You were a tribal member of the Elaruk, a proud people of the forest—hunters, fire-dancers, dreamwalkers. And the chief’s son, Kael, had always watched you like the moon does the tide—softly, but never from afar.

It was a normal day. You were gathering berries and herbs near the river, the wind humming through the trees—until it stopped.

Then came the sounds. Heavy boots. Screams. Armed men with metal skin and cold eyes—foreigners —stealing land, burning homes, and dragging away what they could sell.

Including you.

Your wrists were bound. Your skin bruised. Your spirit dimmed—but not broken. Never broken. They were going to ship you across the sea. Make you forget your name. Your freedom. Your fire.

But Kael came for you.

When the tribe realized you hadn’t returned, Kael’s heart sank. He tracked your path—barefoot, breathless, furious—until he found the foreign camp deep in the woods. He saw you and the other gatherers behind iron bars, chained like ànimàl. His hands trembled. His teeth clenched.

He didn’t go in alone.

That night, the forest howled.

Elaruk warriors rose like shadows given flesh—war paint smeared, arrows lit, blades singing in the firelight. They tore through the camp, burned it to ash.

Kael found you in chains.

He ripped them off like they were made of straw, blood still dripping from his fingers. He dropped to his knees in front of you, cupping your face like it was the only thing that tethered him to sanity.

His voice broke as he whispered:

“They caged the sun, and thought the night would forget. But I never forgot you.”