Whispers of the Dead

For years, they believed she was dead.

Nari had heard the rumors herself—whispers that the first wife of the great warlord Kuthan had been murdered on the same night her cursed son was thrown away like an unwanted burden. Some said her body had been burned to erase any trace of her, while others claimed wild beasts had torn her apart in the jungle. Either way, no one questioned it. No one looked for her.

But Nari was alive. And for five long years, she had hidden in the shadows, waiting.

She sat in the dim light of a clay lamp, her fingers tracing the rough surface of the wooden table before her. The small hut she called home was nothing like the grand halls she once walked as Kuthan's wife. Here, the roof leaked when it rained, and the wind crept through the cracks in the walls, biting at her skin. But it was safe. Safe enough to survive.

Her eyes flickered to the fire pit at the center of the room. The flames danced gently, their glow reflecting in the metal bowl of water beside them. She stared at her own face—thinner now, her once-rich brown skin dulled from years of hardship. The regal braids she used to wear had been replaced by a simple wrap, covering the scars that lined her scalp. Scars left by the very people who were supposed to protect her.

That night, five years ago, still haunted her.

She remembered the shouts, the hurried footsteps outside her chamber. The cold grip of her husband's men as they dragged her from her bed, ignoring her screams. They had called her son a curse, an omen that threatened the balance of Yusolo. And for that, he had to die. But Kuthan knew she would never allow it. So, he ordered her death along with his.

But fate had other plans.

The knife meant for her throat never landed. A single act of mercy had saved her—a young warrior, barely older than a boy, had hesitated. He had loosened his grip for just a second, and in that second, Nari fought. She still didn't know if the warrior had meant to let her go or if it was pure luck, but she had run, bleeding and gasping, into the depths of the jungle.

She had wandered for days, half-dead, until she was found by an old woman named Sewa, a healer who lived far beyond the reach of the warlords. Sewa had nursed her back to health, but even after she could walk again, Nari had nowhere to go. She could not return. Not without power. Not without a plan.

So, she waited.

For years, she had listened. Traders, hunters, travelers—they all spoke of the world beyond, of the wars between the clans, the shifting power of the warlords. But none of it mattered to her. Only one thing did.

Her son.

She had assumed he was dead. Even if they had spared her, surely they wouldn't have left an infant alive in the wild. But then, one night, she heard a name. A whisper. A legend growing in the jungles.

"The boy of the Volx."

A child, they said, raised by the secluded Volx tribe. A boy unlike any other, fierce and strong, untouched by the warlords yet filled with something… greater.

A mother always knows.

Nari's hands clenched into fists. He was alive. He had survived.

A deep breath steadied her. She could not let her emotions cloud her judgment. If the Volx had taken him, it meant they had seen something in him worth protecting. But it also meant she could not simply walk in and take him back. The Volx did not trust outsiders, and if Kuthan or the warlords discovered the truth, they would finish what they had started.

She needed to move carefully. To watch from the shadows, to understand what kind of life her son had now.

But most of all…

She needed to be stronger.

She rose from her seat, wrapping a thick cloak around her shoulders. Outside, the night was cool, the moon a distant glow in the sky. In the distance, she could hear the rustling of the trees, the songs of unseen creatures in the dark.

Her heart ached, but she ignored it.

She had waited five years.

She could wait a little longer.