady despite the growing fear in her chest.

The man tilted his head slightly, studying her reaction.

—"I am not here for you," —he replied evenly— "I am here for the prince."

A chill ran down her spine.

—"I don't know what you're talking about."

The man let out a quiet chuckle, devoid of warmth.

—"Oh, but you do. You have known since the day he was born."

She felt her entire body tense.

—"My son has nothing to do with you."

The man didn't respond right away. His hidden gaze drifted toward the boy, who now stood beside his mother, staring with wide eyes.

—"You are strong, aren't you?" —his tone softened slightly— "I can see it in you. You feel the energy, even if you don't understand it yet."

The boy didn't answer. He simply clutched his airplane tighter, sensing his mother's unease.

—"Leave us alone," —Rachell insisted, her voice more forceful this time.

The man exhaled slowly, almost as if he pitied her defiance.

—"You have my respect, Camille. You have taken good care of the prince. But his fate is beyond you."

—"He is not a prince!" —she cried, desperation leaking into her voice— "He is my son!"

The man took another step forward.

—"Not for much longer."

The wind howled.

His cloak billowed, and his hand lifted in a slow but deliberate motion. Suddenly, Rachell felt an invisible force tighten around her throat. Her hands shot up instinctively, but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to fight against. Her vision blurred as she staggered.

—"Mom!" —the boy screamed, tears welling up in his eyes.

The masked man observed him carefully, taking in the way his energy reacted to fear, to anger.

—"Yes… it is undoubtedly you."

The boy clenched his jaw and grabbed a fallen stick, holding it out like a sword.

—"Let her go!"

The man chuckled, amused.

—"You have spirit. That's good."

With a simple flick of his hand, the boy collapsed, unconscious.

Rachell crawled toward him, tears spilling onto her cheeks as she cradled his small body. Her trembling fingers ran through his golden hair.

—"Please… don't take him…"

The man gazed down at her, and for the first time, his tone softened—just barely.

—"He will lack nothing. He will be treated as what he is: a prince among men."

Rachell tried to scream, but her throat constricted once more. This time, there was no escape. Her body went still, crumpling onto the damp earth.

Silence engulfed the park.

The man knelt and carefully lifted the boy into his arms. The darkness around them seemed to stretch, wrapping around his form as he turned toward the woods.

Then, he hesitated.

Something caught his attention.

A small object, lying on the ground.

The wooden airplane.

With deliberate steps, he returned. He crouched, picking it up and turning it in his hands under the faint glow of the streetlamp. His fingers ran over the worn edges, as if deciphering something only he could understand.

A quiet sigh. Barely audible.

Finally, he tucked the airplane into the folds of his cloak.

And without looking back, he stepped into the night.

Before vanishing completely, his deep voice shattered the silence.

—"SINGLER!"

His shout echoed unnaturally, reverberating through the trees, the air, the very ground beneath him. It was a challenge.

And then, the night devoured him.

V

The echo of the shout still vibrated in his mind, deep, as if it had been more than just a dream. The name Singler resonated with an unsettling intensity, carrying a weight that Max didn't fully understand.

His eyes flew open, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

The interior of the private jet welcomed him with its refined and discreet luxury. Everything in the cabin exuded sophistication—the pristine white leather seats, the polished dark wood moldings, the soft ambient lighting that bathed the space in a warm glow. In front of him, a glass table held empty champagne flutes and a neatly arranged selection of appetizers. In the distance, the built-in bar displayed a collection of the finest liquors, though none seemed to have been touched.

For a moment, Max felt a disconnect between what he had just experienced and the world around him. His breath was still ragged, and a thin layer of cold sweat covered his forehead. He ran a hand over his face, trying to ground himself in reality.

—"Max?"

The voice pulled him from his trance. Matt, his thirteen-year-old younger brother, was watching him with curiosity from his seat, holding his PSP, the portable gaming console he always carried with him. His fingers idly played with the buttons, but his gaze remained fixed on Max.

—"Did you fall asleep again?"

Max blinked a few times and wiped his face, still shaking off the lingering weight of the dream.

—"Yeah… I guess."

Matt studied him more closely, his curiosity evident.

