Changez practiced the move again, swinging his wooden sword through the air. He was nine — small for his age — but he believed that didn’t matter. If he could show this move to his father, Fazel would finally see he was ready. Ready to ride on raids. Ready to stand with the men.

  He hadn’t gotten the chance yesterday. His father had left without saying goodbye.

  Still, Changez practiced.

  Earlier, he had tripped Kazam — one of the best swordsmen among the children Fazel had taken in. It wasn’t the first time. Kazam always grew careless when he thought he was better than everyone else.

  Changez remembered the question he had once asked his father: Why do you bring other children with us?

  Fazel’s answer had been simple.

  That’s how loyalty is formed.

  Changez hadn’t understood it then. He still wasn’t sure he did now. But he had nodded anyway. He couldn’t afford to look foolish in front of his father.

  Finding a quiet place in the camp was difficult, so Changez had gone deeper into the forest. There, beside a small pond, he found a rare sense of peace.

  Mosquitoes still bothered him, buzzing around his ears and biting his skin, but he refused to swat them away. If he wanted to join the raids, he couldn’t let something so small get the better of him.

  The forest itself felt… wrong.

  One of the soldiers had once called it the Forest of Ghosts. Changez ignored the thought. Fear was weakness, and weakness had no place in him.

  Yet one thing continued to trouble him.

  His father had asked Aryan to join the raid — Aryan, who was only a year older than him. And Aryan, that ignorant fool, had refused, talking about honor and readiness.

  Changez tightened his grip on the wooden sword and continued practicing, pushing the thought aside as the blade cut through the air again and again.

  Suddenly, Changez went alert.

  Something moved in the bushes.

  He raised his wooden sword with both hands, holding it out in front of him. For a heartbeat, fear gripped his chest. Ghosts, he thought — the forest coming to claim him.

  He shoved the thought aside.

  “Show yourself,” he said, forcing his voice to stay firm. “Whoever you are. Or I’ll cut you into pieces.”

  A familiar voice answered, calm and almost amused.

  “You can’t cut anyone with a wooden sword. And even if you could, it wouldn’t be you doing the cutting — you’re holding it wrong. It’s a one-handed sword.”

  The bushes parted.

  Aryan stepped out.

  Aryan was ten years old — already big for his age, broad in the shoulders and steady on his feet. His blue eyes were sharp and watchful, the kind that seemed to notice everything without trying. Silky black hair fell to his shoulders, usually tied back in a loose knot, and his nose was thin and straight, giving his face a quiet severity.

  There was something solid about him — not loud or boastful, but unmovable, like a stone set deep into the ground.

  Changez always felt smaller standing beside him. Not just in height, but in presence — as if Aryan already belonged to a world Changez was still trying to reach.

  Changez lowered his sword at once. Anger flared in him, sharp and sudden.

  “What are you doing here?” he snapped. “Can’t you leave me alone for once?”

  “I have no interest in following you,” Aryan said. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

  Before he could finish, Changez cut in. “Why do they care? Can’t anyone leave me alone for few moments?”

  Aryan answered calmly. “It’s already shade,” he said. “You left at midday.”

  Changez glanced around — really looked — and realized he had been there for hours.

  Still, he snapped, “What do they want with me?”

  “A messenger came,” Aryan said. “The Commander is returning soon.”

  A smile spread across Changez’s face. “And?”

  “He wants every kid present,” Aryan continued.

  Changez’s smile faded.

  “He’s bringing another kid with him,” Changez murmured.

  “Seems like it,” Aryan said. “Looks like we’ll have another member in our group.”

  “Why does he do that?” Changez asked, frustration creeping into his voice. “Why does he keep bringing new kids?”

  “They need saving,” Aryan replied simply. “He’s doing the right thing.”

  Changez nodded slowly. “Yeah. Father always does the right thing.”

  He hesitated. “But there’s going to be arguments again — between your father and mine. Another mouth to feed.”

  “Yes,” Aryan said. “My father’s already tense. I think the messenger brought other news too. Something troubling. But I don’t know.”

  They stood in silence for a while. Only the buzzing of insects and the whining of mosquitoes filled the air.

  Aryan broke it with a grin. “Cheer up. They’re bringing good food this time. We’ll eat until our bellies are full — won’t need to eat again for a week.”

  At the mention of food, Changez’s smile returned instantly.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” he said, already walking away.

