Chapter One: The Forest of Creeden

~ ~ ~

A man the child knew well stood above the bed, the canopy curtain crushed inside his fist. The kind smile, the always-welcoming embrace — gone. In their place, angry eyes and one hand reaching, ready to silence at any moment.

Heroe was only five. But hiding behind thick wooden doors, mother and father had repeated the stories of brave knights. Sometimes it was better to hide in the shadows.

A knight once replaced a lost sword with a branch whose tip was deadly. Another survived for months on roots and berries.

Heroe remained quiet. The red ring on the man's finger flashed in the moonlight as the thick comforter was pulled back and the tiny, wide-eyed child lifted into his arms.

The stuffed monkey dropping to the floor in silence.

Heroe looked back, the door already closing. It was gone.

Another man waited outside the bedroom door.

They rushed through the hall and scrambled down the servants' stairwell. A cold black wind met them outside, horses waited in the dark. Heroe, dressed only in a long night shirt, shivered all the way to the shores of the raging river — and then the cold dropped unbearably, as though the river itself were breathing it outward.

The river raged, black and cold. It took an hour to reach the other shore. The two men left Heroe in the misty shallows, rowing away without once looking back.

Heroe watched them fade into a curtain of darkness, the red ring catching the faintest light even inside the black fog — winking once, twice, and then gone.

They knew the men weren't coming back.

~ ~ ~

The dark shore offered nothing. Behind it, the forest of Creeden rose like a wall — trees soaring high toward the heavens, their branches far beyond the reach of human hands that might offer comfort, and further still for a child desperate enough to seek their height for safety.

There were no humans in Creeden. They lived upon the golden land Heroe had been spirited from — separated from this cold, unknown world by a mighty river that cut deep into the earth's belly. The servant children had told Heroe stories of what lived there. Sea dragons. Octopuses much larger than men, with arms as long as trees.

Heroe, barely five years on this earth, knew very little. Having learned to speak, and having been fed, they knew only the comforts of home. But it took only moments in the darkened bush to understand that survival here required far more than warm meals and sweet teas.

Through the thickets moved shadows of something more terrifying than mere animals. Beasts — heavy-footed things that ran with mercurial speed along the dusty, graveled paths. Some moved through the dense forest floor like liquid. Others flew above the treetops. Others still launched their massive bodies from branch to branch, thumping dully against the trunks of trees as they landed.

Rarely did Heroe come face to face with the creatures. It was mostly their sounds, their nearness, and every now and again their scent — musky, feral, and pungent.

Heroe remembered the story of the knight who ate berries and roots. And so they ate them too.

~ ~ ~

One day, squatting behind a pile of boulders and digging for roots, Heroe's eyes became the first human eyes to witness the things that truly lived in Creeden.

Two beasts had come upon a dead bird — one on either side, each claiming ownership by the look in their eyes.

One looked almost human. Its body was covered in brown, matted fur and it ambled on four legs before rearing up and beating its chest. When it growled, the sound rumbled deep before erupting outward, and fangs as long as Heroe's arms fell below its lips and pressed toward a mighty jaw.

Its adversary was long and lizard-like, its scaly skin blood red, its claws sharp and deadly.

The two creatures circled each other, the mangled bird between them.

The hairy beast rose again from all four limbs, towering above the lizard. A roar spewed from its throat so powerful that the very ground shook and every leaf in the surrounding trees trembled. The piercing thunder tore into Heroe's ears, which were covered quickly with trembling hands.

Heroe pressed further behind the jagged rocks, fingers worrying at the hem of the night shirt until it ripped.

It looked ominous. It looked certain to win.

But though the roar was deafening, the red creature did not appear afraid. It responded instead with stillness — rocking its body ever so slightly from side to side as long claws began slowly extending from each digit. A clear liquid oozed from the flesh as the claws peeled outward, leaving shining pools that drenched the earth beneath its feet. When the claws ceased their sliding, they were like swords — radiant and deadly.

The red beast snarled and lowered itself closer to the ground.

Heroe was certain it would leap at any moment and slice its opponent clean in half.

There was a marvelous tension in the air that silenced the entire forest. Then the silence broke — bodies whipping through the air, growls and high-pitched wails erupting too fast to follow. Heroe could not see the battle. They could only feel it — their heart pounding so hard it pulsated through the thin fabric of the night shirt, the ground trembling beneath small feet, and the sensation, unmistakable, of hundreds of hidden eyes watching.

Still hidden behind the rocks, Heroe watched — and learned. The red lizard was the victor, ambling away, its tongue jutting out, its claws retracting one by one.