—"Was it another one of those weird dreams?"

Max narrowed his eyes, struggling to hold onto the fragments of the dream before they slipped away completely. He remembered the feeling of being in a dark place, the cold surrounding him, the echo of a deep voice, and—

A wooden airplane.

The image hit him suddenly, sharp and clear, as if he had truly held it in his hands. He didn't remember ever seeing one before, yet something about it felt strangely familiar.

—"Yeah… I dreamed about an airplane."

—"An airplane?" —Matt raised an eyebrow, skeptical—. "Like this one?" —he nodded toward the jet's sleek interior.

Max shook his head slowly

—"No… it was wooden."

Matt let out a small laugh.

—"That sounds boring. I prefer this one." —He lightly tapped the armrest of his seat, as if appreciating the contrast between their lavish surroundings and the simplicity of the airplane in Max's dream.

Before Max could respond, a voice interrupted their conversation.

—"Another weird dream, Max?"

Christine, seated across from them, lifted her gaze from her iPod. One of her earbuds dangled loosely over her shoulder as the music continued to play. She crossed her legs and leaned on the table, watching him with an amused half-smile.

—"You've had strange dreams since we were kids. Maybe it's time you grew up a little, don't you think?"

Max rolled his eyes but chose not to engage in her teasing. He wasn't in the mood to argue, and he had no explanation for what he had just experienced.

—"Christine, don't bother your brother," —Patrice intervened, her usual calm and authoritative tone cutting through the conversation.

She sat farther back, her posture poised, a hardcover book resting on her lap. Her dark brown hair was perfectly pulled into a neat bun, the soft lighting of the jet accentuating her serene expression.

Max let out a quiet sigh and got up from his seat, walking toward where his mother sat. Without a word, he sank into the seat beside her. Patrice closed her book gently and placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

—"Do you want to talk about your dream?"

Max hesitated. He didn't want to sound childish, but something about the way his mother asked made him feel safe enough to answer.

—"I'm not sure…" —he murmured—. "But it didn't feel like just any dream. It was… different."

Patrice ran her fingers gently through his hair in a comforting gesture.

—"Sometimes dreams show us things we don't yet understand," —she said softly—. "But with time, everything becomes clearer."

Christine, who had been listening, smirked.

—"Mom, don't encourage him. He probably just dreams nonsense and wants to make it sound mysterious."

Patrice shot her a subtle but firm look, a silent reprimand, before turning her attention back to Max.

—"When we get home, you'll feel better," —she assured him—. "Maybe all of this is just exhaustion."

Max nodded slightly, though deep down, he wasn't convinced that it was merely fatigue.

Before he could dwell on it further, the soft steps of an attendant moved across the carpeted cabin floor. A man in a pristine uniform, his golden nameplate gleaming under the light, approached them with a professional demeanor.

—"Mrs. Singler, young Singlers," —he announced—. "We are approaching our destination. We will be landing in Drakestone in approximately fifteen minutes. Please ensure your seats are in the upright position and fasten your seatbelts."

Patrice gave him a polite nod.

—"Thank you, Thomas."

The attendant bowed his head slightly before retreating.

Max turned to look out the window. In the distance, Drakestone came into view, stretching beneath them with its lights flickering like scattered stars against the darkened landscape. The massive Lake Passalune reflected the city's glow, its vast waters appearing endless from their altitude. The mansions in the wealthiest district were nothing more than golden dots scattered across the land. And in the center of it all, like a silent titan, the Singler Mansion awaited them.

Matt shifted in his seat, buckling his seatbelt with a grin.

—"Almost home. I can't wait to see the pool again."

Christine, however, sighed and looked away.

—"I wish we didn't have to go back."

Patrice glanced at her briefly but said nothing.

Max, too, remained silent.

Because in the back of his mind, the image of the wooden airplane still lingered—an echo that refused to fade. There was something about it, something that felt unresolved, unfinished.

And as the jet descended smoothly toward their destination, an unshakable feeling settled in his chest.

As if, in returning to Drakestone, he wasn't just going home.

He was returning to something much older.

Something much deeper.

Something that had been waiting for him all along.