  Aryan called after him, “wait for me .”

  But Changez was already too far ahead. Aryan’s voice never reached him.Changez returned to the camp alone. Aryan was nowhere behind him, but Changez ignored it. Aryan would find his way back — he always did.

  The camp was restless.

  Most of the black tents stood empty now, their flaps stirring softly in the evening breeze. The soldiers had gone on the raid, leaving behind a hollow quiet that felt wrong after so much noise. The camp lay deep in the forest, but over the years the trees had been cut back to make space — thick stumps ringed the clearing like old scars, and the smell of sap still lingered in the air.

  Only a few people remained. Women moved between the tents in low voices, tending fires that had not yet been lit. The stable was nearly empty — just a handful of tired mares stood there, ribs showing, heads low. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted, restless.

  A few soldiers who had stayed behind gathered firewood, stacking it near the cooking pits. They worked quickly, glancing toward the forest again and again. Food was coming. Everyone knew it. And when it arrived, they would need the fires ready.

  Changez felt it then — not excitement, not fear — but something tighter in his chest.

  Farmam tapped Changez on the back.

  He was oldest of the lot about thirteen of age but a little bigger — bald head, small brown eyes, a pointy nose, and a tongue sharp enough to get him into trouble. Changez had never thought highly of him. Farmam never trained, never learned how to hold a sword, never showed any excitement for raids. Most days he worked around the camp as a stable boy, caring for the horses.

  And he always smiled.

  Changez thought it was fake.

  “Hey, Chung,” Farmam said, grinning. “You going to help gather wood for cooking, or just stand there staring?”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Don’t call me that,” Changez snapped. “And warriors like me don’t gather wood. That’s work for soft boys and women.”

  Farmam raised an eyebrow.

  “If soft boys and women don’t cook, how are brave little warriors like you supposed to eat and fight?”

  Changez bristled. “I’m not little.”

  Farmam made a quick gesture, eyeing Changez up and down — look at your size — then laughed and walked off to help the others.

  Not long after, the horses returned from the raid.

  The camp surged forward to greet them. First came horses burdened with sacks of food. Then a few chests — hidden treasure, by the looks of them. Cheers rose as people rushed to unload the supplies and carry them toward the cooking pits.

  The children — around thirty of them — were lined up to one side. Changez didn’t know all their names, but he spotted Kazam, Farmam, Sira, Shiva, and big, fat Fatsy — not his real name, but the only one anyone ever used. On the other side stood soldiers and women who weren’t cooking, watching the return.

  Changez looked for Aryan’s father but didn’t see him. He remembered Aryan saying his father was troubled by some news.

  The cheering grew louder. Changez shouted with the rest, though worry still gnawed at him — Aryan still hadn’t returned.

  Then Aryan appeared beside him.

  “You did a pretty good job trying to get rid of me back there,” Aryan said quietly.

  Changez shrugged, pretending not to care.

  And then the camp fell into a different kind of silence.

  A white horse emerged from the trees — the only one in the camp. Atop it sat Fazel. Beside him, seated awkwardly, was a small girl — filthy, thin, and hollow-eyed.

  Elite warriors surrounded them, mounted on black horses, armor dark and clean. Changez stared in open awe. One day, he promised himself. One day I’ll be like them.

  Behind them marched the foot soldiers — including the brutal men Changez hated most. He never understood why his father kept them close. They were men loyal to Aryan’s father.

  Fazel dismounted and lifted the girl down with care. Even without his armor, he looked massive. His great sword rested across his back.

  Changez remembered trying to lift that blade once — falling flat on his back, pain flashing through him. He’d never touched it again.

  The girl looked like all the others who arrived at camp — ragged, silent, broken. They usually cried through the night.

  Only Farmam had been different when he arrived — laughing, talking to Fazel as if they were old friends.

  Fazel introduced the girl to the children. Farmam greeted her in his usual way — smiling, speaking as though he’d known her forever. Fazel told him to take care of the horse, and Farmam led it off toward the stable without complaint.

  Then Fazel came to Changez.

  “This is my son,” he said. “And my most furious one.”

  Changez straightened at once. He wanted to show his skills, but knew better. He only nodded toward the girl. She didn’t look up.

  Why are they all so weak? he wondered. What good are they to the camp?

  Fazel moved on to Aryan.

  “This is the leader of your group,” he told the girl. “He’ll show you around.”

