An inky blackness filled the air. Huddled shadows lined the walls. The only light that dared challenge the reign of darkness dwindled within the fireplace. 

A bent figure paced the room, his hands shaking from an unseen chill. His silk robe’s fiery glint claimed him to be royal, and yet the paleness of his skin gave no such confidence. A crown shone proudly on his forehead, but it was slanted, as if he hadn’t cared to adjust it in a while. 

Cold panic held open the man’s eyes, and though the room about him was silent, an otherworldly melody echoed through his mind.

“We are the gods of our universe

The pillars on which hope hangs.

Doctrine we speak through our rulers

And pleasures through warfare we claim.”

The words tore at him, trying to drag him into their own special hell. He flailed through an abyss of terror, before grasping the only sound that remained…

The soft crackling of the fire behind him.

His mind desperately reached for the flames. Soon the king’s sanity returned. The shadows reshaped themselves into chairs and dressers. The king straightened his back ever so slightly, relief crossing his misty eyes. “Y-yes… the fire! T-t-the blessed fire.”

He then reclined in one of his chairs, sighing deeply in the newfound silence. But with the peace came a new noise, one that tormented even the hours the king claimed to be his. A soft laugh from a boy he once knew.

He closed his eyes, resigning himself to the memory. What was the child like? 

He was soft and genuine, but somehow childlike. 

He was controlled and polite, but also alive. 

He was…

. . .

Gone.

Underneath the same murky sky, before the king’s haunting, a carriage drove away from the palace and into the city. Its only passenger, the prince of this region, rested his head against the window sill. His naturally golden locks seemed gray in the town’s gloom, hanging over the side of the wagon door. Painful memories kept him awake, suppressing his normally bright spirit.

At one point, Sal spent his days wandering the palace. He had everything, and yet knowing that his father saw him only as a disappointment made it all worthless. For the longest time he tried to hold on to his childlike wonder. But without warning, his father had finally taken the last step: sending Sal away for good.

I believed for so long that he would change, he thought. Maybe if I was happy enough, smart enough, or good enough at swordsplay, he would accept me. 

But I guess I was wrong.

Hours passed, and the streets never changed. There were always the same shades of gray, the same hollow-eyed slaves, and the same sound of pickaxes striking stone in the distance. The Forgotten — slaves by title and miners by trade — often stared in his direction, their expressions all the same. Too beaten to be angry, and too hopeless to be friendly. 

For once, Sal felt he had something in common with these people. Their disappointment was his, and their misfortunes near to his heart. 

For once, he couldn’t seem to forget the Forgotten.

Tiredness finally began to pull at his eyelids, letting the world’s grey blur into a deep black. He knew that when he woke up he would be thrust into a life of academia. That just made every second of sleep all the more precious.

. . .

A hot force crushed Sal’s chest. His head cracked against the wall, and for a moment, everything was silent. A ringing followed, then shaky breaths.

Sal propped himself up, but pain forced him to the floor. He gasped, his chest burning. Everything descended into noise and chaos, and the sound of fire consumed his senses.

What’s happening? Sal thought frantically.

He tried to stand up with the rest of his strength. In front of him, the door propped open. Three figures stood, caught his gaze, all dressed in the garb of a Forgotten.

A crushing blow knocked him to the ground.

. . .

Sal’s breath shook. The air felt cold. Somehow it smelled bad, too. Like passing by the palace sewage drains, but somehow more earthy. It wasn’t bright outside, but the stench forced him to open his eyes nonetheless.

His blurred vision didn’t help. He could only see layers of murky grey. 

Sal rose up slowly from the bed. His ears rang unbearably. He clutched at his head, trying to rub the headache away. Then, suddenly, a searing pain on his chest joined the clamor. No wonder it was so hard to breathe.

“Good afternoon,” a soft-spoken voice said.

Fear forced the young prince fully awake. In a dark corner a man materialized, tall and thin. His garb was that of a Forgotten, but his eyes weren’t hollow. Instead, they sparkled like the gaze of a kindly father. His mustache and beard were short and bristly, and his brown hair laid flat over his shoulders. Despite being clearly mistreated and starved, he smiled softly.

