The wind swept through the narrow fields beyond the southern hills, carrying with it the faint scent of wet soil and burnt wood. From the edge of the old terrace, a boy stood watching the trees sway—his arms crossed, his eyes searching for something the horizon could not give.
His name was Kaizlan.
Fifteen years old, born to a minor noble house that most of the kingdom had forgotten—if it ever knew it to begin with.
The sky was grey that morning, heavy with clouds, but Kaizlan's thoughts were louder than the weather.
He whispered to himself:
"One day, I'll be a knight. A real one. With honor, and armor, and a name worth something."
He said it not as a boast, but as a hope.
Something fragile, still untested by the weight of the world.
Behind him, the wooden door creaked open.
"Still talking to the wind?" came a voice.
It was Daryel, a boy his age. Sharp tongue, quicker feet. The kind of friend who made silence less awkward.
Kaizlan shrugged.
"Better the wind than people who laugh."
Daryel grinned.
"I don't laugh. I mock. There's a difference."
He stepped beside him, looking at the same horizon. After a pause, he added:
"You really want to be a knight?"
Kaizlan nodded.
"Not for the sword. Not for the fame. I just want to… help people. Protect the weak. Do something that matters."
Daryel didn't answer right away. He kicked a stone off the ledge, watching it tumble down the slope.
"Then you'll be disappointed," he said.
"But hey, I'll write a sad song about your failures. It'll make you immortal."
Kaizlan laughed quietly.
It was enough.
The two stood there for a while, not as heroes, not even as men—just two boys with more questions than answers.
Later that day, Kaizlan helped one of the stable boys carry buckets to the horses.
He spoke politely to the servants.
He thanked the cook for lunch.
No one told him to do these things.
He just believed they were right.
Even if rightness, in his world, didn't mean much.
That night, before bed, he wrote a few lines in an old leather notebook his mother had given him years ago.
"The world is full of shadows.
But maybe… maybe I can light a single candle."
Then he closed the book and stared at the ceiling.
He did not yet know that the world he dreamed of…
was not waiting for a candle.
It was waiting to see who would survive the dark.