  Changez disliked the word leader.

  Fatsy was told to take the girl to the brick rooms — solid shelters they’d built over the years for storms and rain. He lumbered off with her.

  Fazel looked over the children.

  “I want all of you to be good to her.”

  They nodded.

  Then Fazel sighed and turned to Aryan.

  “Your father won’t let me rest. Come.”

  A meeting.

  Aryan, as always, would serve as cupbearer.

  Fazel paused, then glanced at Changez.

  “It looks like it’s going to be a heated meeting,” he said. “We’ll need another cupbearer.”

  A huge smile broke across Changez’s face.

  It was the first time he had ever been called in.

  Changez and Aryan followed Fazel, elite warriors falling in behind them.

  Changez stood before the meeting tent.

  He had crossed this ground many times before, darting past it, circling it out of curiosity — but never like this. Never walking beside his father. Never with Aryan and armed soldiers flanking him.

  The tent was black, larger than all the others, its fabric stretched tight and dark against the dying light. At the entrance stood two of Aryan’s father’s men, swords crossed over their chests. When they saw Commander Fazel, they bowed deeply.

  “He is waiting for you,” one of them said.

  Fazel nodded and stepped inside. Aryan followed without hesitation.

  For a moment, Changez remained outside, his feet rooted to the ground. Then he drew a breath and went in after them.

  Inside, the air was heavy — with smoke, sweat, and long-held anger.

  A long wooden table dominated the tent. Five men sat along its sides, all loyal to Aryan’s father. They had come from distant rebel camps — their clothes were ragged, patched again and again, their faces hollow with exhaustion. These were men who had not known rest in years.

  At the head of the table sat Aryan’s father.

  Karma.

  Across the realm, people called him the Man with a Thousand Scars.

  They said that long ago, when the old king captured him, he had been given hundreds of cuts — enough to drain half the blood from any other man. Yet Karma had survived. More than that, he had broken free of his prison and led the rebellion afterward. From that day on, the name followed him, whispered in fear and spoken with respect.

  Tonight, he wore the same khaki kurta he always wore. It was impossible to remember a time when he had worn anything else, as if he never changed his clothes — or his purpose.

  His face was clean-shaven, but his massive mustache stretched so wide it nearly brushed his eyes. A turban sat firmly on his head. Changez had never seen him without it — not once.

  Scars traced Karma’s face, his neck, his hands. But it was his eyes that held Changez still.

  They were always angry.

  Not wild. Not loud.

  Burning.

  Changez stood frozen, staring, until Aryan pressed a tray into his hands — heavy with cups of wine.

  “Serve everyone at the table,” Aryan said quietly. “Once they begin.”

  Changez nodded, tightened his grip on the tray, and waited.

  This was no ordinary meeting.

  And he knew it.

  Fazel broke the heavy silence.

  His gaze moved slowly around the table as he named each man in turn.

  “Sauf. Hamza. Peru. Pilu. Sukha.”

  At last, he looked to the head of the table.

  “Karma.”

  He nodded.

  Karma — the Man with a Thousand Scars, as the realm called him — rose to his feet. His presence alone tightened the air in the tent.

  “Fazel,” he said. “I am glad you are safe and sound. And happier still that you brought food. We needed it.”

  He gestured toward the table. “Sit. We have matters to discuss.”

  His eyes shifted — and landed on Changez.

  Changez stiffened under that gaze. Those scarred eyes felt like blades.

  “You brought your boy with you today,” Karma said. “Good. He’s old enough.”

  Fazel sat on one side of the table. Karma took the other.

  Changez began serving the wine, hands trembling slightly. He feared spilling it — feared drawing attention — but he managed. When he finished, he stood beside Aryan, who had already filled two jugs from the barrel.

  “If anyone raises a cup,” Aryan murmured, “you refill it. Quickly.”

  Fazel spoke again. His voice was steady, but heavy.

  “What is it now,” he asked, “that all five of you have made such a long journey?”

  Peru and Pilu spoke at the same time — twin voices colliding. Pilu fell silent, and Peru continued.

  “We are struggling, Fazel. Food is scarce. Water too. Our men are dying. That is the truth in all five camps.”

  He hesitated, then pressed on.

  “We thought things would be different here — with you, and with Karma guiding this camp. No offense… but it was disappointing.”

  Hamza spoke next.

  “Before you came, people supported us,” he said. “They fought beside us. Fed us. Now?”

