At the far north of the kingdom of Theramor, where the mountains meet the clouds and the boundary between earth and sky melts away, the air carried the weight of ancient tales.
The elders said that every stone in this land had once witnessed the throne's curse, and that the wind blowing through the hills still whispered the name of a king who had never been laid to rest.
To a stranger, the kingdom might appear calm, but its depths never slept. Within the palace, conspiracies unfolded in the silence of mirrors, and in distant villages, people lived on rumors of a king who feared his own shadow and of a prophecy that had yet to die.
Leonar, however, was one of those who did not believe in legends—but he could never ignore the strange feeling that settled in his heart whenever he looked toward the distant palace on the horizon.
He had been born and raised in a small village surrounded by forests and rivers, with no clear origin except that an old woman had raised him after finding him as a child on the forest's edge on a forgotten night.
He was strikingly handsome, with eyes where the color of the sky mingled with the clarity of water, and a body shaped by work in the fields and long hunting trips.
Yet the most remarkable thing about him was his unusual courage—the kind that made him the first to venture into the unknown and the last to fear the consequences. He loved adventure as one loves the wind and found comfort among the trees far more than within walls.
Despite the simplicity of his life, his nights were never free from unrest. Dreams came to him like fleeting lights, mysterious in meaning, yet leaving marks that would not fade.
And on that particular night, the dream arrived as clearly as if the sky itself had spoken.
He saw himself walking through a dark hall, its pillars made of shadow rather than stone, and voices echoing without source. On a throne of gentle flame sat a man whose face resembled his own, but whose eyes were made of ice.
A deep voice spoke, as if coming from every direction:
"Your throne has been stolen… and your heart will not survive the fate of the crown…"
Leonar recoiled in the dream, wanting to scream, but his voice caught. When he awoke, beads of sweat cooled on his forehead, and his heart pounded like a frightened bird.
He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, trying to convince himself that it was merely imagination. Yet something inside whispered that this dream was not the first… that it repeated a voice he had heard before, perhaps in childhood, or in the womb of the forest that had once embraced him.
By morning, as sunlight touched the village, Leonar decided to distract himself by venturing into the forest with his friends.
There were three of them: Raden, the playful hunter whose words never lacked a joke, and Elor, the cautious boy who feared shadows more than the night itself. Together, they carried their provisions and laughter, walking along a path Leonar knew as well as he knew his own breath.
At this time of year, the forest glowed with warm colors, and the wind played its music through the branches. They settled near a small stream, lit a fire, and prepared their meal, talking about girls, life in the capital, and rumors that the king was searching for a lost heir.
Leonar laughed as Raden joked:
"If the king were wise, he'd make me his heir! I know hunting, not politics."
Leonar smiled in reply:
"He'll need someone to teach you how to hold your tongue before your sword."
Their laughter carried on until the sun set, and the firelight became a beating heart in the midst of darkness. One by one, sleep overtook them, but Leonar stayed awake, gazing at the sky through the branches. The stars were countless, as if trying to whisper something he could not yet hear.
Before drifting off, the echo of the dream repeated in his mind: Your throne has been stolen… and your heart will not survive…
Then night fell in its deepest form. Nearby, the sound of snapping branches began faintly, then grew heavier, as if the earth itself were moving. Leonar lifted his head and slowly discerned a massive shadow approaching the fire.
Heavy breaths and eyes glowing like embers met him.
Elor screamed first, retreating in terror, with Raden following blindly.
Leonar, however, remained still. He did not move, as if fear had never been born within him, or as if something inside him was greater than terror itself.
The bear stood at the edge of the light, colossal as a mountain, sniffing the air for scraps of food. Leonar slowly reached for the small knife beside him, the wind carrying ash from the fire into his face.
And in the moment the bear lifted its head toward him,
time froze…
and silence fell, absolute and complete.