“A… Forgotten?” Sal mumbled. A sudden surge of pain forced his eyes shut. His headache stung worse than before.

“Here.” The Forgotten unclipped something from his belt. “Take this.”

Sal opened his eyes, spotting a leather pouch of water. He accepted it, raising it to his lips. But only a few drops came out.

Sal’s heart fell. “Is… is that all?” 

The slave nodded. “That’s all I have.”

Sal glanced at the pouch regretfully. Then, something else caught his eyes. He no longer looked like Prince Salveros, finely dressed and clean. He too was dressed like a slave, with baggy trousers a size too small and a soot-covered shirt. 

He looked under the shirt’s fabric. His wounds were tightly covered, bound by a messily tied cloth.

Sal glanced at the stranger. The Forgotten’s shirt had been torn short.

Tears burned the prince’s eyes. “W… why did you…?”

“Lay down. Rest.”

Sal willingly obeyed, resting his head on the pillow beneath him. He felt his sadness deepen, alongside regret. He would have refused the water if he knew how much it meant.

The Forgotten sat on the floor beside the bed. He couldn’t have gone much further; the house felt more like a closet than a room in size. The only things that would fit were a bed and a dresser, along with a hole in the far corner that served as a door. The walls and floors were made of poorly cut stone, letting water pass through in trickles and drops. In the distance, whips cracked.

“What happened to me?” Sal asked.

The man bowed his head. “An attack. They… they lit blastpowder kegs. It’s a miracle that you survived.”

A crash shattered the silence, then a scream. The man’s eyes darted to the murky grey streets, only drifting back once the coast seemed clear.

Sal felt as if he was dreaming. His father’s servants were treated better than these slaves. The noblemen insisted that the Forgotten were dealt with mercifully. Yet hidden in the depths of the city, humans — not the ‘Forgotten’ he had imagined — lived in filth. He was enraged, but also afraid. In this city, he was the son of the king who held them in bondage. He was the enemy.

“If you want to get home safely, we need to leave tomorrow,” the man continued. “The guards will punish me for illegally holding you here unless we leave before inspection. The king will be passing through tomorrow. If he sees you, he’ll help you leave unscathed.”

Sal knew it would be hard on his injuries, but he nodded anyway. What choice did he have?

The stranger wasn’t much for words. As articulate as he was, he rarely spoke outside of occasional checking-ins. Rather, he dug through the cupboards of his dresser, revealing old and beaten books. Choosing one, he bent over it, his inky hair hanging over it like thin, wavy curtains. The book was lined for inventory management, but the inky strokes within were too dense to be mere numbers and figures. The man read through each page, taking notes and occasionally looking towards the ceiling. 

“What’s in there?” 

The man looked up, then smiled a bit. “Stories.”

“You write stories?”

“No. I pass them on. I bring hope for slaves who would seek it.”

“Hope?”

The man paused for a moment, searching the prince’s gaze. He seemed almost curious for a moment.

“Before the uprising, our peoples were once known under a different name. Trelarians.” The slave flipped through his book, forming his tale with words extracted from page to page. “Ruled by a king as fair as he was good, we enjoyed peace throughout the ancient world. Our kingdom expanded beyond the borders of humanity, even daring to entertain the wildest dragons and fairest elves in our trade.”

Sal laughed despite his chest pain. “Dragons? Surely you don’t believe in dragons?”

The slave. “Somewhere far away, beyond the smoke and stone divides, the dragons dwell even now. And in the past, they too bowed to Zane Wildskeep the Gracious.”

“And you actually believe this?”
“Every word.”

Normally Sal would have thought this Forgotten a liar, or at least insane. But lying there in the bed, face to face with his own mortality, he felt drawn to those stories. As a child he often imagined the world beyond his borders, but his father crushed those dreams under the weight of study and expectation. It felt like the words healed the child Sal was, the one he had let die.

“What were these dragons like?” he wondered, almost to himself. “And how can a king be so wonderful?”

