The air changed the moment they crossed the invisible line into the Forest of Veyra. Behind them lay the rolling hills and open fields of Hurbala, now scarred by the Yilmaz invasion. Ahead lay the Greenveil Paths—a labyrinth of ancient, monolithic trees whose branches wove together so tightly that the sun struggled to touch the mossy floor. In any other era, it would have been a place of emerald beauty. Today, it felt like a green tomb.
Basyar led the way, though he stayed close to Hujeena's shadow. The thorny circlet on his head felt heavier today, a physical reminder of the burden he had accepted. His army of fifty followed in a disciplined silence that spoke of their growing desperation. They weren't just soldiers anymore; they were hunters, and the forest was their only sanctuary.
"The wind smells wrong," Marissa whispered, appearing suddenly from behind a thicket of ferns. Her bow was in her hand, but no arrow was notched—a sign she didn't want to draw attention. "It's not just pine and damp earth. There's something metallic. Something burnt."
Juhada nodded, her eyes narrowing as she adjusted the strap of her map case. "The Shadowhold border guards should have met us by now if they were still following the old treaties. The silence means the border is no longer being guarded—it's being occupied."
As they pushed deeper, the "Greenveil" lived up to its name, but the veil was torn. They reached a clearing that had once been the village of Oakhaven, a small settlement famous for its woodcarving. Now, it was a blackened scar in the middle of the verdant forest.
The cottages were shells of charred timber. The central well was choked with debris. There were no bodies, which was almost more unsettling than if there had been. It was as if the village had been hollowed out by a giant hand.
"Look at the scorch marks," Zahdev, the siege engineer, noted, kneeling by a ruined hearth. He pointed to the way the wood had splintered. "This wasn't a wildfire. These were high-heat incendiaries. Shadowhold tech."
Basyar walked to the center of the village. He picked up a small, wooden horse—a child's toy—partially melted and covered in soot. The anger that had been simmering in his gut since the fall of Hurbala began to boil.
"Zin Baraji did this," Basyar said, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and sorrow. "To his own people?"
"Not just his own," Juhada corrected. "This village was half-populated by Hurbala refugees who fled the first wave of the invasion. By burning Oakhaven, he is sending a message: there is no refuge here."
The Yapping Poet
While the main group explored the ruins, Idayu had wandered toward the edge of a nearby stream, hoping to find some scrap metal or perhaps a few stones suitable for her slings. She was humming to herself, thinking about how to improve the tension on her wire-traps, when she heard a voice.
It wasn't a scream or a shout. It was a rhythmic, melodic flow of words.
"...And the creek does flow, like a ribbon of silk, Over stones as white as a maiden's milk, But oh, the maiden is far, and the creek is quite cold, And I, dear world, am growing quite old..."
Idayu froze. She crept toward a large willow tree overhanging the water. Sitting on a flat rock, his feet dangling in the stream, was a young man who looked entirely out of place in a war zone.
He was about twenty-three, with messy black hair and a bright, multicolored scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. Beside him leaned a cluster of three long, elegant spears, their tips polished to a mirror sheen. He was currently busy trying to balance a small pebble on the tip of his nose.
"You're terrible at poetry," Idayu said, stepping out from behind the tree with her hands on her hips.
The young man didn't jump. He didn't reach for his spears. Instead, the pebble fell into his mouth, he coughed it out with a laugh, and then he turned to look at her with a wide, mischievous grin.
"Terrible? My dear, that was a masterpiece of the 'Lost Wanderer' style! Though I admit, 'milk' and 'silk' is a bit overused," he said, hopping to his feet. He was tall and lean, moving with a fluid grace that reminded Idayu of a leopard. "And who might you be? A forest sprite come to critique my stanzas? Or perhaps a beautiful engineer come to fix my broken heart?"
He took her hand before she could react and gave it a dramatic, lingering kiss. "I am Langa. Traveler of the high roads, lover of the low sun, and currently, a man looking for a reason to keep walking."
Idayu yanked her hand back, wiping it on her trousers. "I'm Idayu. And you're lucky I didn't set a snare under that rock. We have an army nearby. An army that doesn't like strangers."
"An army? Oh, how delightful!" Langa's eyes sparkled. He grabbed his spears in one fluid motion, twirling them with a dizzying speed that made Idayu blink. "Is it a grand army with golden banners? Or a scrappy band of rebels with a handsome leader? I do hope there are beautiful women. My soul is quite parched for a glimpse of feminine grace."
"You talk too much," Idayu grunted. "Come on. The King will want to see you."
"A King! Even better!" Langa chirped, following her like a stray puppy. "Does he have a crown? I have a poem about crowns. It involves a lot of metaphors about heavy heads and shiny gold. Very deep. Very moving."
The Flirt and the King
When Idayu brought Langa into the center of the burnt village, the reaction was immediate. Hujeena stepped forward, her shield raised. Marissa notched an arrow in a heartbeat.
