33

  Freska lay in the warm southern winds, where the sunlight always glowed golden and the forge fires never slept. Its warriors were raised from childhood to be strong—not cruel, not proud, but steadfast. And at the heart of this great land ruled Roy Arlen.

  To outsiders, Roy Arlen was a living storm—a man whose sword divided empires and whose voice silenced armies. Bandits invoked his name in fear; ambitious nobles whispered it while trembling. But to his people, he was simply Roy.

  He walked the markets, shared meals with blacksmiths, trained beside soldiers, carried the children who fell in the sparring yards. In Freska, kingship was not a crown—it was duty and love.

  Every child was raised in discipline. Boys took sword and shield from the moment their arms could lift wood; girls took the bow and blade as soon as their fingers could hold string and edge. By the time they were sixteen, they were sent to the Halkyon Range for their coming-of-age hunt.

  Among the young warriors was Soraya.

  A bastard child. Her blood claimed no house. Her mother died young, and she never knew her father. In many kingdoms, such a child would be outcast.

  But not in Freska.

  The kingdom valued skill above lineage—effort above title. And Soraya had both effort and talent enough to rival a dozen.

  By thirteen, she no longer held a bow—she wielded it. She could fire in full sprint, in mid-roll, from a tree branch swaying in the wind. She struck targets others did not even see. The bow was her voice. And when she paired it with her dagger—quick, sure, unstoppable—few dared call her “bastard” twice.

  When her time came, she joined her peers in the southern reaches of the Halkyon Range, where the trees thickened and the shadows deepened. These woods were home to one of Maharlika’s most feared predators—

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Sahr’vel.

  A great black feline creature, sleek and silent, large as a man, known for leaping from tree to tree without sound. Under moonlight, its fur shimmered faintly—like starlight trapped in pitch. In darkness, it was invisible. Only its eyes—cold, silver—betrayed it.

  The trials began at dawn.

  Hours passed. The trainees moved in formation, blades drawn, bows ready. The instructors watched from a distance—this was tradition. A warrior faced fear without a guiding hand.

  Then the creature struck.

  A scream tore through the forest as a young boy was snatched from the path, Sahr’vel’s jaws clamped around his shoulder. The beast moved like shadow-swallowing shadow, dragging him up a cliff toward the treeline.

  The group froze.

  Soraya did not.

  Before panic could bloom, she had already drawn an arrow. Her breath slowed. The world narrowed into shapes—distance, speed, wind. Her heartbeat became calm.

  She aimed.

  The wind gathered—not a breeze, but a force that wrapped her, funneling into her arrow hand. Her scarf fluttered, leaves lifted from the ground, and her hair swayed though the forest was still.

  She released.

  The arrow flew—not with the speed of muscle, but with the roar of the wind itself. It spiraled in a tight line, carving the air. The Sahr’vel turned too late.

  The arrow pierced its neck.

  The beast collapsed, rolling with the boy down the slope. Instructors rushed in, retrieving him; the boy would live.

  Soraya walked to retrieve her arrow, silent, calm. She wiped the blood, inspected the shaft, slid it back into her quiver.

  Whispers spread like wildfire.

  Wind Soraya.

  That title belonged to her now—not given, but earned.

  News reached Roy Arlen by evening. But he did not summon her to a throne hall.

  He found her in the training yard, after sunset, shooting alone under torchlight.

  He watched three arrows fly in one breath, each striking a separate post, each dead center.

  He approached without herald.

  “Soraya,” he said—not calling her by birth, but by name earned.

  She turned, saluted with fist over heart.

  He did not offer praise.

  He simply extended a long, velvet-lined case.

  “Take these,” he said. “Forged from star-iron and silver. They shine in darkness and guide the wind. These belong to no noble. They belong to the one whose arrows never waver.”

  Soraya opened the case.

  Inside lay a set of arrowheads—sleek, silver, faintly glowing as though moonlight lived inside them.

  Her breath trembled.

  She bowed—not as subject to king, but warrior to leader.

  Roy Arlen placed one hand on her shoulder.

  “The winds of Maharlika are shifting. When the storm comes, you will not stand behind others. You will stand at the front.”

  Soraya nodded.

  Wind brushed the training yard.

  And the silver arrowheads glowed—ready.