"One."
"Two..."
Kael's voice quivered with each count. His knees dug into the cold stone floor of the punishment dungeon, thin fingers clenching the hem of his already tattered shirt. A snickering servant stood at his side, whip in hand.
"Count wrong once, and we start over," the servant hissed, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction.
"Three."
Crack.
The whip sang through the air again and again, slicing through his back, lighting his nerves on fire. Kael didn't cry out—only gritted his teeth and forced his voice steady. Every strike was a promise: survive, survive, survive.
"Ten."
At last, it was over.
He was released, though the shackles of pain clung to every breath. Dragging his thin and wounded frame up the winding steps from the dungeon, Kael staggered toward the kitchens. He could not afford another mistake. Another failure. Not today.
The midday sun had long risen. The kitchen buzzed with activity as servants prepared for the day's final tasks. Kael, desperate to avoid further punishment, headed to the corner where sacks of flour were stacked.
He braced himself, gritting his teeth as he lifted one of the sacks. Pain lanced up his spine, a strangled groan escaping him.
"Careful now, lad."
The voice was warm and rich with concern. It belonged to Old Marek, the head chef—round-bellied, flour-streaked, and the closest thing the kitchen had to a heart.
"Come here," Marek said, setting down his ladle. "Sit."
Kael hesitated.
"That wasn't a request."
Weakly, Kael obeyed. Marek placed a plate in front of him—a modest helping of the leftovers from the royal breakfast. Bread, a bit of roasted meat, some sliced fruit.
"Eat. And don't argue."
Kael stared, unable to remember the last time he'd eaten a full meal. He devoured it in grateful silence. The warmth filled the hollow ache in his stomach and, strangely, his chest.
Marek, pretending not to watch, slipped a small candy into Kael's hand. It was wrapped in a leaf and sticky with sweetness.
"Try it. It's plum-flavored."
Kael blinked. He'd never seen candy like this before. Flavored treats were luxuries—things only noble children or city merchants could afford. Before the village burned… even then, they were rare.
He popped it into his mouth, and his eyes widened.
"You like it?"
Kael nodded, too stunned to speak.
"Next time I get some, I'll save one for you."
The sweetness melted on his tongue. So did something in his heart.
"Thank you," he whispered, eyes misty.
"Go rest now," Marek said, gently patting his shoulder. "You've done enough."
Kael returned to his room, a tiny, shadowy corner of the servant quarters that barely fit a bed and a small chest. He fell onto the straw-stuffed mattress, not bothering to remove his clothes, and slept straight through the day.
Evening crept in. When Kael woke, moonlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden shutters. His back burned with pain. Shifting slowly, he peeled off his shirt and winced at the marks left by the whip.
Beside the bed was a bucket of water. He dipped a cloth into it and carefully cleaned the wounds. Every movement stung, but he kept going. Once done, he reached under his bed and pulled out a worn sack.
Inside was a fresh shirt and long pants—his only change of clothes—and something else.
A small jar.
It contained a single silvery-white herb floating in water, still glowing faintly. The petals curled like crescent moons—Moonstem. A rare flower, said to carry gentle healing properties. It had survived the fire that consumed his village—the only other thing, besides him, that had.
He had hidden it all these years, unable to use it and unwilling to let it go. It had become his secret companion. The only friend who had witnessed the worst of him and stayed.
Kael sat there, cradling the jar, when the memories returned. Flames swallowing homes. Screams. The sound of a sword being drawn. The cruel laughter of soldiers. The helplessness.
Tears slipped silently down his cheeks.
Needing air, Kael slipped out into the night with the jar in his hands. The halls were silent. The castle slept, unaware of the boy who walked its bones like a ghost.
He made his way to the lake, nestled between two groves just beyond the laundry quarters. Moonlight shimmered over the surface. He knelt at the edge and gently replaced the water in the jar.
Then he sat beneath a tree, the jar beside him, and closed his eyes.
A song bubbled up from within—one he hadn't heard since the festivals of his village. The villagers would gather on full moon nights, lanterns glowing, music rising as they danced and sang.
Kael sang it now, voice raw with emotion.
---
Little golden bird with broken wings,
You dreamt of the moon, impossible things.
With feathers frayed and heart so light,
You soared through shadows, chasing light.
The crows cawed doubt, the falcons mocked,
But still you flew, though your wings were locked.
The sky was high, the path unsure,
Yet still you rose, so pure, so pure.
"Fly, little bird!" the people cried,
"Break your chains and touch the sky!"
And through the pain, through storm and fire,
The golden bird climbed ever higher.
For though the moon was far, aglow,
Its light gave strength to hope and grow.
And when at last the stars took flight,
The bird sang loud into the night.
"Even if I fall, I'll fall with grace,
For I have seen the moon's own face."
---
Kael finished, breath trembling.
He hadn't noticed the stillness around him. The birds had gone quiet. The forest hushed. Even the breeze seemed to pause, as if listening.
And he didn't see the faint, silvery light glowing brighter within the jar.
Or the peaceful calm that swept through the nearby trees.
He simply leaned his head against the bark and whispered, "I miss you all."
Then he closed his eyes, lulled by the moonlight, unaware that his song just made a serene calm wash over an agitated figure in the Forrest.