Langa, however, seemed completely unbothered. He stopped in front of Marissa, his jaw practically dropping.
"Oh, stars and moon," Langa whispered, clutching his chest. "I have seen the goddess of the hunt, and she has a very sharp arrow pointed at my liver. My lady, if you must kill me, please do it after I've had a chance to describe the amber glow of your eyes. It's like... honey trapped in a storm."
Marissa stared at him, her expression blank. She didn't lower her bow. "Who is this idiot?"
"He says his name is Langa," Idayu sighed. "He's a poet. And apparently, he's a 'traveler.'"
Basyar walked forward, looking at the three spears on Langa's back. He recognized the craftsmanship—they weren't Shadowhold or Hurbala make. They were sleek, weighted for throwing.
"Where are you from, Langa?" Basyar asked.
Langa turned his attention to the young King. He took in the thorn circlet and the mud-stained clothes. His flippant attitude shifted, just a fraction. He saw the shard-sword at Basyar's hip.
"From nowhere that exists anymore, Your Grace," Langa said, giving a polite, albeit slightly mocking, bow. "I've spent the last three years in the Yilmaz territories. I know their roads, their supply lines, and exactly which officers prefer wine over duty. I grew bored of their golden cages, so I decided to see if the rumors of a 'Ghost King' in the forest were true."
"You know the Yilmaz lands?" Juhada asked, her interest piqued.
"Every bridge, every pothole, and every tavern with a pretty barmaid," Langa winked at Hujeena, who looked like she wanted to headbutt him. "I heard you're heading into Shadowhold. Bold move. Zin Baraji is a man who likes his cages even more than the Yilmaz do."
"Why join us?" Basyar asked. "We have fifty people and a burnt village. We can't pay you."
Langa shrugged, twirling a spear around his fingers. "Honest answer? I'm out of dried meat, and your engineer here looks like she knows where the good snacks are. Plus, a King with a crown of thorns? That's a story worth being in. I'm a poet, Basyar. I live for the third act."
"He's a liability," Hujeena muttered.
"He knows the Yilmaz," Basyar countered. "And we need eyes that have seen the enemy's home. Langa, you can stay. But if you touch Marissa's bow or annoy Hujeena again, I can't guarantee your safety."
"A fair bargain!" Langa laughed. "Now, who's in charge of the food? I have a magnificent recipe for roasted squirrel that will make you weep with joy."
Tactics: The Hidden Truth
The levity brought by Langa was short-lived. Basyar knew they couldn't stay in Oakhaven for long. He needed information.
"Marissa, take the scouts," Basyar commanded. "I want a three-mile perimeter. Find me anyone who escaped the fires. Juhada, I want to know why this village was burned. It doesn't make sense to destroy resources unless you're hiding something."
Basyar himself didn't just sit and wait. He practiced what Juhada called Scout & Informant tactics. He sat with the few survivors Marissa brought back—haggard men and women who had been hiding in the root-cellars. He didn't speak to them as a King; he spoke as a fellow victim. He listened to their stories, offered them his own meager rations, and waited.
By nightfall, the picture became clear.
"It's not just a border dispute," Marissa reported, her face grim in the firelight. "We found a survivor from the next village over. Zin Baraji is conscripting everyone. Men, women, even children who can carry a shovel. They aren't burning villages to kill the people; they're burning them to force the survivors into 'Protection Camps.'"
"He's building an army," Juhada whispered, her fingers flying over her map. "But he's not doing it for himself. He's doing it for the Yilmaz. He's trading his own people as laborers to keep his throne."
"That's why he's cleaning the border," Basyar realized. "He doesn't want anyone to see the convoys. He's selling his kingdom in pieces."
Langa, who had been uncharacteristically quiet while sharpening his spears, looked up. "I saw the convoys on the Yilmaz side of the border. Chains and iron collars. They call them 'The Labor Tithe.' Zin Baraji gets gold and immunity; King Manuel gets a workforce to rebuild the Sunspire."
Basyar stood up, his hand gripping the shard of the crown. The "Broken Crown" wasn't just a metaphor anymore. It was the reality of a world where kings sold their subjects to stay alive.
"We aren't just going through this forest," Basyar told his guardians. "We're going to stop those convoys. If Zin Baraji wants to sell his people, he'll have to go through us first."
"That's a big goal for fifty people," Langa remarked, his flirty tone replaced by something sharper. "But hey, I've always liked an underdog. Especially an underdog with a plan."
"The plan is simple," Juhada said, a cold light in her eyes. "We don't fight the army. We fight the logistics. We become the 'Silent Frontier' ourselves."
As the camp settled into an uneasy sleep, Basyar sat by the dying embers. He looked at the wooden horse he had found. He wasn't just a King of the Exile Roads anymore. He was becoming a King of the Oppressed.