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.
Daemon 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?"
Daemon 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 Urien 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.
In the kingdom of Neval, chess was more than just a game—it was the language of the court, the tavern, and the army. Every child learned to play by the age of six. Some said it prepared the mind for politics. Others believed it was just a dance—like war without blood.
On a soft, golden morning, the village of Elmar awoke to the sound of birds dancing on the rooftops. Children always started their day before the adults, their laughter reaching the village corners even before sunlight.
Arthur and Damon were in the small training ground beyond the barley fields. Each held a polished wooden sword, specially crafted by the village blacksmith for the young apprentices.
The training was an ancient tradition that had survived even after the wars ended—practiced not in preparation for battle, but in honor of the legacy of ancient heroes.
Arthur stood out for his physical strength. His movements were precise, his strokes measured, and his stance firm.
Damon, on the other hand, was quick and agile,
but he was more interested in leading and guiding others than winning. He called to the children and guided them like a leader on the field rather than a fighter. But farming was Arthur's true refuge.
Once his training was over, he would sit beside his mother in the fields, helping her gather herbs, smiling whenever he touched the soil. To him, farming meant life, peace, and belonging.
Family was the heart of this small world, and each evening, they would gather for a humble meal, followed by laughter and stories from the past. Elizabeth, their mother, who instilled peace in their home, would always tell stories about their father and the meaning of bravery—but always with warmth, never sadness.
Every week, the village of Elmar held an event for children in the Spirit Tree courtyard called "The Gathering of the Brave Little Ones." Each child wielded a wooden sword and dueled before the eyes of the villagers.
Damon stood out during these events—his agility and spirit made him beloved by all, and he always triumphed over the other children, raising his sword in triumph with a glowing smile.
Arthur, however, never participated. He preferred to sit beneath the Spirit Tree, watching silently, a deep, unbought peace in his eyes. He didn't need victory—for him, true triumph was seeing his brother happy, surrounded by cheers and joy.
Elmar was a village that knew no pain, only "belonging."
And the brothers, each in their own way, represented two sides of a single dream:
One with the sword, the other with the dirt.
Fifteen years had passed since the last children gathered beneath the Spirit Tree. The village of Elmar changed, and the two boys grew into two young men, now twenty-two.
Damon grew more poised, wiser, with a fire in his eyes that never faded. Everyone saw him as a young leader—not because of his lineage, but because of his unwavering will.
Arthur, however, chose a different path. He cultivated the land, traveling between villages in search of rare seeds—seeds that held the promise of life. "Every seed holds hope," he always said, "while every sword promises only ruin."
One day, Arthur departed for a nearby village in search of a rare type of seed that grows only in mountainous soil. He left Elmar in peace, unaware that clouds of danger had gathered over his home.
That night, eight marauders stormed the village—faces distorted with greed, eyes blazing with hatred, blades ready for blood. Their screams tore through the evening silence, and the entire village froze in fear.
Damon was alone with his mother, Elizabeth. When he saw the fields burning, he didn't hesitate. He grabbed his old wooden sword and advanced bravely. One against eight. But he wasn't weak. He brought down four of them, each blow driven by childhood, love, and honor. But he was wounded, exhausted, and finally, they overcame him.
They bound Damon and Elizabeth, plundered the village's harvest, and left the villagers terrified in their homes.
Then sunset came... and Arthur returned.
His back carried a bag of seeds. He stood frozen at the sight of his mother and brother bound, the village wrapped in silence like an ancient grave.
He advanced, unarmed, and said calmly—his voice tinged with anger—"Sorry... am I interfering with your work?"
One of the bandits sneered. "What's in your hand?"
"Nothing valuable... just seeds," Arthur replied.
One of them approached to examine the sack. But in an instant, Arthur drew a hidden sword and struck.
"One strike. One man falls."
In the blink of an eye, his calm eyes became lightning.
He moved like someone born to kill—but he hated it.
One by one, he brought them down with unparalleled speed and precision.
Before they could blink again, the ground was littered with the corpses of the bandits.
Arthur hurried to his family and untied them.
Daemon, wounded and gasping, looked at his brother in astonishment. "Why did you choose to carry the seeds instead of the sword?"
Arthur held up his bloodied hand and said, "Because seeds carry life, and swords carry death."
In that moment, there was neither victory nor defeat—only a deep realization that both brothers were right, each carrying a burden the world desperately needed.
Days had passed since the attack, but they hadn't passed within them.