“I’ll tell you,” he promised, smiling a bit. “In the next chapter.”

In that cold, damp room, Sal listened to stories about a kingdom not forgotten, and a people not forsaken. He fell in love with the tales, and soon felt a deep compassion for the Trelarians working the streets outside.

My hope faded the moment my father rejected me. But what hope is this, that can survive such poverty and need?

And… is this king still alive?

. . .

The next day the pair made their way precariously through town. The streets were muddy and deep, but Sal didn’t mind. He was too preoccupied with his chest pain. Bending over was painful — as if standing wasn’t hard enough. But he didn’t say anything; the man had been kind enough already.

The other slaves eyed Sal’s guardian with an odd sense of gratitude. While many of them gave no care to avoid knocking into their fellow workers, they took special care not to interfere with the man’s route. They often mumbled thanks near him or bowed at a distance, even despite carrying bags of coal and heavy tools. Sal could tell his guardian was well-loved among the other slaves.

“The caravan is just around this corner,” the man said. “How’s your chest feeling?”

“Every step hurts.”

Without hesitation, the man offered his shoulder to the prince. Sal accepted it gratefully, still feeling unworthy of such help. 

Soon they left the dense slave quarter of the city, finally returning to the road where Sal had been attacked before.

“I never asked for your name,” Sal realized, letting go of his support.

“That’s not important,” the Forgotten replied. “I am but a man. Don’t remember me, young prince. Remember the stories. The king will come back someday, for both slave and free. We’ll meet again when he does.”

Sal nodded, tears beginning to pull at his eyes. He wished he could give so much more to this poor man. He deserved more for his trouble. But if repaying him meant sharing his hope, Sal was willing.

“Now go. Your father just left his carriage.”

Sal nodded gratefully. Then, after a few seconds of deep gratitude, he began hobbling towards the main road and the horse-drawn carriage ahead. 

The first thing he noticed was his father. He was handsome and strong, with a silver beard and a face of stone. His crown hung proudly on his brow, perfectly straight, and his cloak shone in the sun. Sal would recognize him anywhere. But something was wrong. 

With him stood a company of soldiers, surrounding two slaves.

A pair of the guards beat down the older slave, an old man. The king and the remaining guards cornered the younger slave like coyotes trapping their prey. Her eyes, beautiful and young, radiated panic. And Sal could tell it wouldn’t end well for her if he didn’t act fast.

He didn’t hesitate.

With near-supernatural resolve, Sal barged through the guards nearest to him. He crashed down, knocking the girl away. an explosion of pain tore Sal’s breath away. He screamed in agony. 

“Please… don’t hurt…”

The king’s eyes flashed, assuming the intruder to be an impertinent slave. “Why, you-!”

With one deft movement, he ripped out his sword.

“NO!”

With another, the streets drank the prince’s blood.

. . .

The same silence that filled the streets that day resonated in the king’s chambers. No noise. No ghosts. Just that cursed silence. The king’s hands trembled just as they did before. He had murdered his only son in a fit of rage. And more than that, he only had himself to blame.

The king’s lips trembled as he broke into tears. He remembered his son’s eyes — which once offered the kindest and most merciful spirit he had ever seen — finally surrendering to the veil of death. He saw the pain of Sal’s last moments, knowing that he had been utterly and finally discarded by his father. And while the king stood staring dumbly at the corpse, he remembered a slave man — the scum of the earth — running over to his son and weeping, when he couldn’t bring himself to move an inch.

That slave, his sleeve torn and his eyes sorrowful, swore to write him a story. To forever honor his sacrifice. And the king had come to realize that his words would mean more than any scribe of the century. 

The king shook his head, his heart empty. The terrible song that occupied his days needed amendment. Sitting at his desk, he composed an addition to the king’s proverb, which had tormented him in his depravity. But this time, his arrogance and optimism fell behind.

They said I’m the god of my universe,

To do what my mind’s set to do,

But in the end I saw my heart burn,

And my only son then I slew.

If there’s a god in this universe,

Would he treat me as a slave?

Or would he look past all my failures,

And like my son, bear all my shame?