The evening sun dipped behind the mountains, painting the sky in warm shades of orange and gold.
In a small garden beside a lonely cottage, a four-year-old boy named William laughed as he chased butterflies. His mother, Charlotte, only twenty-three, watched him with a tired but gentle smile.
They lived in a quiet village high in the mountains — far from the noise of kingdoms and wars. Their home was small, but filled with warmth.
William had never met his father. He had died before William was even born. Some of the old villagers whispered that Charlotte was once a princess from a great kingdom — a tale they half-believed, half-feared.
No one knew if it was true. No one dared to ask her.
"William!" Charlotte called from the doorway, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Come inside, dear. Dinner's ready!"
He turned with a grin and ran toward her.
"What's for dinner, Mama?"
"Something special tonight," she said, hiding a small smile. "We made a feast."
A feast — though for them, that only meant fresh milk, a small loaf of bread, and stew with real meat. Still, for William, it was enough to fill his world with joy.
They didn't have much, but Charlotte always made sure her son and their little companions — three cows, a dog named Oliver, and a cat named Misty — were fed before she ever thought of herself.
Oliver barked as William sat down, tail wagging, while Misty leapt onto Charlotte's lap, purring softly.
"Oliver doesn't like milk," William giggled, watching the dog sniff his bowl.
"Then he'll just have to settle for scraps," Charlotte said with a small laugh. "He's too proud for milk."
Evenings in their cottage were quiet — peaceful. The world outside, however, was anything but.
Ancient kingdoms ruled by wizards, witches, mages, necromancers, and dragon tamers were always at war. The earth trembled with their greed, and the skies burned with their magic.
Those who wanted peace, the simple ones, had long fled — just as Charlotte had.
Before bed, Charlotte told William stories. Tales about his father, who once wandered through forgotten ruins and cursed castles, learning bits of lost magic.
"Was he strong, Mama?"
"Very strong," she whispered. "But brave doesn't mean without fear, my love. Remember that."
She never said who he truly was.
William never asked. Maybe because he saw the sadness in her eyes whenever she spoke of him.
At dawn, Charlotte worked as a helper in nearby homes to earn their living. In her spare time, she taught William simple magic — how to light a campfire, boil cold water, or freeze a droplet of rain. It wasn't much, but for William, it was everything.
But that night… everything changed.
As the moon rose, the village grew still. Then — the sound of hooves.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Unfamiliar.
"Mama?" William asked, peering out the small window. "There are horses outside."
Charlotte froze mid-step. The wooden spoon slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor.
Outside, figures moved through the fog — armored, silent, carrying torches that burned too bright for ordinary soldiers.
One knight rode ahead, followed by ten soldiers. They went from house to house, opening doors, speaking little. Searching.
The villagers watched from behind curtains, afraid to breathe.
William looked up at his mother.
"Are they bad people?"
Charlotte didn't answer. She just whispered, more to herself than him,
"It can't be… not after all these years."
Within minutes, the sound of boots and metal grew closer.
Then — three sharp knocks on their wooden door.
William flinched.
"I'll open it, Mama—"
"No!" she said quickly, grabbing his arm. Her voice trembled. "Stay behind me."
The knocks came again, louder this time.
Charlotte's eyes darted to the window — torches glowed outside. Shadows shifted. Someone murmured an order.
"Mama?" William whispered again, his small hand clutching her dress.
"It's all right, love," she said, though her voice broke slightly. "Just… stay quiet."
She reached for the latch. Her fingers hesitated.
The third knock came — softer now. Almost patient.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Charlotte opened the door just a crack. Cold air rushed in.
A figure stood in the doorway, tall and cloaked, his face hidden by the torchlight. The metal of his armor gleamed faintly.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Only the wind moved.
Then the stranger lifted his head — and Charlotte's expression changed. The warmth in her face drained away.
"You…" she whispered.
The figure took a step forward.
The torch flickered. The light dimmed.
And from somewhere deep in the mountains, a single horn sounded — long and low, echoing through the valley.
Charlotte's eyes widened in horror.
"No," she breathed. "Not again."
The door slammed shut. The horn kept sounding. And the night — for the first time in years — did not feel safe anymore.