Rain fell without mercy.
Heavy. Cold. Endless.
As if the sky itself was mourning.
Beneath an ancient banyan tree, villagers stood in silence.
Women clutched their shawls, knuckles white. Children pressed against their mothers' legs. Old men leaned on wooden staffs, their spines bent not only by age, but by helpless rage.
At the center lay a shallow grave.
The soil was loose, dark, soaked through by rain. Mud clung to bare feet. No one complained. No one spoke.
Inside the grave lay a boy.
Twelve years old.
His body was wrapped in plain white cloth, already stained brown by earth and rain. His face was pale, unnaturally still. One eye was carefully covered—as if hiding it could undo the truth.
It could not.
A woman stood closest to the grave.
She did not scream.
She did not collapse.
Her tears remained trapped inside her chest, choking every breath. Her hands trembled as she clutched a small piece of cloth—her son's—still faintly carrying the scent of wood smoke and sweat.
Around her, the children understood too much. Their faces were tight, eyes red, lips pressed together in fear.
This was not just death.
This was a warning.
A little apart from the villagers stood a warrior.
His armor was old—scratched leather and dull steel. A long sword hung at his side, worn but sharp. Rain traced thin lines down the scars on his face.
His name was Imann.
He was not the strongest warrior. No songs were sung of his victories. Kings did not summon him first.
But in villages, on forgotten roads, among nameless graves—
his name mattered.
Because Imann never turned away.
An old man stepped forward, hands shaking. Slowly, gently, he lowered the boy's body into the grave.
For a brief moment, the rain softened.
As if the sky itself held its breath.
Then came the sound.
Soil.
Handful after handful of wet earth struck the cloth-wrapped body.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Each sound landed like a blow to the heart.
The mother fell to her knees. Her fingers dug into the mud. Her shoulders shook.
No scream escaped her lips.
The silence hurt worse.
When the grave was filled, Imann stepped forward. He removed a small pouch from his belt and placed it into the woman's trembling hands.
"Take this," he said quietly.
She looked up. Her eyes were empty.
"He was a good boy," Imann continued. His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight. "The world was cruel to him. Not the other way around."
She clutched the pouch to her chest and nodded once.
Imann drew his sword.
The villagers stiffened—fear flashing across their faces.
But he did not raise it.
Turning the blade upside down, he drove its tip into the earth at the head of the grave. The sword stood firm.
He removed his helmet.
Knelt.
Lowering his head, he rested his forehead against the flat of the blade, rain dripping from his hair into the mud.
"I pray to any gods who still listen," he said, voice low but carrying through the rain.
"Give this child peace.
And if justice still exists in this world—
do not forget his name."
The rain answered with silence.
The Day Before
The boy had been laughing.
The sun was warm. Worries felt distant. He chased fallen leaves, feet light, breath free.
Three boys watched from a distance.
Their clothes were fine. Their bows polished. Their arrows straight.
Royal blood.
Sons of the king's brothers.
"This is boring," one of them scoffed. "Animals don't even scream properly."
The tallest of the three smirked, his gaze settling on the village boy near the tree.
"Then let's use a better target."
The third hesitated. "He's human."
"So?" the tallest replied. "He's not royal."
They dragged the boy toward the tree. Tied him loosely—not enough to restrain him, just enough to keep him from running.
"Don't move," one of them laughed. "We'll aim around you."
Arrows flew.
One struck the ground.
Another pierced the bark inches from the boy's head.
He cried then. Begged. His voice cracked.
The third boy's hands shook as he raised his bow.
"I don't want to—"
"Then don't miss."
The arrow flew.
It missed the tree.
And found the boy's eye.
Blood spilled—too much, too fast.
Laughter vanished. Panic took its place.
They ran.
The forest ignored him.
The road stayed deaf.
Blood soaked into the roots of the tree.
By the time the villagers found him, he was already gone.
Everyone knew the truth.
But truth meant nothing against a crown.
To speak against royalty was to invite death.
After the Burial
That night, Imann stood alone beneath a rain-washed sky.
His sword was clean.
His armor was dry.
But his hands felt stained.
"Another child," he murmured. "Another grave."
He knew the princes would walk free. He knew the king's brothers would bury the incident deeper than the boy himself.
But stories did not end just because power said so.
Imann turned toward the distant lights of the capital. His eyes hardened.
"If the world won't protect the innocent," he said quietly,
"then someone else will."
The rain continued to fall
The Next Day
Imann woke before the sun.
The rain had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the air cold and heavy. Water dripped from the edges of the camp tents, falling into shallow puddles that reflected a pale, broken sky.
He knelt beside a barrel of collected rainwater and washed his face. The water was icy. It did nothing to dull the weight in his chest.
Twenty-eight years old.
A knight in the king's lowest army division—the kind sent where banners were unnecessary and names were forgotten.
War had taken most of his life.
He had been sixteen when he first held a sword on a battlefield. Too young to understand fear properly, old enough to learn how quickly men died. Since then, seasons had blurred into marches, sieges, and graves that never received prayers.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"Hey, Imann."
He didn't turn.
Asen Sic stood there, adjusting the strap of his armor. He was broad-shouldered, with a face that still looked out of place in war—too open, too human. They had survived three campaigns together. That alone made Asen rare.
"You heard about yesterday?" Asen asked carefully.
Imann's hands stilled in the water. Slowly, he stood.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice low, tired.
Asen hesitated.
Imann already knew the shape of the answer.
"Someone must've been hurt again," Imann said quietly. "Another victim of power drunk on its own strength. Another price paid for the sins of kings."
Asen exhaled sharply. "You shouldn't say things like that out loud."
"Truth doesn't become safer when whispered," Imann replied.
Asen looked away. "It was worse this time. Royal blood was involved."
Imann closed his eyes.
Of course it was.
"They say it was an accident," Asen continued. "Training gone wrong. A hunting game."
"A child doesn't die by accident when arrogance holds the bow," Imann said.
Silence stretched between them.
Around the camp, soldiers prepared for the day. Armor clinked. Orders were shouted. Life moved on—smoothly, indifferently.
Asen lowered his voice. "The captain warned us. No talk. No questions. We ride by noon."
Imann stared at the water dripping from his fingers.
"How many wars does a man fight," he asked softly, "before he realizes the enemy isn't always across the field?"
Asen didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Imann picked up his helmet and slid it under his arm. His sword felt heavier today, though it had not changed.
Somewhere beyond the camp, a mother was waking to silence where a child's footsteps should have been.
And somewhere farther still, princes would wake laughing.
Imann began to walk.
Not toward the road.
Not toward orders.
But toward a decision that had been waiting for him since the day he first learned how easily the innocent were buried.