In the grand guest hall, adorned with ornate flags and filled with the aroma of exquisite food, Loris and Saif sat around a table laden with delicacies. The atmosphere was calm, but within Saif, there was nothing but turmoil. His eyes wandered across the hall, catching glimpses of the glittering embellishments added to the conquered kingdom. Yet in his mind, he saw only the blood and devastation that built this new foundation.

While eating, Loris looked at Saif with a tired smile and said, "You saved me. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here now, and I can’t thank you enough." But Saif was far from comfortable. Something was haunting him, something unsettling about the past of this kingdom. Finally, he asked, “That man you killed… What did he mean? Did this kingdom really rise on the foundation of injustice?”

Loris flinched for a moment, his gaze falling to his plate before replying, "Don’t trouble yourself with that, Saif. There are many old stories and grievances we cannot control now. It’s better to forget. Finish your meal, and take some money to help you in your life. I’ll have the guards escort you home."

But Saif refused sharply, saying, "No. I’ll go on my own. I don’t need them."

However, as he made his way back to the hut, his sense of unease grew. He felt as though eyes were watching him from the shadows between the trees. Suddenly, he stopped, realizing someone was approaching.

From behind the trees, a calm but firm voice emerged: “I knew you weren’t an ordinary person. You have the instincts of a warrior, Son of the North.”

Saif froze in place, his muscles tensed. How did this man know his identity? How did he know he was from the North? Quickly, he turned toward the voice and saw a man step out of the shadows. The man stood calmly and steadily, his piercing eyes filled with mystery.

Saif took a step back, startled, and asked, "Who are you? And how do you know who I am?"

The man stopped before Saif, his eyes carrying the weight of a long war and the pain of loss. In a deep and resolute voice, he said, “I am Commander Ibrahim, the right hand of Idris, Captain of the Guard and Protector of the Northern Kingdom. I knew your mother, Saif, and I was with you on the day of the war. But time hasn’t been kind.”

Saif hesitated, unable to hide his shock. This man, who now appeared before him like a ghost from an unknown past, knew everything about him. Before Saif could ask any questions, Ibrahim continued, “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

Ibrahim led Saif through secret, winding paths between the dense trees to an isolated place among the mountains. There, the air was heavy with echoes of sorrow and suffering. When they arrived, a haunting scene unfolded before Saif’s eyes. A large group of people—men, women, and children—lived in rickety wooden huts. Some trained with primitive weapons, while others lay sick or starving, awaiting death.

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With a voice filled with bitterness, Ibrahim said, “Look closely, Saif. These are the survivors of the North. These are the people crushed by the war—those who fled death but could not escape the pain. Here they stand, holding on despite everything. They train with faint hope for a day when the North’s light will return. Yet, some have succumbed to illness, some have been defeated by hunger, and many died of despair before they could see a new day.”

Saif gazed into the faces of these people. He was seeing them for the first time, but he felt they were a part of him, a part of his story. He saw children who had never known the taste of life beyond fear, and men who had lost their dignity in wars. Their eyes spoke of the pain they had endured and the injustice that had cast them into this hell.

Then Ibrahim asked, “Tell me, Son of the North, don’t they deserve to live as those oppressors in the kingdom do—those who have known nothing but luxury at the cost of our blood?”

Saif stood silent, as if the words had choked him. His face remained expressionless, but within, a fire was raging—a fire of anger and vengeance. He could hear the cries of all these people in his heart, feeling the weight of responsibility growing heavier. It was as if the entire world now rested on his shoulders.

It was a pivotal moment—a moment that made Saif realize his destiny was far greater than that of a young man living in the forest.

Meanwhile, deep in the night, Loris was plunged into a profound dream, enveloped in the warmth of memories of his mother and her tenderness. He saw her smiling face, her hand gently running through his hair as she used to when he was a child, protecting him from the world’s evils. The scene filled him with peace and comfort, but suddenly, that serenity vanished.

A shadowy man appeared, his footsteps heavy, his features shrouded in darkness. Without warning, he lunged at his mother, his sword glinting in the dim light. Before Loris could move, the blade pierced his mother’s heart. Blood began to pour out, quickly covering Loris’s face, hot and heavy. He tried to scream, to move, but his body was frozen in place.

Then, slowly and terrifyingly, the man turned to reveal his face. Loris’s eyes widened in horror as he recognized the man’s features—it was his father.

Loris awoke from his nightmare, his body drenched in cold sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Tears welled up in his eyes as he wept bitterly. That dream wasn’t just a passing nightmare but a painful memory. He remembered that horrifying moment when he stood helpless as his father executed his mother because she was from the North. And he, Loris, had not dared to protest.

He sat in the darkness, weighed down by pain and sacrifice.

At the break of dawn, under a light veil of mist weaving through the trees and the cold air brushing the faces of the survivors in the camp, Saif stepped steadily toward a small hill overlooking the settlement. His face was firm, and his gaze carried a newfound meaning. He stood where everyone could clearly see and hear him.

The survivors gathered around him, bewildered by the sight of him standing there with a confidence they had not seen before. Raising his head, he took a deep breath and began to speak in a strong voice that resonated across the still morning air:

“People!” His voice echoed like thunder, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. “I am Saif... the Son of the North!”

His words struck like lightning in the hearts of those present. Their weary faces began to awaken, as though grasping at a thread of hope.

“I am the one who will breathe life into your souls, the one who will not abandon you!” he continued, his voice growing louder and more impassioned, his eyes shining with unwavering determination. “I swear by God and by the honor of the North… that I will be the one to save you from this injustice. I will not let you fall into this dark abyss. I will stand against those who have wronged us and restore to you what has been stolen!”

Whispers spread among the crowd, and some began to feel something they had not felt in years—strength, and the flicker of hope.

Then, raising his hand high as if holding a long-fallen banner, Saif declared firmly: “We will not fear. We will not surrender. We will fight for our right to live with dignity, for our land that was stolen from us, and for those who sacrificed their blood.”

The place fell silent for a moment, with only the wind carrying his words far into the horizon. The faces before him, once filled with exhaustion and despair, now radiated surprise and respect, as though they had finally found someone to carry their banner.

And in that moment, Saif felt that his vow was not mere words but t

he beginning of a new era—an era of resistance and hope.