The wind moved through the fields like a tired ghost.
Once, long ago, the land outside the village had been green. Elvis remembered the stories his father used to tell when he was younger.
Stories about tall wheat dancing in the sunlight and rivers that carried silver fish through the valleys.
Now the land looked like the bones of the earth itself.
The soil had cracked open into long dry scars. Dust rolled across the empty fields whenever the wind rose, carrying the bitter smell of starvation with it. Nothing had grown here for months.
Perhaps longer.
Elvis sat outside the small clay hut that had been his home for sixteen years.
The wall behind him felt warm from the heat of the fading sun, but the warmth meant nothing.
The evenings had grown colder recently, as if winter itself was creeping closer with silent feet.
He stared out toward the fields.
Toward the emptiness.
Behind him, faint voices moved through the thin walls of the hut.
His parents thought he was asleep.
But Elvis had not slept properly in days.
Hunger had a way of sharpening every sound.
His mother's voice trembled.
"We cannot survive another winter."
The words drifted through the wall like smoke.
Inside the hut, something wooden creaked. Probably the old stool his father always sat on when the family needed to talk about something difficult.
There had been many difficult conversations lately.
His father spoke next, his voice heavy and dry.
"We have already sold the goats."
A pause.
"And the plow."
Another pause, longer this time.
The silence inside the hut felt heavier than any words.
Elvis already knew where the conversation was going.
His stomach tightened.
Then his father spoke again.
"The soldiers will come tomorrow."
The wind outside seemed to stop.
For a moment, the entire world felt still.
Inside the hut, his mother began to cry.
"No… please," she whispered.
"Not our son."
Elvis closed his eyes.
He had imagined this moment many times over the past week, but hearing the words still felt like a knife sliding slowly between his ribs.
His father sighed deeply.
"We have no choice."
The words were quiet, but they struck harder than a hammer.
"If we do nothing," his father continued, "we all die."
Elvis stared down at his hands.
They were rough hands for someone his age. Hands that had spent years digging soil, carrying water, and mending broken fences.
Hands that tomorrow would belong to someone else.
Inside the hut, his mother's crying grew louder.
"But he is only sixteen," she said.
His father did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded older than Elvis had ever heard it.
"They pay well for strong boys."
Another pause.
"He will eat."
Another pause.
"He will survive."
The words echoed through Elvis's mind like hollow bells.
He will survive.
That was what his father believed.
Or perhaps it was what he needed to believe.
Elvis had heard stories about the soldiers of Xandros.
Everyone had.
They came from the north where the fortress-city stood like a black mountain against the sky.
A place where the ground itself was said to be paved with the skulls of fallen enemies.
The armies of the warlord marched endlessly across the land.
Sometimes they conquered kingdoms.
Sometimes they demanded tribute.
Food.
Gold.
Slaves.
Villages that refused rarely survived.
Elvis opened his eyes and looked up at the darkening sky.
Stars were beginning to appear.
Cold and distant.
He wondered if they could see what was happening down here.
Inside the hut, his mother whispered something he could barely hear.
"I cannot lose him."
His father replied softly.
"You will not lose him."
But Elvis knew the truth.
In the morning, he would walk away from this village.
And he would never truly return.
The sun rose slowly the next morning.
Its pale light crept across the dry fields and empty roads, revealing a village that looked even smaller than usual.
Most of the villagers had already gathered in the dusty square near the well.
Word had spread quickly.
The soldiers were coming.
Elvis stood beside his parents near the edge of the crowd.
His mother held his arm tightly, as if she could still change fate if she refused to let go.
His father stood on the other side of him, silent and stiff.
No one spoke.
No one laughed.
Even the children were quiet.
Then, in the distance, a low rumbling sound began to grow.
Hooves.
Dozens of them.
The villagers turned toward the road leading north.
Dust rose in the distance like a slow-moving storm.
Within minutes, dark shapes appeared through the dust.
Horses.
