In ancient times, there were two warring kingdoms, the Northern Kingdom and the Southern Kingdom. Their conflict burned like an unquenchable fire, consuming the lives of soldiers and breaking the hearts of families. It was a part of their long history, steeped in hatred and bloodshed.

Over time, exhaustion began to show on both sides. The border towns between the two kingdoms had turned into ruins, the fields had dried up, and resources were scarce. Amidst this devastation that consumed both green and barren lands, a new hope emerged on the horizon — the hope for peace.

Idris, the leader of the Northern Kingdom, a brave knight renowned for his wisdom, decided it was time to end the destructive war. He knew that more bloodshed would only bring further ruin. He sent a message to Laloris, the ruler of the Southern Kingdom, inviting him to peace negotiations.

After much hesitation, Laloris agreed. The two leaders finally met after years of hostility, in an old castle located on the edge of a dark forest that separated the kingdoms. The meeting was tense, but words of reason and the desire to end the bloodshed outweighed the atmosphere of distrust and fear.

During the days of negotiations, an air of understanding prevailed. Everything seemed promising for the end of the conflict. Promises of peace were closer than ever, and the people in both the north and south began to dream of a return to normalcy, free from fear and war. Even the soldiers, accustomed to living amidst violence, began to feel a glimmer of hope.

But, as is often the case, fate had other plans.

One night, as a full moon lit the sky over the forest near the Northern Kingdom’s borders, a heavy silence fell. It was a silence so oppressive it seemed to herald something terrible. It was as if the forest, with its trees and creatures, had stopped breathing. There was no sound but the whispers of the wind through the branches.

Suddenly, this quiet was shattered by an arrow shot from the depths of the darkness, aimed at a Northern Kingdom gate guard. The guard never saw it coming; the arrow, like a shadow, pierced his chest, ending his life instantly.

But the arrow was not just a message of death. It carried something else. Attached to it was a piece of paper, stained with fresh blood, bearing words etched with terrifying precision: "We declare war."

Those blood-written words shook the very ground beneath the kingdoms. The negotiations, which had seemed on the verge of success, collapsed in an instant. Distrust and fear returned, and hatred ignited once more like fire in everyone’s hearts.

Idris stood silent before the message, his eyes burning with anger and confusion.

The next night, the sky was dark with heavy clouds, and the moon barely peeked through, as if refusing to witness the coming massacre. The thunder of hooves grew louder, distant at first but approaching with frightening speed. The hearts of the northern people raced, and whispers of fear rose throughout the kingdom. The wind carried with it the sounds of war drums and the pounding rhythm of dread.

Suddenly, from the dense trees at the Northern Kingdom’s edge, waves of soldiers emerged — thousands of armored warriors advancing like unstoppable tides. At their center, Laloris, the Southern King, moved forward with unshaken confidence, his eyes ablaze with hatred and determination. In a voice that shook the earth, he shouted:

"We agreed to peace, but you betrayed it, people of the north! My brother Adnan was killed by your hand, and now you speak of peace? If Idris does not surrender, your banner will fall, and your kingdom will crumble!"

Above the crumbling castle gate, Idris, the Northern King, appeared, his eyes filled with shock and rage. In his hand, he held his jewel-encrusted sword, a symbol of power and authority, as he tried to grasp the meaning of this treacherous attack.

"What are you saying, man? We didn’t betray the pact, and we—"

But before he could finish, Laloris interrupted, his voice ringing with anger:

"I didn’t come to listen to lies! ATTACK!"

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In a single moment, the soldiers charged like a storm. The castle gate was crushed under the weight of the attackers, reduced to burning rubble. The walls that had protected the north for years fell with terrifying ease. Blood flooded the streets, and the land that had nearly borne peace was now soaked with blood and tears. The sound of swords clashing rose above the cries of the innocent, and the clang of steel tore through flesh without mercy.

Laloris, his eyes filled with hatred and a thirst for vengeance, carved a path through the crowd like a tempest. He slaughtered soldiers and civilians alike, sparing no one. His goal was clear: to reach the throne room and avenge his brother Adnan’s death.

In the heart of the castle, Laloris reached the throne room, holding the severed head of Idris’s most skilled guard. He threw it before the Northern King’s eyes, his gaze filled with defiance and fury, his sword dripping with blood.

Laloris spoke with venom in his voice:

"Look, Idris, this is what you brought upon yourself and your people. Apologize to them, for you failed to protect them. You broke the pact, and now everything is over."

Idris, standing amid the wreckage, tried to find words to defend his decisions. But anger at Laloris and the pain of seeing his people slaughtered rendered him speechless. There was no room for words — only swords could resolve the matter now.

A fierce battle broke out between Idris and Laloris in the throne room, a duel unlike any other. Their swords clashed like thunder, each strike carrying the weight of generations of war and hatred. The sound of the swords rang out like the scream of death, echoing through the ruined castle.