  He clenched his jaw. “Now they say we stand with the son of a—”

  Karma raised a hand.

  Hamza fell silent at once.

  For a moment, fury flashed across Fazel’s face — sharp enough that Changez thought his father might draw his blade and take Hamza’s head. Instead, Fazel lifted his cup and drank it dry in one long pull.

  He raised the cup again.

  Changez froze.

  Aryan patted him once, firmly, between the shoulders.

  “Go,” he murmured. “Don’t freeze again — or this will be your last meeting.”

  Changez hurried forward and refilled his father’s cup, then returned to his place.

  Fazel spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

  “You know he was not a traitor. If that is what you meant.”

  He paused, then continued, bitterly.

  “That is propaganda — fed to the people by the son of a wh—”

  He stopped himself and glanced at Changez.

  “Sorry, son.”

  Then he continued.

  “My father tried to bring your concerns before the old king. He begged him to listen. But the king was too far gone — deaf to the words of the man he once called brother.”

  Fazel’s jaw tightened.

  “That was when one of the king’s sons planted the seed — accused my father of working with you.”

  He leaned forward.

  “My father died for you.”

  Silence crushed the tent.

  “So do not dare call him a traitor in front of me.”

  He drank again. Karma did the same. Aryan and Changez refilled their fathers’ cups without a word.

  Karma spoke next.

  “Fazel, I respected your father. If he had wished it, he could have destroyed us. But he knew we were right. His loyalty bound him to the old king — until it killed him.”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Now both your father and the old king are dead. We’ve a new king.”

  His mouth twisted.

  “I hate to admit it — but he has done some good. Trade is high. People are earning coin. He feeds them well.”

  Karma’s voice hardened.

  “Do not mistake me. I despise that piece of sheep shit for what he did to your father, to mine, and to this realm. Even now, his brothers butcher mercilessly in his name — and he does nothing.”

  He leaned back.

  “He is wise. He feeds the people false hope. His propaganda spreads like fire.”

  Karma’s scarred eyes swept the table.

  “To the people, we are the villains now. Once, they were our greatest supporters.”

  He let the words sink in.

  “We need something big — something undeniable — to bring them back to our side.”

  Fazel spoke , his voice steady.

  “Sometimes, big problems need quiet solutions. I’ve lived in the capital long enough. I have men planted there — even inside the king’s inner circle.”

  Sukha leaned forward to speak, but Karma raised a hand, silencing him.

  “I will send a message,” Fazel continued. “I’ll see what can be done. But nothing happens until I speak with them.”

  Sukha couldn’t hold back anymore.

  “And why didn’t we know about this?”

  “I did,” Karma cut in sharply. “And that’s enough.”

  Hamza scoffed. “Fine. Do whatever you want — just be quick about it. Our men are dying every day.”

  Sauf spoke next, his tone colder.

  “And don’t bring more children from villages. We’re already low on food. And don’t kill our men either. We heard you executed two of them.”

  Fazel’s eyes hardened.

  “They were taking what wasn’t theirs,” he said. “And you call that your men? Saving children is the one way to ever win the people back. I bring one mouth to feed — and remove two who poison the camp. The balance is fine.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “And what happens inside my camp is none of your concern.”

  “It is my concern,” Karma snapped. “You can’t execute my men without my word. That questions my authority. My men are already whispering.”

  Fazel nodded once — slow, controlled — but said nothing.

  After a moment, he straightened.

  “I think the meeting is done,” he said. “You can all go. Enjoy the food we brought.”

  He gestured toward the five men.

  One by one, the camp leaders drained their cups, stood, and left the tent — each of them casting wary looks at Fazel as they passed.

  Karma rose last.

  But Fazel spoke again.

  “Sit, brother.”

  “We still need to discuss that big move.”

  Karma hesitated, then sat back down.

  Changez felt his chest tighten. This is it, he thought. This is where it matters.

  But Fazel’s voice shattered the thought.

  “Kids,” he said evenly. “Your work is done. We don’t need any more wine.”

  Aryan turned at once and headed for the exit.

  Changez lingered.

  For a moment, he thought his father might call him back. Might let him stay. Let him hear what truly mattered.

  Aryan grabbed his arm and pulled him out.

  As Changez crossed the tent flap, he looked back once — at his father, seated across from Karma.

  What are they going to do?

  Why can’t I be part of this?