Heroe stayed quiet, eyes still on the mangled beast, its tangled fur catching the moonlight.

When the watching eyes were gone and the forest settled, Heroe approached. The fur was cleaned and fashioned into a coat that hung below the knees. The claws were dried and strung together on thin vine — not for decoration, but for the comfort of having something sharp and close.

Heroe held them in both hands, the dapples of moonlight tracing the curve of each claw. And understood, in the quiet that followed, that if they were to survive — humans and beasts could never cross paths.

~ ~ ~

Heroe began learning many things about survival.

The plants with the blue, luscious berries — so terribly tempting — left the stomach knotted in pain for days. It was the plants with the large, tough leaves that left the belly full and the body strong. The unappetizing sustenance made it possible to walk far and run from the hairy, fanged beasts that seemed always a shadow's length behind.

Heroe knew the beasts hoped to remain unnoticed in the foliage. But they could feel the creatures' intentions like a change in the air: to mortally wound, and to feast.

This was Heroe's existence. Never exposed to daylight, they traveled always in the secrecy of night. That’s when most beasts slept, resting for another day of hunting.

The moon became Heroe's mother — the only celestial being that looked on lovingly, sharing her precious light to render sight in the otherwise blackened chaos of wood, rock, and leaves. Their goal was only food for the moment, for there was never enough energy to think further than that. The forest was too vast, and the food suitable for a human body too few and far between.

Heroe was hungry always. And angry — angry at those who had snatched a child from parents and abandoned that child to the hellish life of Creeden.

When the anger quieted, as it always did from time to time, Heroe would venture to the river's edge and look across at the golden city—the city of lights. At night it looked like a sky filled with stars — warm and close and impossibly far away. And they would wonder: why would anyone leave a child to die? What had Heroe done? Why forsaken so?

Chapter Two: The Learning Years

~ ~ ~

The winter was cold. But there was a place where the winds didn't reach.

Where the earth had split in two, the rocks held warmth like a living thing. Climbing up crumbling terrain, Heroe discovered crevices sliced into walls of solid stone — dark, even darker than the night, but breathing warmth as they passed them one by one.

One crevice had a narrow opening, just wide enough to squeeze through. The large beasts would never fit inside. Not even the ones only slightly smaller.

For the first time in Creeden, Heroe had found somewhere the forest could not follow.

Along its walls were smaller slits like windows, and rough protrusions like chairs. Heroe knew this only by touch — fingers tracing the surroundings in the complete dark. The world had become like Braille. So much could be known through touch, and their fingers had grown sensitive with intelligence.

In the daytime, light fell through the slits in the wall. When the sun rose, the air inside the crevice shone as pink motes floated through the left side. When the sun set, lavender hues slipped through the right. Reclining on the stone protrusions, Heroe could watch the surface of the forest below — and it was made up of far more creatures than they had known.

Watching them, many things were learned. How to hide. How to hunt. How to be patient and wait. Patience was important. Planning was too. To be fed well took time.

Parts of the old stories — the knights and their survival — returned during these quiet hours. Knights and predators had much in common.

Heroe observed squirrels digging holes to stash their fruit and birds constructing nests from nothing. Some adversaries never truly fought — they only roared and hunched low. It was enough to avoid a battle, sometimes. And sometimes it wasn't. But Heroe was learning when the tactic worked and when it didn't.

The hollow in the floor where they slept was now filled with old leaves and lined with fur. It was snug and warm. The necklace of claws was always closed inside a fist during sleep — waiting, ready.

Heroe began storing berries and fruit in the uneven hollows of the crevice floor. They kept fresh for as long as it took the mother's crescent to become full again. Fur was laid across the stone protrusions along the wall, making them comfortable enough that Heroe often drifted to sleep while watching the forest below.

The dreams that came were full of fantastical things. A large stone building guarded by men and women with shining blades and armor. Food enough to fill the stomach for an entire day — served on gleaming plates. Meats, breads, colorful foods whose sweetness Heroe could almost taste.

Two faces were always in the dreams. Smiling eyes. Arms open and ready to embrace. And then — the hand with the red ring would enter, and the warmth of those faces would begin to fade, slowly, like candlelight in a draft, until the dream went dark and they were alone again.

~ ~ ~

In the summer, when the fruits grew more plentiful, Heroe hunted with something approaching contentment — moving through the dark forest with a small smile that no one was there to see.

They began visiting the river's edge more often. Looking out at the city of lights across the water.

