The first time you see him, he’s curled up beneath the old apple tree at the edge of the village—mud on his boots, blood on his sleeve, and a shattered crown hidden beneath his cloak.

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he says without opening his eyes.

His voice is hoarse, but there’s something soft in it. Tired. Lonely.

“If you do… they’ll come for me. And this time, they won’t let me run.”

You could walk away. Pretend you never saw him.

But there’s something about him—something broken and brave—that keeps you still.