Soldiers.
Their armor glinted in the sunlight as they approached.
Black steel, scarred from countless battles.
Each soldier carried the same symbol painted across their shields.
A skull crowned with iron thorns.
The mark of the warlord.
The mark of Xandros.
The soldiers rode into the village without slowing.
Their horses snorted as they stopped in the center of the square.
One of the riders removed his helmet.
His face was rough and heavily scarred, like stone that had survived many storms.
His eyes scanned the gathered villagers.
"Tribute," he said simply.
The word fell into the square like a stone dropped into still water.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The silence stretched.
Then Elvis felt his father step forward.
The movement was small.
But it felt like the entire world had shifted.
His mother's grip tightened on his arm.
Elvis looked at her.
Her eyes were red from crying.
For a moment, it looked like she might refuse.
Like she might run.
Like she might scream.
Instead, she slowly released his arm.
The soldier watched them calmly.
"Strong boy," he said, looking at Elvis.
He tossed a small leather pouch toward Elvis's father.
Coins clinked together inside.
The sound echoed through the square.
Elvis did not look back.
If he looked back, he might break.
The soldier grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a line of other captives.
Chains were brought forward.
Cold iron wrapped around Elvis's wrists.
The metal felt heavy.
Final.
As the soldiers prepared to leave, one of them laughed quietly.
"Welcome to Xandros," he said.
Elvis lifted his head.
Far in the distance, beyond the empty fields and the dusty roads, dark mountains rose against the sky.
Somewhere beyond those mountains stood the fortress-city of the warlord.
A place where the ground was said to be made of bones.
And somewhere within that fortress…
A princess named Ariel had no idea that the boy who would one day change her world had just taken his first step toward her.
The chains were heavier than Elvis expected.
Not just in weight, but in meaning.
The iron rings locked around his wrists were connected by a thick chain that linked him to the others.
When the soldiers began to move the captives forward, the entire line shifted awkwardly, like a wounded animal trying to walk.
Elvis counted them quickly.
Twelve.
Twelve people taken from their homes that morning.
Two boys younger than him.
Three girls who looked terrified.
Several older men whose faces had already hardened with quiet resignation.
And Elvis.
None of them spoke.
Behind them, the soldiers mounted their horses again. The man with the scarred face rode at the front while two others stayed at the back of the chain of prisoners.
One soldier held the end of the chain wrapped around his gauntlet.
Like a leash.
"Move," the scarred soldier ordered.
The march began.
The village disappeared slowly behind them.
Elvis kept his eyes forward, refusing to turn around.
But he could still feel it.
The weight of his mother's gaze.
The silence of his father.
The sound of the pouch of coins in his father's hand.
Each step carried him further away from everything he had ever known.
The road stretched ahead like a long scar across the earth.
Dust rose beneath their feet as they walked.
The soldiers kept the pace steady but relentless. Whenever someone slowed too much, the chain jerked violently as the soldier at the back pulled it forward.
By midday the sun was high and merciless.
Sweat ran down Elvis's neck and back.
The younger boy walking beside him stumbled once.
The chain pulled tight.
The soldier behind them yanked hard, forcing everyone forward.
"Stay on your feet," the soldier growled.
The boy nodded quickly, trying to hide his tears.
Elvis said nothing.
But he slowed his pace slightly, helping the boy keep balance so he wouldn't fall again.
The boy noticed.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Elvis gave a small nod.
"What's your name?" the boy asked.
"Elvis."
"I'm Taren."
Taren looked no older than twelve.
His wrists looked painfully small inside the iron cuffs.
"Where are they taking us?" Taren asked quietly.
Elvis hesitated.
He had heard the stories.
But saying them out loud felt like inviting something terrible into the air.
Still, the boy deserved honesty.
"To Xandros."
Taren's face turned pale.
Everyone in the southern lands knew that name.
Xandros.
The fortress of the warlord.
The city of bones.
They marched until evening.