One night the lights danced. The people were celebrating something — the festivities lasted until morning, when Heroe needed to return to the crevice for safety. But it was hard to leave. Colorful flags flowed in the soft wind, moving like water through air. Heroe wondered what they were celebrating. Wondered what it felt like to be inside that light rather than watching it from the dark.

Sometimes a thought arrived quietly and stayed: if somehow Heroe could get across the water to the city of lights — would it be worth facing whatever lived in the river's depths?

One night they removed the furry shoes and walked to the water's edge. Waves lapped cold against bare legs. Sand sank beneath small feet. Heroe waded deeper, the dirt from skin clouding the water around the ankles.

Something large leapt from the depths further out — broke the surface with a sound like a tree falling — and Heroe scrambled backward to the safety of the shore.

Not yet. But the thought did not leave. It only waited.

Years passed.

The fur coat, which had once fallen below the knees, now reached only to the thighs. It had always been matted. It had always been warm. Dried flesh from other creatures had become shoes, and a carrying bag for food and the few things that mattered.

Heroe learned even more about surviving. And in the learning, came to understand something unexpected: dying was easy. Living wasn't. Sometimes they thought about both — turning them over in the mind the way a hand turns over a stone to see what lives beneath. Dying or living. Easy or hard.

Hard wasn't so bad. Not really.

Even when creatures followed Heroe's scent with intent to kill — the fear that came had something almost thrilling in it. It made them run faster. It made the heart beat like a drum. It made the body hunger to survive.

Fear wasn't so bad. Not really.

And the hunting that made the muscles ache and the feet hurt — it also made the muscles stronger, and forced Heroe to find more leather for the inside of the furry shoes. It forced them to think smarter. To plan further ahead. To become more.

Pain wasn't so bad. Not really.

Loneliness was harder. Though the moon had become Heroe's mother, there was no one to call family when the sun was in the sky. That was the one thing that had no lesson hidden inside it yet.

~ ~ ~

There were trees upon the hill overlooking the river that bore sweet fruit — not berries, but large, fleshy things whose smell made Heroe dizzy with memory. It brought back the taste of the foods served after meats and green vegetables in another life. A life so distant it sometimes felt like one of the dreams.

The trees surrendered their harvest only when the blistering winds gave way to warmer currents. And Heroe was rarely the first to gather — many animals traveled in packs, and they were merely one.

One night, a clan of monkeys gathered around the fruit trees — taking their time, playing and eating and reclining as though the world held no dangers at all. Three pieces of fruit lay on the ground. Heroe ran for them. The monkeys began shrieking. They were nearly there, hand already reaching, body already bent — when a larger monkey dropped from the tree to the ground, thumping its chest and baring long teeth.

Heroe scrambled back into the brush. Waited. When they finally left, a single piece of fruit remained — brown and soft, offering only two bites before the rot.

Heroe returned the following week. This time, a large beast — the same kind whose fur they wore — was among the trees. It let out a call and its young came scurrying close. It stood with one clawed paw raised, sniffing the air.

Its nose found Heroe in the bushes. But instead of charging, it raised that paw in Heroe's direction and called again.

It thought Heroe was one of its kind. The fur smelled like its young.

Slowly, Heroe lifted the hood of the fur coat, hiding the face entirely, and rose — head down, footsteps careful and deliberate — and walked to the fruit. Filled the bag and left without looking back.

The following night Heroe returned again. The clan of monkeys was there, leisurely and unhurried. Heroe lifted the hood. The smaller ones scrambled at the sight of it — but the large one only stared.

It bore its teeth. Thumped its chest.

Heroe stood still. Heart pounding. Then crouched low — and roared. As loudly as possible. Then rose, pounded the chest, flailed both arms, and roared again.

The large monkey looked at Heroe for a long moment. Then turned and ambled away.

Heroe filled the bag with six pieces of fruit and left unhurried, feeling something new in the air — something that felt, unmistakably, like respect.

Chapter Three: Royal Sails

~ ~ ~

Heroe had traveled far into the forest in search of discarded fur. Thirst burned the throat and the sound of the nearby creek drew them close.

Places where water ran were filled with danger. Everything inside the forest needed it. There were nights when Heroe had to endure thirst — making a choice between the risk of life and the fire burning inside the body. This was one of those nights. Even the muscles ached from lack of water.

Walking along the creek's edge, Heroe's foot came down on something large that cracked cleanly in two. Stooping to examine it, they found a piece of hardened clay — and realized it was abundant all along the creek's edge, where the soil was soft and moist.