Damon still smiled to the others, but behind the closed door of his room, he withdrew into silence. He couldn't forget the image of himself bound, blood dripping from his shoulder, his mother cowering beside him, the rest of the village watching—helpless, as if he were just a boy… nothing more.
"Eight men… and I wasn't even enough for Halfe of them ?"
"and I call my self a warrior!"
He replayed that moment over and over, the thief's smile as he felled him—etched in his memory.
On the other side, "Arthur" dug into the soil as if trying to bury something deeper than the seeds. To the world, he was the hero, the savior. But in his eyes, a shadow remained.
"Can blood-stained hands plant life again?"
Every drop of sweat that fell to the ground reminded him of those drops of blood. He couldn't separate the earth from his remorse.
Damon stopped staying up late. He no longer laughed or played. He would wake up before dawn, training his body to exhaustion, as if the aching muscles could drown out the pain in his soul.
He stopped playing chess. He stopped observing village life.
In his heart, he came to believe that those who couldn't protect those they loved didn't deserve to dream.
Arthur watched from afar. He didn't interfere. He didn't try to fix it with words. Instead, he asked questions—not of others, but of life itself, the way he scatters seeds on the ground:
"If evil is born of instinct, why does good need to be chosen?"
"Is courage measured by strength, or by the silence after a blow?"
"Which hurts more: seeing your brother fall, or picking him up while you bleed internally?"
One evening, Damon was training in the empty field, alone. His hands trembled with pain, but it was his mind that truly punished him.
Arthur approached silently. He placed two wooden swords on the ground.
"Fight me," he said quietly.
Damon looked up, puzzled, angry.
"You want to prove my weakness to me again?"
Arthur shook his head.
"I just want you to see yourself."
The duel began.
Wood clashed against wood. Sweat dripped. Eyes burned with emotion.
But in Arthur's heart, he had already made up his mind. He wasn't fighting to win. He was retreating, little by little, giving Damon space—space to feel he was enough, space to reclaim something deeper than victory.
And at the final blow, as Arthur fell to the ground, Damon stood over him, panting, stunned.
Arthur smiled and whispered,
"I may have been stronger in battle... but you were the strength I never lost inside me."
That night, there was no chess duel.
But in their hearts, it was the first time a duel had ended in a draw.
Elizabeth sat by the window of her small wooden house in the village of *Elmar*. In her hand was a white cloth embroidered with fine threads, patterned with red and blue flowers. She had made it years ago, when her heart was still full of dreams.
She raised the cloth to her nose and inhaled quietly… It didn't carry perfume, but it carried the scent of memories.
That cloth was all that remained of her youth, a beauty that slowly faded with time, but never disappeared.
The wrinkles around her eyes were the marks of countless smiles and long sleepless nights cradling her children.
It was tender—a tenderness that needed no words, only silent glances, a hand gently touching a head, and an embroidered cloth left behind by longing.
Through the glass, she saw her son, Arthur, walking slowly across the field—not his body weighing down, but his mind.
He had changed, and she needed no words to understand.
Since the night he saved the village, something in his eyes had softened, as if he carried an invisible burden.
She saw in his footsteps a struggle between what is sown in the earth and what is killed by the sword.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by Damon's voice outside:
"The Age of Heroes has arrived!!" He repeated it once, then again, louder, as if declaring it to the whole world.
People came out of their homes, and Elizabeth hurried to him, asking:
"What do you mean?!"
He said, panting with excitement:
"King orien is dead! The new king is Julius… and his first order of business is to recruit heroes from every province!"
"I'm going to the capital… I'll join up, become a hero! They'll build a statue for me one day!"
Arthur smiled, though he said nothing. He knew that Damon's heart couldn't bear to be imprisoned, that his soul was made of fire, not dust.
As for Elizabeth, behind her smile, her eyes shone with worry.
She had seen so much and heard so much more...
Wars don't always make heroes; sometimes, they leave nameless graves.
The days passed, and then came the moment to say goodbye.
Damon stood in front of the house, wearing a simple jacket, a small bag over his shoulder.
Elizabeth stood before him and handed him a piece of embroidered white cloth, similar to the one she'd been holding by the window. She placed it in his hand and said, "This is the bond... between the hearts of a mother and her son."
"Keep it, wherever you go... no matter how much you forget... it will remind you of who you are."
He hugged her tightly, then said goodbye to his brother, Arthur, who had returned to the fields.
There was no solemn farewell, just a distant wave of a hand.
Arthur took a long look, then returned to his cultivation.
On his way to the capital, Damon walked confidently, repeating in his mind:
"I will become the strongest warrior..."