Every strike revealed the resolve of each man. Idris fought to defend his honor, his throne, and his people, while Laloris was driven by an unstoppable desire to avenge his brother’s death. Sweat poured from their faces, and their swords dripped with blood as if they held the fate of both kingdoms in their hands.

Then, after a moment that felt like an eternity, Idris fell, mortally wounded. Silence filled the throne room. The sound of Idris’s sword hitting the ground was heavy, as if it marked the end of everything.

The Southern armies occupied the castle. The sound of soldiers celebrating their victory filled the skies. In the middle of the throne room, Laloris sat on the throne, holding Idris’s head aloft as a symbol of the south’s triumph and the north’s humiliation. The celebration was full of blood-stained joy.

But amidst this savage celebration, there was a small group of Northerners who had taken refuge in a nearby abandoned house. They were overwhelmed with fear and despair. Among them was a newborn baby, wrapped in blood-stained cloth, crying softly.

This infant, who had yet to see the war-torn world, was named Saif. He was surrounded by the last remnants of hope for the North — the cry that had not yet been silenced.

Inside the crumbling, dimly lit house, silence hung in the air like a shroud covering their wounds. A group of survivors from the Northern massacre sat in the oppressive darkness, trying to make sense of their fate. At the center of the group was Serina, a weary-faced woman cradling the baby in her arms. The infant’s soft cries were like the last heartbeat of a kingdom torn apart by war.

One of the men in the group approached hesitantly, breaking the heavy silence with a voice full of despair:

“Where did this baby come from?”

Serina responded softly, wiping away tears she barely managed to conceal:

“He’s the child of one of the common families slaughtered today… He’s lost his parents and everyone who knew him.”

The man looked at the baby with confusion before asking:

“Why are we carrying him? We don’t even have enough food for ourselves.”

Serina gazed at the child again, as if seeing something greater than a mere infant. With unwavering certainty, she replied:

“Look into his eyes… Do you see it? His eyes hold something different. He’s not just a child… He’s hope for all of us, for the entire North.”

Everyone stared at the baby, whose bright eyes looked back at them with an innocence mixed with an almost unexplainable strength. Deep down, they all knew there was something special about him — something that filled them with a flicker of hope, despite everything they had endured.

After a long, solemn silence, the group decided to take the infant with them. That night, the survivors made their way through the dark forest, leaving behind the scene of bloodshed and destruction. The forest was eerie, the sound of the wind weaving through the trees like ghosts chasing them. But they kept moving forward.

In the years that followed, the infant Saif grew to become a symbol of survival. He was raised in a small hut deep within the forest, far from prying eyes. Serina, who had become like a mother to him, saw something extraordinary in him — something far beyond his childhood.

When Saif turned six, questions began to form in his young mind. One day, as Serina was arranging tools in the small hut, Saif approached her and asked innocently:

“Mother, will we ever go back to our home? Will we ever return to our kingdom?”

Serina looked at the boy with indescribable affection. She sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and said:

“One day, Saif, we will return. But you must be patient. Never lose hope, my son. You are the hope we rely on — the hope for us and for all the North.”

She smiled softly and added firmly:

“You will become a great warrior, stronger than anyone we’ve ever known. You are different, Saif. I see a unique strength in you. Be patient and train hard, and one day, we will reclaim the North. You are the last rose in this devastated world.”

---

Elsewhere, far from the forest, in the Southern Kingdom’s capital adorned with the banners of victory, Laloris, the ruler of the South, stood in the training grounds with his son, Loris. The young boy struggled to wield a heavy sword, his hands trembling under its cold weight.

Laloris watched as his son dropped the sword for the third time. Picking it up, he handed it back to him and said in a stern voice:

“This sword you just dropped… it could one day decide the fate of our kingdom. Never let it go, for to lose it is to lose everything. Keep practicing, and don’t let weakness take hold of you.”

Days and weeks passed, and the clanging of swords echoed daily from the training grounds. Loris struggled, day by day, to grow stronger and hold the sword more steadily, while Laloris watched with worried eyes, knowing that his son was the only heir who could protect the Southern Kingdom from chaos.

---

Meanwhile, in the forest, Saif was growing stronger by the day. His heart burned with unyielding hope. He trained tirelessly under Serina’s guidance, learning not just how to wield a sword but also how to be patient and wise, even in the face of the harshest challenges.

At the same time, Loris trained relentlessly under his father’s stern gaze, striving to become a worthy heir to the Southern Kingdom, surrounded by immense expectations.

Between Saif and Loris, destiny was being forged. Both boys were growing up in different worlds, yet they were bound by a shared fate. Saif, the last rose of the North, and Loris, the sole heir of the South, trained every day to

the sound of clashing swords that echoed on both sides of the divide.

Their paths were destined to cross.