The forgotten history

The night air was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves and the distant howl of a hungry wolf. Leo sat outside his family's small, crumbling home, staring up at the sky. The stars twinkled like distant embers, cold and untouchable, much like the freedom he longed for.

Joran's execution replayed in his mind, a cruel loop of helplessness and fury. He had seen death before—Delia was no stranger to loss—but something about today had shifted something deep inside him. The way Joran had stood, unbroken in the face of death, haunted him.

"Leo," his mother's voice called softly from the doorway. "Come inside."

He didn't move. "How long are we going to live like this, Mother?" His voice was low, trembling with suppressed rage. "How long will we bow to them?"

Mara sighed and sat beside him. The years of hardship had carved lines into her face, but there was still a quiet strength in her eyes. "As long as we must, my son."

Leo turned to her, his frustration boiling over. "That's not an answer!" He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. "We were not meant to be slaves. I hear stories of how Delia once was—proud, strong. Why do we do nothing?"

His mother's gaze darkened, flicking toward the shadowed streets before returning to him. "Because rebellion means death, Leo. You saw that today."

"But what if it means something more?" He clenched his fists. "Joran didn't die a coward. He died believing in something greater."

Mara hesitated, then stood. "Come with me."

Surprised, Leo followed her inside. Their home was modest, with little more than a wooden table, a few chairs, and a small hearth where the last embers of their evening fire flickered. His mother moved toward the far corner, where an old woven rug covered the wooden floor. She knelt down and, with slow, deliberate movements, pulled it aside.

Beneath it, hidden from sight, was a trapdoor.

Leo's breath caught in his throat. "What is this?"

Mara gave him a knowing look. "The truth."

She lifted the wooden hatch, revealing a dark opening. A wooden ladder led downward into the unknown. Without another word, she motioned for him to follow and descended into the darkness.

Leo's heart pounded as he climbed down after her. The air was thick with dust, the scent of parchment and old wood filling his nostrils. When his feet touched the stone floor, Mara lit a small oil lamp, illuminating the space.

Books. Scrolls. Weapons.

Stacks of old tomes lined the walls, their spines cracked with age. Swords, shields, and armor—some bearing the crest of Delia's lost kings—were carefully stored away, untouched by time.

Leo turned in a slow circle, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What… what is this place?"

Mara placed a hand on one of the books. "A remnant of the past. A history the Kinks have tried to erase."

She picked up a scroll and unrolled it, revealing an ancient map of Delia. "Three hundred years ago, we were warriors. We were rulers. This land belonged to us." Her voice trembled slightly. "But the Kinks came. They conquered, slaughtered, enslaved. And over generations, they made sure our people forgot who we once were."

Leo swallowed hard, his fingers trailing over the golden emblem of Delia on one of the shields. It felt foreign yet familiar, like something buried deep within his blood.

"Why did you never show me this?" he whispered.

Mara's expression was unreadable. "Because knowing the truth is dangerous. And now that you know it, there is no turning back."

Leo looked at her, his jaw set. "I don't want to turn back."

Mara studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Then you must prepare, my son. Because if you walk this path… you will never be the same."

Leo took a deep breath, the weight of history pressing down on him. He wasn't just a boy filled with anger anymore. He was a son of Delia. A descendant of warriors.

And he would not let their story end in chains.