After descending the mountain—leaving behind the priestess's twisted words and the scent of dead trees—the twins headed for their usual spot, the spot they had occupied since they could distinguish between shadow and sunlight.
There, in the heart of the village, stood a great tree, known to the people of Elmar as the Tree of Spirits.
It was no ordinary tree—its massive trunk concealed ancient faces in its bark, and its branches stretched toward the sky, as if whispering secrets to the clouds. The villagers believed that the spirits of their ancestors resided there, and that whoever sat beneath it carried within them a story that would never be forgotten.
Damon sat in its shade, staring at the branches that swayed slowly, as if dancing to a tune only he could hear. Beside him sat Arthur, silent and thoughtful, silently sifting through the soil with his fingers.
Damon spoke, his face glowing with excitement. "If only we lived in an age of heroes… a time when men carried swords and performed their noble dances. Then, warriors were honored for their bravery and sacrifice. But now? No wars. No glory. Only sowing, reaping, and more sowing."
Arthur, who had heard this dream many times, smiled and replied, "Why do you yearn for war? Wouldn't it be nice to live with our mother in peace? To sow, reap, and see the sun each day without fear of death?"
Damon shook his head firmly. "I don't want war—I want meaning. I want my life to be a story. I want to die for something, not from exhaustion."
There was a moment of silence as the wind whispered through the leaves.
The kingdom of Neval, under King Oren IV, had recently entered into a new alliance with the once-hostile Iron Kingdom. Since the signing of the treaty seven years ago, war has ceased, and a new era has begun—what scholars now call the Age of Peace.
A river, the Great River, coiled between the two kingdoms like a slumbering serpent, marking the border of their territories.
Their continent was known as the Falcon, the heart of the known world.
But the Falcon was not alone in the world.
To the east lay the Continent of the Trinity, home to three warring kingdoms united only by hatred. In that land, war is said to be the only language, and each sunrise brings with it a new battle and new blood to be shed upon the land.
To the north was the United Continent of the Angels, a place likened to paradise—untouched by war, unheard of by suffering. Its lands were fertile, its waters pure, and its people were said to live in harmony untouched by time.
Damon sighed and looked toward the horizon. "If I lived in the Triad, my name would be known, and I would defeat giants and goblins. Carrying an unconquerable banner. Every day would be a chance for glory."
Arthur laughed softly. "Giants... goblins!"
"Nonsense."
"As for me... I just want to live here. Out in the fields, under this tree, with our mother. I want a small home, a plot of land to tend. I don't want to be remembered—I just want to be happy."
His words were simple, yet deeply sincere.
But in Damon's eyes, there was something else—something like a storm... or the beginning of a prophecy.
As the sun slipped behind the hills and painted the sky orange and crimson, the twins raced down the dusty paths to the house. Their laughter echoed through the quiet village, dancing among the stone houses and rustling leaves.
As always, **Arthur** won the race.
Damon, panting in frustration, pulled on his oddly shaped shoes—made by the village cobbler who insisted that "a unique sole carries a unique soul." Damon had never liked them, and he suspected they hadn't either.
When they reached their home—a modest wooden house with ivy climbing the walls—the door creaked open before they knocked.
Their mother, Elizabeth, stood there with flour on her hands and a frown shading her eyes.
"Where have you been? The sun set a while ago."
Arthur looked at Damon, then answered before his brother could speak:
"We were sitting by the spirit tree… just talking."
She gave them a look—a mixture of concern and familiarity. Then she sighed.
"Go wash up. Dinner is almost ready."
The twins obeyed. Steam and soap replaced dust and sweat, and soon they were welcomed by the warmth of the dining table.
Dinner was simple—bread, stew, and roasted vegetables—but the house was filled with laughter only a small family could truly know. Arthur told a story about an old goat from the fields that bit the baker, while Damon exaggerated the tale of a squirrel that stole his bread. Their mother laughed as the plates were emptied.
Then, in a quiet moment, Damon stepped forward and asked, "Mother… is it true that Prince Julius, son of Urien, is strong and wise? They say he will bring back an age of heroes… an age of courage… and swords."
The smile faded from Elizabeth's face. She set down the plates, wiped her hands, and answered in a sharper tone, "It's time for bed. Enough of this nonsense."
The boys recognized the tone. They nodded, murmured goodnight, and headed upstairs to their small room.
Their bedroom contained two narrow beds, a single wooden table, and a single window where moonlight often streamed in like silent silver. In the center, between their beds, sat a chessboard.
Every night, before sleep took over, they played.
Today was no different.
The pieces were worn from years of play; the black horse was missing an ear, the white queen was carved from a mismatched piece of oak. But to the twins, they were their most prized possessions.
Arthur moved with calm calculation. Damon, with bursts of ambition and sudden risk.
And, as always, Arthur won.
Damon flopped back in bed with a broken sigh.
"One day, I'll beat you."
Arthur smiled. "One day, I'll let you win."
They both laughed.
The room was dark as they blew out the candle. Outside, the wind rustled the trees.