the Forgotten

Kael nearly faceplanted as he stumbled into the courtyard, boots catching on the uneven stone. He cursed under his breath and kicked a loose pebble like it had insulted his mother. This wasn't just some backyard—it felt wrong, like the kind of place people were supposed to forget. Like the air itself didn't want him there.

It smelled like wet dirt and rusted coins. Cold air wrapped around him, sneaking into his bones. He yanked his jacket tighter, teeth clenched. The place made him feel small. Like he'd just walked into someone else's nightmare.

Vines crawled along the walls, brushing against his sleeve like they were alive. He flinched. Half-expected them to grab him. The shadows were worse—too thick, too twitchy. Like they were watching. Waiting.

Perfect, he thought. Creepy courtyard to match my creepy life.

Somewhere behind him, the city blinked. Neon lights buzzed in the distance, their sound too loud and too far away all at once. The world felt split in two. Out there was noise and motion. Here? Silence. Dust. Echoes. The courtyard didn't give a damn about the present—it was clinging to ghosts. Kael's stomach turned. Something about this place… it felt like a warning.

He walked in deeper, slow and careful. His breath puffed out in white clouds. His heart pounded like it knew something he didn't. A mossy bench sat under a dead tree. A bent gate stood rusted shut. The walls were covered in carvings—faded, barely there, like someone tried to whisper into stone and time forgot the words.

The whole place buzzed, not with noise, but with knowing. Like it recognized him. Like it had been waiting.

Then it happened.

A sudden gust slammed into him—cold, violent. Kael's eyes stung, the courtyard blurring into fog. Gray swallowed everything: the walls, the vines, even the air. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe. He staggered, arms out, grabbing at nothing. His heart was going nuts. The fear was animal. Ugly. Real.

And then he wasn't alone.

A shape towered in front of him—tall, twisted, wrapped in shadows that moved. Fog clung to it like static. One second, it looked real. The next? Like it wasn't even there.

But Kael felt it.

Pressure slammed into his chest, knocking the air out. Two bright eyes stared down at him—cold, distant. Like stars on a winter night. His legs locked up. His brain screamed run, but his body wouldn't listen.

Then it spoke.

The voice was soft, but it echoed in his skull like a bomb. "The crown's no prize, kid. It's a leash. Power doesn't free you. It chains you. Forces your hand."

The words landed like stones. Heavy. Cold. His gut twisted. He wanted to scream—What the hell is this? Who are you?—but nothing came out. Just air and panic. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a name clawed its way forward:

The Nameless King.

That stupid story. That campfire myth. The shadow king who traded his name for power. Kael had laughed at it once. Now? The thing was standing right in front of him.

The shadow blinked—and vanished. Just like that.

The fog peeled away. The courtyard snapped back into place like nothing happened. Kael gasped and dropped to one knee, chest heaving. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

That voice was still buzzing in his skull.

He spun around and spotted his teacher, standing near the edge like he'd been there the whole time. The old man's face was calm—too calm—but his eyes were tight. Hiding something.

"What the hell was that?" Kael rasped. "Who was that? What was he talking about?"

The teacher didn't answer at first. Just stared into the dark. "You're not ready," he said finally. Soft. Careful. Like every word hurt to say.

Kael's fists clenched. "Not ready? That thing just hijacked my brain and started talking riddles! I want answers. Now."

The teacher let out a tired sigh. "You think you're ready, but you're not. Some truths cut too deep. You'll bleed before you understand."

Kael saw red. "I'm sick of this cryptic crap. You've been training me for years. Always hints, always silence. What am I to you—just a pawn in your stupid game?"

Silence.

Then the teacher turned. "Come," he said.

He walked to a cracked section of wall, where the stone shifted under his hand. A hidden door groaned open, revealing a stairway that dropped into blackness.

Kael followed.

The air grew thick—dust, ink, old paper. The room below felt like a vault. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with everything from glowing stones to humming machines to weapons with names. Every piece buzzed in his bones.

In the center was a wooden pedestal. On it sat a leather-bound journal, cracked and worn. The teacher stepped aside.

"This was your father's."

Kael froze. His dad. The ghost in every room of his life. The guy no one ever talked about.

His hands shook as he reached out. The leather was cool. He opened the book. Neat handwriting filled the pages—maps, notes, drawings. Chess boards. Pieces arranged like war plans. A single line was underlined, dark and sharp:

"The gambit's locked in. The pawn must fall for the king to rise."

Kael stared.

This wasn't random. This wasn't myth. This was about him.

He looked up. "What does this mean? What was he planning?"

The teacher's face was unreadable. "Your dad was the best strategist I've ever seen. He built a plan. A long game. For you."

"And the Nameless King?"

The teacher paused. A flicker passed over his face—fear. "The Nameless King is a warning. Power costs. Your father knew that."

Kael gripped the journal, knuckles white. "But you won't tell me the cost."

"You have to earn that truth," the teacher said. "If I hand it to you now, you'll break when it counts."

That pissed him off.

But deeper than the anger, Kael felt something else settle in—resolve. He didn't need their permission.

He tucked the journal under his arm. "Fine," he said. "Then I'll figure it out myself."

The teacher didn't stop him.

"Go, then," he said. "But remember—once you start chasing the past, it chases back."

Kael didn't answer. He turned and climbed the stairs, heart still thudding in his chest.

Back in the courtyard, it felt… different. Heavier. The shadows watched. The air held its breath.

He dropped onto the mossy bench and opened the journal. Chess diagrams stared up at him. His dad saw the whole board while Kael barely knew the rules.

But one phrase burned bright on the page:

The pawn falls. The king rises.

His stomach flipped.

Was he the pawn? The king? Or just some dumb kid stuck between moves?

He closed the book and stood. The journal bumped against his side like a promise. Somewhere out there, answers were waiting.

And Kael was done waiting for permission.