Smoke poured into William's lungs as the flames swallowed the cave.
Uncle Marcus grunted beside him, dragging the boy by the wrist. "Don't look back, Will. Just breathe. Move!"
William's legs burned. His chest heaved. Every sound—the crackling wood, the distant screams, the collapsing stones—throbbed in his ears like thunder. The fire behind them roared louder than the gods themselves, as if Tazan's soul was being scorched from the earth.
They burst out into the night. The tunnel's hidden mouth opened into a thicket just past the old burial hills. William collapsed, coughing violently. He tasted blood and soot. Marcus knelt beside him, hands trembling as he checked the boy's head and shoulders.
"You're alive. Thank the stars. You're alive," Marcus whispered, cupping William's soot-streaked face. Then, more firmly, "We don't have time. They'll come looking."
"But… Papa. Elias…" William sobbed, the memory of the execution square pounding back into his mind. The image of his father on his knees. His brother's eyes wide with fear. The sword coming down. The blood. The cheers of the Westham dogs.
"They're gone, Will," Marcus said gently, though his eyes blazed. "But you—your breath still carries Tazan's future. We can't waste it."
A howl broke the silence behind them.
Marcus stood abruptly, drawing a short blade from beneath his cloak. "Westham scouts. They found the tunnel."
He grabbed William by the arm again and pulled him into the dense forest. Branches whipped past them. Owls scattered. The night was no longer safe. Tazan was no longer home.
They ran until dawn painted the sky in orange bruises.
Two days later, they reached the edges of Rocky Village.
The village looked like a graveyard with roofs. The people—silent, worn, eyes hollow—barely glanced at the newcomers. Everyone had lost someone. Everyone had scars.
"You'll be called Jonah now," Marcus told William as they entered a crumbling mudhouse at the edge of the village. "No one must know who you are. Not even the stars."
William nodded, his eyes cold. He hadn't spoken in hours.
That night, Marcus buried the sword William's father had gifted him under the floorboards and handed the boy a bundle of plain farmer's clothes.
"You'll learn to grow things here," Marcus said, seating himself by the dim fire. "You'll learn to live quietly. But you won't forget. The day will come, Will. And when it does, you'll be ready."
William stared into the flames, jaw tight.
He swore never to forget.
Years passed, marked by seasons, not joy.
Jonah—William—grew tall, strong, and quiet. He learned the soil, the wind, and the way grief could grow like weeds if left alone. Marcus taught him swordplay in the shadows, the law by firelight, and leadership through patience.
But Tazan's wounds never healed.
Westham guards came often, always looking, always breaking things. Children vanished. Women cried. Men were hanged without reason. No one dared fight. No one dared hope.
Until the boy who wasn't Jonah started talking to the wind.
Until rumors grew like fire on dry leaves.
"Have you heard?" an old man whispered in the market. "The King's captain was found dead in a river near Selin. Sword wound. No blood trail. Like magic."
"Folk say the ghost of Lord Moses walks again," said another.
"The boy didn't die," an old woman muttered, her hands shaking. "The orphaned crown still lives."
Marcus didn't smile when he heard it. Instead, he packed.
That night, William stood under the moonlight with the sword of his father in his hand, pulled from the floor where it had slept ten years.
"They know," Marcus said simply. "It's begun."
William's lips barely moved. "I didn't start this."
"No. But you'll end it."
Suddenly, a knock thundered on their door.
Marcus froze. "Don't move."
The knock came again—this time louder, angrier. A voice followed. "Open up! By order of King Russel of Westham!"
Marcus grabbed the hilt of his dagger and moved toward the door. William stopped him.
"Let me."
He opened the door slowly.
Two guards stood there—cloaked in black, eyes cold.
"We're looking for a fugitive. Boy. Eighteen years ago. Escaped the square during the public beheadings. May be living here under false name. Have you seen anyone suspicious?"
William stared at them, his face blank. "No one here but farmers."
One of the guards tilted his head. "You look familiar."
William shrugged. "I get that a lot."
The guard stepped closer. "What's your name?"
"Jonah."
The guard paused. His hand went to the sword at his hip.
Marcus stepped forward. "Is this necessary? The boy's done nothing."
The second guard smirked. "We'll see."
The first guard leaned closer to William. "You sure you've never seen the execution square?"
William held his stare. "I've seen death. Not kings."
That was enough for the guard. He turned. "Keep your ears open, farmer. The ghost of Tazan's past is still wanted."
When the guards left, Marcus closed the door slowly.
"You lied to him like a king," he said softly.
William didn't answer.
The next day, Marcus was gone.
No note. No blood. Just gone.
William searched the hills, the fields, even the forest where they first escaped.
Nothing.
By nightfall, a whisper came through a child.
"Strangers in red cloaks took an old man. They said he was dangerous."
William's hands clenched the sword that hadn't tasted air in a decade.
He walked back to the house and stood in front of the fire.
He didn't sleep.
The next morning, he shaved his beard, tied his boots tight, and put on the cloak his father once wore.
He walked to the village square and stood on a broken barrel.
Villagers paused. The baker's wife gasped. A boy dropped his basket.
"I am William Moses of Tazan," he said, voice clear. "Son of the slain. Heir of the crown. I come not with pleas—but with a promise."
The silence cracked.
"I will burn every flag that bears Westham's mark. I will tear down their walls. I will avenge every child stolen, every brother hung, every mother beaten. I am not your ghost. I am your storm."
An old man wept. A young girl whispered, "He's real."
Then someone stepped forward.
A hand.
Then two.
Then twenty.
And in the crowd, a hooded figure appeared.
Robert Bruce.
The last person William expected to see.
The man walked up slowly, cloak drawn, eyes gleaming gold beneath the shadows.
"You speak like a king," Robert said, voice low.
William narrowed his eyes. "You know who I am?"
"I knew before you did."
William's heart pounded. "Why are you here?"
"To offer you a choice."
"And what's that?"
Robert leaned closer.
"To become what they fear… or to die still pretending you're a farmer."
William didn't blink. "And what do you want from me?"
Robert's eyes flicked toward the crowd. "Only this: don't fail. The next war doesn't wait. And you've already been chosen."
Before William could respond, a horn sounded in the distance—three short bursts.
A warning.
A shadow crossed Robert's face. "Too late."
"What do you mean?"
Robert stepped back. "Run."
William turned just as three flaming arrows pierced the sky, landing at the edge of the village.
The hills exploded with fire.
Westham had found them.
And they weren't here to talk.