Heroe dug into the earth, scooping out clumps of clay before retreating to a safe place to try a hand at shaping a jug. Two attempts were made before returning to the crevice to sleep.

Excitement greeted Heroe upon waking the following morning. Scrambling toward the two shapes on the floor, the excitement quickly died.

The walls of the first jug were too thin and uneven. The clay lay in a messy collapse of mud surrounded by dried crumbs. The second attempt had held — but the base was too thick and the walls too thin, causing the whole thing to warp and twist until it could hold no more than a cup of water.

Heroe needed far more than a cup.

The summer heat was unbearable inside the crevice that day, the heat and thirst raged. The night could not come fast enough. When it finally did, Heroe crept to the creek's edge, looked both ways, then bent low to drink. The tongue and throat seemed to drink as much as the belly as the cool water passed through. They drank until the stomach could hold nothing else.

More clay was collected on the way back. That night Heroe did not sleep — checking the new attempts again and again in the dark. One collapsed before morning. The rim of another began cracking. The third, when they woke, had held.

It was not beautiful. But it would carry enough water to last a full day.

Heroe held it in both hands for a moment, feeling its weight. It would be heavy to carry. But they would grow stronger. That was all that mattered.

That night Heroe celebrated quietly — eating fruit and drinking water at the edge of the brush, hidden in the reeds, alone and satisfied in the particular way that only self-made things can satisfy.

~ ~ ~

It was the music Heroe heard first.

Faint, then fuller — strings and something like a flute, carrying across the water from somewhere far out on the river. Music. It pulled something loose inside the chest — fragments of memory surfacing like objects risen from the bottom of still water. A large room filled with people much taller than Heroe, moving across a gleaming floor, embracing and smiling, attired in fine clothes that whispered as they moved.

The vessel came into view slowly, moving along the river's near channel, close enough that the lanterns hanging from its mast and railings were visible — dozens of them, gold and amber, swaying with the gentle motion of the water. Its vast sails, white as the moon, caught the light like the wings of graceful birds. The black water surrounding the vessel glowed gold where the lanterns touched it, while the mother moon left trails of silver floating in between.

People moved on the deck. Men in dark garments. Women in long, flowing dresses that moved like the wind they sailed through. And children — four of them — running between the adults, their flags rising and dipping with the frenzy of their excitement. The flags were pale blue, emblazoned with a golden symbol.

A symbol that stopped Heroe's breath entirely.

They pushed back the fur covering the left arm and looked at the skin just below the shoulder. A mark — just like the golden symbol — etched into the skin since birth. Heroe had always known it was there. Had never known what it meant.

Now, from somewhere beneath years of hunger and cold and solitude, a memory surfaced.

Tears. A shushing, gentle and close. A warm embrace. And then a man and a woman, each baring their own arm to show the same mark. The same symbol. As if to say: we share more than this pain. We share this with love.

The children on the deck laughed. The unguarded sound carried across the water and landed in Heroe's stomach like a wild kick.

The only sound Heroe had ever made was the roar. The sound of children laughing was almost unbearable.

At the stern of the vessel sat two figures apart from the others, side by side in tall carved chairs that were not quite thrones but suggested them. The woman wore something on her head that caught every lantern's light and held it — a circlet, thin and bright. The man beside her wore something similar, broader, heavier. They sat close together, not speaking, simply watching the dark water pass.

Something stirred deep inside Heroe's chest.

Not hunger. Not fear. Something older than either. Something that had no name yet but knew itself.

The woman stood. She turned toward the shore — toward the forest of Creeden, toward the darkness where Heroe crouched invisible among the reeds. Her hand lifted slowly to her chest. Her face bowed. Her fingers moved across it in the way of someone who has said the same silent prayer so many times it has become the shape of grief itself.

Something inside Heroe's chest splintered.

Then the warmth came — spreading through the ribs slow as blood from a wound. And then it broke — held together by nothing more than survival, and then not even that.

The man beside her rose and placed his hand over hers, drawing her gently back, his arm around her shoulders, her head coming to rest against him. They stood together at the railing for a moment longer, looking toward the dark shore, before turning away.

The vessel moved on. The music faded. The lanterns grew smaller and smaller until they were indistinguishable from the stars above them, and then they were gone entirely, and the river was black again.

Heroe remained in the reeds for a long time after. The clay jug sat beside bare feet. Somewhere in the forest behind, something moved through the brush and went still.

They did not move. Did not think about food or shelter or the beasts in the dark. Only sat, eyes fixed upon the water, holding the left arm close.