On a sunlit day, before the entrance of the forest, two princes stood in silence.
Though the sky was clear, a strange stillness hung in the air—as if even the wind held its breath.
Before them loomed the edge of the Forest of No Return. Ancient. Wild. Whispering.
An unseen darkness stirred within, silent yet powerful, inviting them in with a voice they could not hear—but could somehow feel.
The sound of cracking leaves echoed under their boots with each step forward. Somewhere in the trees, a bird cried out—but even its song seemed wary.
The trees stood like towering sentinels, their shadows stretching long and deep, hiding what lay beyond.
Prince Octavio's fingers curled slightly around the hilt of his blade.
Beside him, Prince Fabale glanced at the treetops—his usual wit quieted by something he could not name.
No words were exchanged.
None were needed.
Together, they stepped into the forest…
And the world behind them disappeared into silence.
"So, what's your map saying, Fabale? Which way do we go?" Octavio asked while walking, his eyes scanning the forest's dense horizon.
Fabale, with the old map stretched open between his hands, studied it with focused eyes. The morning light flickered through the treetops, casting soft shadows across the parchment.
After a quiet pause, Fabale pointed ahead and said confidently, "We just have to keep moving north. Once we reach the river, we'll follow it until we find a crossing. Beyond that... is Rala."
There was something in the way Fabale looked at the map—like a seasoned adventurer, calm and certain. Octavio glanced at him and smiled faintly, trusting his words without hesitation. No compass, no fear—just trust and two sets of footsteps echoing deeper into the forest.
Their journey towards the unknown continued, with the hope of Rala glowing faintly at the end of the path.
Fabale suddenly froze mid-step.
Rustle.
Octavio halted too, his instincts flaring. "What's wrong, Fabale? Why did you—"
Fabale didn't answer. He raised a single finger to his lips, eyes sharp and focused. The message was clear: Silence.
Rustle.
Closer this time. He drew his sword in a smooth, practiced motion. The steel caught the sunlight.
Octavio didn't hesitate. He stepped beside Fabale, unsheathing his own blade—his body already moving before his mind could catch up. Every muscle braced, eyes locked on the trembling bushes just ahead.
Then—
Something lunged.
A blur of movement. A shadow leapt from behind the foliage with a low snarl.
"WATCH OUT—!" Fabale shouted, leaping forward.
Octavio reacted on instinct, blade rising—
And the forest held its breath.
—---------
Elsewhere, beneath the unrelenting glare of the midday sun, a lone man draped in a worn black robe wandered silently. His boots were dusted with the dirt of many roads, his presence cloaked in the subtle tension of someone searching—but not wanting to be found.
With thirst drying his throat and hunger gnawing at his belly, he finally stopped at a roadside inn. Pushing open the creaky wooden door, he stepped into the shaded interior.
"Oi, mister. One bread and a glass of milk," the man said, voice raspy.
"Roger, boss!" the innkeeper replied cheerfully, already reaching for a plate.
But just as the man sat down to eat, the restaurant door creaked open again. A second figure entered—one whose arrival made the robed man instantly rise to his feet.
Without a word, he exited.
A curious boy seated inside had watched the whole exchange. As the man left, something dropped silently onto the floor—a small, weathered pouch.
"Hey! Mister, you dropped—!" But the man was already gone.
The boy hurried outside, clutching the pouch. He slipped behind the inn, toward the abandoned back lot.
There he froze.
The man in the black robe was fighting—dagger flashing in the sun—against four masked attackers. Shadows danced with steel as grunts and sharp gasps echoed in the tight space.
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!" the boy screamed.
Within moments, the commotion drew a crowd. Hearing footsteps and voices, the masked assailants scattered like smoke, disappearing into alleyways before they could be caught.
The robed stranger had taken damage—bruises bloomed across his arms, blood trickled from a shallow cut on his hand. The innkeeper was among the first to reach him and quickly helped him inside.
"You're safe now, lad," the innkeeper said as he bandaged the wounds. "But whoever you are… someone clearly doesn't want you around."
The boy stood quietly beside the wounded stranger, uncertain. The man had yet to say a word.
Then—suddenly—their eyes met.
A piercing gaze. Golden. Sharp like a hawk's, ancient like forgotten ruins. It wasn't the look of a common traveler. It was the stare of someone who had seen far too much.
The boy's breath caught. He turned his head away quickly, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
"Ho ho ho… would you look at that? This boy's gone all shy!" the innkeeper chuckled warmly. "Hey, stranger—you're still breathing thanks to this little guy!"
The stranger finally moved. Raising a hand, he said softly, "Th… Thank you… for helping me."
His voice was unexpectedly gentle—smooth, like a breeze on a still night. The boy looked back in surprise, caught off guard by the contrast. That voice… he hadn't expected it from someone who fought like a blade.
Red in the face, the boy stammered, trying to make sense of it all. Then, without thinking, he blurted out, "If you're really thankful… then next time help someone else. And tell them to do the same. Help… without expecting anything back."
There was a moment of silence.
Then the stranger grabbed his hand.
"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice low but intense. "Say it again… Why did you say that?"
The boy froze, eyes wide with fear.
Just then, the innkeeper's wife entered with a bowl of medicine. Her eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of the scene. "Let him go," she said firmly. "He just repeated something he heard, probably without even knowing the weight of the words."
The stranger slowly released the boy's hand.
He looked at the woman. "Then… who did he hear it from?"
She placed the medicine gently beside him, her voice softening. "A boy named Octavio. Another stranger—though younger than you. But his words carried something different… something heavier."
The moment she said the name, the man sat up straighter, urgency returning to his eyes.
"Where is he now?"
The woman gave a weary smile as she folded her hands. "Who knows? Off to earn a living, maybe. Or chasing dreams with his friend. Boys like him... always giving their mothers a headache. I just hope they find their way home. Safe."
The stranger said nothing. His golden eyes dimmed slightly.
"You'll be staying the night, yes?" the woman asked gently.
The man gave a silent nod.
"Good. Then rest." She turned to the boy. "Come along."
With that, the woman and the boy left the room, closing the door behind them.
The room grew quiet again, but the stranger's heart stirred with a name:
Octavio.