Isvalon, a vast and diverse continent, stretched from the sunlit shores in the west to the snow-capped peaks in the north. At the heart of this land, kingdoms rose and fell, each claiming its place in history. Iskhalin, the kingdom of the East, stood as a beacon of wisdom and strength, its people proud of their rich culture and ancient traditions. It was here, on the eastern edge of Isvalon, that the fate of a kingdom—and a bloodline—would change forever.
The night hung heavy over the skies of Iskhalin. There were no songs from night birds, no whispers of wind. It was as if the entire kingdom held its breath, awaiting something that would change everything. Inside the palace, King Saleem stood on the highest balcony, gazing far toward the eastern tower. His gentle eyes carried doubt, but his face remained calm—like the sea before a storm.
Saleem was not a king who craved power. He had never sought the throne, nor asked for it. But their father's will—Sultan Ghaffar's final command—had chosen him, the younger brother, to lead the kingdom. Not Sharrfan, the elder, stronger, and more respected by the generals.
"Your father chose you because he knew this kingdom needed wisdom, not a sword," whispered Balqis, his loyal wife, who now stood beside him.
Saleem turned to her and tried to smile. "But wisdom cannot save you when your own brother holds a grudge."
He knew that tonight, Sharrfan would not wait for the dawn.
Beyond the palace gates, heavy footsteps drew near. Ten riders bearing Sharrfan's personal sigil moved silently, followed by a carriage stripped of any royal banner. Inside sat Sharrfan, cloaked in black, his sharp eyes burning beneath his hood. His hand gripped the hilt of a sword—the one gifted by their father. Once a symbol of legacy, it was now a weapon of usurpation.
Sharrfan had never accepted being passed over. In his mind, the throne was the birthright of the firstborn. He had swallowed the insult in silence for years, hiding his hatred behind cold smiles and brief meetings. But tonight, he would rewrite history—with blood.
In the grand hall of the palace, King Saleem ordered all the servants to leave. He wished to face his brother alone—without witnesses, without guards, without the symbols of power.
The great doors opened. Sharrfan's footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
"My brother," he said softly, "even now, you choose solitude in your decisions. Even when death is near."
Saleem stood tall, his white robe embroidered with gold, unarmed, but his heart raced. "If you come bearing a sword, I will not meet it with one. I do not fear you, Sharrfan. But I grieve… because you have chosen betrayal over blood."
"I have betrayed no one," Sharrfan replied coldly. "I am only reclaiming my birthright. A right stolen by a father who was dazzled by softness unfit for the throne."
"There is no softness in justice," Saleem replied, holding his gaze. "And there is no honor in a coup."
Without warning, Sharrfan drew his sword. Steel flashed through the air. Blood spilled onto the stone floor. King Saleem staggered, then fell to his knees—his eyes locked on Sharrfan's. His lips parted, as if to say something, but all that came was a spurt of blood. He felt the warmth of life draining from his chest, but the deepest pain came from the realization that it was his own brother—his blood—that had ended him. His hand lifted faintly, as though trying to grasp something that was already slipping away, before it fell lifelessly.
The king was dead. The throne was taken by force. And that night, Iskhalin fell into a silence too deep for mourning.
Balqis knew her time was short. From behind a window in the palace's inner chambers, she watched as Sharrfan's soldiers took control. She did not scream. She did not cry. She simply clutched a small wooden box containing a treasured pendant—and moved quickly.
She wasn't fleeing to save herself. She was already old—her hair silver, her body no longer as strong as it once was. But she carried something far more valuable: the womb of history. She knew that one day, a descendant of Saleem would return to end the sin committed that night.
Accompanied by two loyal servants and a royal bodyguard, Balqis moved through an old underground tunnel—an escape route built during the border wars fifty years earlier. The passage was narrow, cold, and smelled of damp earth. But within it, the final hope of the kingdom was hidden.
She found refuge in the eastern hills, near the borders guarded by ancient tribes that had once sworn loyalty to her husband. There, in a simple wooden cabin, protected by the remnants of that loyalty, Balqis went into exile—carrying with her a newborn grandson: Azfaran.
Though barely months old, the child carried the full weight of a broken kingdom on his shoulders. He had his grandfather's dark eyes, and already, Balqis believed, the silent awareness of a legacy deeper than he could yet comprehend. She would often look into his eyes and whisper, "You are the son of kings. You are the answer to the silence."
In the city of Iskhalin, Sharrfan ruled with an iron fist. He built secret armies, erased every document that bore Saleem's name, and replaced the royal sigil. He did not want history to remember his brother. He wanted the people to believe he had always been the one true king.
But time cannot be slain. And memory cannot be silenced.
In the quiet corners of the city, elders still whispered Saleem's name to their grandchildren. In hushed nights, forbidden poets penned verses about a just king who died too young. And near the foothills of Mt. Gedi, in a land untouched by Sharrfan's rule, a boy was growing—blood that could not be erased, blood that one day would demand justice.
Azfaran grew among shepherds and woodcutters, surrounded by people who knew little of thrones or crowns, but who honored honor itself. He learned to fish in the mountain streams, to track deer through the thickets, and to listen to the language of wind between the trees. Balqis never spoke of war, but every story she told was laced with purpose.
Each night, as the fire crackled, she would sit with Azfaran on her lap and say, "Once, there was a king who believed in mercy. And he died not because he was weak, but because his mercy was too strong for the world around him."
And the boy, wide-eyed and listening, would absorb each word like scripture. He did not yet understand destiny, but he felt its pull.
Balqis was determined to keep her grandson safe, even as the winds of change blew fiercely through Iskhalin. With every passing day, she knew the storm would one day reach them—but for now, they were safe. Hidden. Unseen.
And in that silence, the legend of a king unjustly murdered—and the bloodline that would one day return to reclaim justice—began to take root once more.
For kingdoms may fall, and usurpers may rise, but blood remembers. And the land listens.
In the cradle of exile, under the watchful eyes of old gods and quiet mountains, a future was being shaped—not by power, but by memory.
And far away, in the dark halls of his palace, Sharrfan could not sleep.
Somewhere deep within him, an unsettling unease began to stir—a warning not yet voiced. The child he had failed to kill would one day return. The past he had buried would rise again.
That justice, no matter how long delayed, would eventually find its way home..