When the sun began to sink behind the distant hills, the soldiers finally stopped.
"Camp," the scarred soldier announced.
The captives were forced to sit in a circle while the soldiers built a fire nearby.
One guard remained watching them while the others prepared food.
The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air.
The prisoners received none of it.
Instead, a soldier tossed a small sack toward them.
Inside were several pieces of stale bread.
Not enough.
Not even close.
But hunger had erased the idea of fairness long ago.
The prisoners divided the bread quickly.
Elvis made sure Taren received a piece.
The boy ate like someone who hadn't tasted food in days.
Night slowly swallowed the land around them.
The fire crackled softly while the soldiers laughed and drank from metal flasks.
For them, this journey was nothing unusual.
Just another group of bodies delivered to the fortress.
Elvis leaned back slightly and looked up at the sky.
The stars were brighter away from the village.
Cold.
Endless.
He wondered if the fortress of Xandros looked different beneath these same stars.
One of the older prisoners spoke quietly beside him.
"You should sleep while you can."
Elvis looked at the man.
His beard was grey and his eyes carried the tired look of someone who had lived too long under hard times.
"You've been there before?" Elvis asked.
The man nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Taren looked up suddenly.
"You escaped?."
The man gave a sad
smile.
"No one escapes Xandros."
The words fell into the darkness like a stone dropped into deep water.
Elvis felt something tighten in his chest.
"If no one escapes," he asked, "then how are you here?"
The man stared into the firelight.
"I was part of a construction crew sent outside the fortress walls. When the warlord's army marched south last year, I was among those they captured again."
His voice lowered.
"But the fortress has grown since then."
"How?" Taren asked.
The man looked toward the distant north.
"They build it with bones."
Taren frowned.
"What do you mean?"
The man's voice became quieter.
"The roads. The towers. Even the great courtyard."
He swallowed.
"Skulls everywhere."
Elvis had heard rumors like this before.
But hearing it from someone who had actually seen the place made the idea feel suddenly real.
"Why?" Elvis asked.
The man shook his head.
"Because the warlord wants the world to remember his victories."
The fire crackled again.
The old man leaned closer and whispered one more sentence.
"They say the warlord cannot die."
The wind moved across the dark plains.
For a moment, none of the prisoners spoke.
Finally, one of the soldiers stood.
"Enough talking," he barked.
"Sleep."
The prisoners lay down on the hard ground.
Elvis closed his eyes.
But sleep did not come easily.
In his mind, he could see the road ahead.
A road made of skulls.
And somewhere at the end of that road…
A fortress where death ruled like a king.
Far to the north, beyond the dark hills and empty valleys, a massive fortress stood beneath the moonlight.
Black towers rose toward the sky like jagged teeth.
High walls surrounded the city within.
Torches burned along the battlements.
And deep inside the fortress, in a tall stone tower overlooking the courtyards below, a young woman stood at her window.
Her name was Ariel.
She watched the distant northern roads stretching toward the horizon.
Every few days, new slave caravans arrived.
More prisoners.
More laborers.
More people swallowed by the fortress.
Ariel had grown up inside these walls.
Yet sometimes the place still felt like a prison.
Not made of iron.
But expectations.
Her father ruled from the throne of Xandros.
The High Sovereign.
The warlord feared across the entire realm.
But Ariel had begun to notice things over the past few years.
Things that made her uneasy.
The endless arrival of prisoners.
The growing mountains of bones outside the fortress.
The way the soldiers spoke about conquest as if it were the only language the world understood.
She rested her hands on the stone railing.
Far below, the fortress courtyard stretched wide and silent beneath the moon.
Soon another caravan would arrive.
Another group of strangers dragged into the heart of the warlord's empire.
Among them would be a boy with iron around his wrists and fire in his heart.
A boy named Elvis.
And neither of them knew it yet.
But their paths were already moving toward each other.
Like two stars slowly drifting into the same orbit.