⸻SCENE 1 – A BOY LOST IN HIS THOUGHTSThe village had settled into its usual rhythm. The sun rose, casting golden light across the land, painting the mud huts and dusty roads in warmth. Women moved between stalls in the market, bargaining in loud voices, while children ran barefoot, playing without a care.But Zafar’s world was still.For days, he had not stepped foot in Jagaban’s training ground. He had not exchanged words with his mother. He had existed in silence, obeying when she sent him on errands but never speaking, never lingering. He was there, yet absent.Each morning, he woke up before the village stirred, taking his wooden sword to the empty clearing near the river, swinging it tirelessly. Striking. Defending. Attacking. Over and over again.Not out of discipline. Not out of love for the craft.But because if he stopped, the thoughts would consume him.Your father was a king… murdered on the day of his coronation…The words echoed in his skull like a curse.One evening, s

⸻SCENE 1 – ZAFAR’S DETERMINATION GROWSThe training ground was alive with movement.Sweat and dust mixed in the air as boys swung wooden swords, their muscles straining with effort. The sun hung high, casting long shadows on the packed dirt. The rhythmic clash of weapons filled the air, accompanied by the occasional sharp grunt of pain or frustration.At the center of it all, Jagaban stood tall, arms folded, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Crow stood a few feet away, his usual smirk absent—his eyes, however, were restless, flicking toward Zafar every few moments.Zafar trained harder than ever before.He moved with a new kind of intensity—his strikes were faster, his footwork more precise, his body pushing itself beyond exhaustion. He wasn’t just learning anymore. He was chasing something, as if trying to fill a void he didn’t fully understand.Jagaban watched him carefully, the ghost of the past lingering in his mind.“Again,” Jagaban ordered, voice calm but firm.Zafar gritted his t

⸻SCENE 1 – WHISPERS IN THE MARKETThe market was alive, a living, breathing entity of trade and chatter. Stalls lined both sides of the narrow paths, draped in colorful fabrics and overflowing with goods—spices that filled the air with their sharp aroma, ripe fruits stacked in pyramids, and freshly cut meat displayed on wooden slabs. The scent of roasted plantains mixed with the smoke of burning firewood as food vendors called out their prices.Women with baskets balanced effortlessly on their heads moved through the crowd, haggling, gossiping, and exchanging news. Children weaved between legs, their laughter adding to the market’s chaotic harmony.But amid all the noise, Amara moved like a shadow, her face tight with worry. She scanned the market, her eyes darting from stall to stall until she found Remi.Remi stood behind her stall, skillfully tying a bundle of vegetables for a buyer. Her hands moved with practiced ease, her lips forming polite words as she sealed the deal. When sh

⸻SCENE 1 – A WARRIOR’S FIREThe morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and the distant murmur of a waking village. Zafar had barely slept.Something inside him felt restless.The moment dawn broke, he grabbed his wooden sword and stepped out. The sky was still painted in dark hues of blue and purple, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The streets were silent, except for the occasional distant bark of a stray dog and the soft rustling of trees.Zafar moved quickly, his mind racing.For the first time in two days, he felt something other than anger. Determination.The training ground loomed ahead—empty, still covered in early morning mist. He was the first to arrive.Dropping his sword, he took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and began.He didn’t train to pass time. He trained like a man with a purpose.⸻SCENE 2 – SHAKUR’S HUNTThe grand halls of the palace were alive with movement. Servants hurried from one end to another, nobles whispered among thems

SCENE 1 – THE RIDER AT THE BORDERThe night was cold, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint whispers of distant owls. The border of Karmora was a lonely stretch of land, guarded by men who had long since learned to expect danger lurking in the dark. Fires burned in iron torches, their glow flickering against the steel of sharpened spears. The guards stood in formation—watchful, unsmiling, their hands never far from their weapons.Then, from the darkness, a rider emerged.His hood was low, concealing his face, but the way he rode—the steady grip on the reins, the straight posture—spoke of a man who knew his way through danger. The horse slowed as he approached the checkpoint, hooves grinding softly against the gravel.“Halt!” One of them raised a torch, illuminating the stranger. “State your name and purpose.”The rider did not hesitate. Slowly, he reached for his hood and pulled it back, revealing a weathered face, hardened by years of toil and quiet strength. Delani.A far