The hermit led them deeper into the forest, his staff tapping against roots and stone with a rhythm that seemed almost intentional, like the beat of a slow drum. Mutasa stumbled behind him, soaked clothes heavy, muscles burning with fatigue. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his father Quban falling again, the crown rolling across the marble. The memory gnawed at him until it felt like a second wound on him.
"Where are we going?" Mutasa asked, his voice rough and unbalanced.
The old man didn't look back. "To a place older than the throne you lost and your father. Keep moving .Your body will fail before your spirit, and I need to see which breaks first."
Mutasa clenched his teeth but said nothing. Rhygar stayed close at his side, ever watchful, hand near his sword hilt. His suspicion of the hermit hadn't softened since the wolves fled, but Kaelen sensed even Rhygar knew they had no choice. Alone, they would not survive for too long.
At last, after what felt like hours of trudging through endless trees. In its center stood a ruined stone circle, moss creeping across fallen pillars. A fire crackled in the heart of the ruin, its smoke rising like a pale ribbon toward the moon. The air smelled faintly of herbs and old ashes.
The hermit gestured. "Sit. Warm yourselves. Eat and relax."
Mutasa dropped beside the fire, letting the heat chase the cold from his bones and get warm. Rhygar remained standing,wondering which kind of place they are, but eventually he too, settled warily on a stone and relaxing.
The hermit reached into his cloak and tossed a small loaf of hard bread and a strip of dried meat to Mutasa. "Your feast, Small Prince."
Mutasa caught them, staring. "How do you know who I am? You said you knew my father, but that was decades ago. Why wait for me here? Why tonight? Why now!?"
The old man's eyes glinted in the firelight. "Because the blood of kings runs in you, and the night your crown was stolen, it awoke."
Mutasa frowned and asked "Awoke?"
"Power," the old man said simply. "Dormant until your line is tested by ruin. Your Father carried it, though he never truly embraced it. Now it passes to you. Do you feel it, in your bones? The way your heart still burns when it should break? The way your body still moves though you should be dead? That is no accident, it's within you already"
Mutasa looked down at his bloodstained hands. He remembered the fight with the wolves—the way his blade had struck true. His father's death had drained him, yet beneath the grief was a stubborn feeling that refused to die.
"I felt… something inside me," he admitted.
Rhygar snorted. "He felt adrenaline, nothing more. Don't fill his head with fairy tales and superstitions , you old man."
The hermit's gaze snapped to Rhygar, sharp as a blade. "Adrenaline doesn't turn beasts aside with a glance. Did you not see how the wolves hesitated before him? Blood recognizes blood. The world itself knows its king."
Mutasa shivered despite the fire. He wanted to dismiss it, call it madness, call it out of mindness—but part of him wanted it to be real. Part of him longed for something, to justify why he had lived when his father had not.
"What is this power?" Mutasa asked the old man.
The hermit leaned closer, his voice low, like a whisper carried on smoke. "It is called the King's Aura. Not sorcery, not trickery, but the will to rule . With it, you can command men, inspire loyalty, and break the spirit of your enemies. But it comes at a cost. The stronger it burns, the heavier it weighs upon the heart."
Mutasa asked the hermit. "And you can teach me?"
"I can guide you," the hermit said. "But power alone will not win back your throne. You must forge allies where none exist. You must bleed, and sacrifice, and burn away the boy you were. and rise the man in you ."
Mutasa's fists clenched around the crust of bread. He thought of Lord Maleeq's mocking voice. Coward. Run like the traitor you are.
"I'll do whatever it takes to become strong," he whispered to himself.
The hermit's smile was grim. "Good. Then your path begins here, in fire and ash."
He drew a small brand from the flames, its tip glowing red. The sight made Mutasa tense, but the hermit did not strike. Instead, he thrust the brand into the dirt, where it hissed and smoked.
"Tomorrow, we begin your trial," the hermit said. "Tonight, rest and relax. For when the sun rises, the boy Mutasa must die… so the king , the strong man within him may awaken."
Mutasa laid near the fire that night, cloak wrapped tight against the forest chill. Sleep didn't come easily. Every time his eyes closed to sleep,images crashed through his mind—his father's body collapsing beneath the black-fletched bolts, the crown rolling across marble, the echo of Maleeq's voice branding him a coward. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, but don't stop the vision he had.
When he finally drifted into slumber, it was not peace that claimed him, but a dream.
He stood once more in the throne room, but it was empty now—pillars cracked, banners burned, the golden throne itself shattered into fragments scattered across the floor. Shadows clung to the corners of the hall, whispering his name load.
"Mutasa…"
He turned. His father stood among the ruins, armor gleaming faintly, crown whole upon his brow. Blood trickled down his chest where the bolts had struck, yet his eyes burned steady as flame.
"Father!" Mutasa stumbled toward him. "I—I couldn't save you Father. I ran.I ran away. I—"
His father raised a hand, silencing him. "You lived. That is enough for me."
Shame surged through Mutasa's chest. "Enough? I abandoned you!"
"No." the Kng's voice was firm, the kind of tone that had once silenced generals. "You carried the flame forward when all else turned to ash. That is the burden of kingship you have to endure."
The shadows whispered louder now, curling around Mutasa's ankles. His father's image flickered, like fire dwindling in wind.
"Rise from ruin, my son," Mutasa said, voice echoing as though from far away. "Claim what was taken. Forge anew. Or let the line end with you."
The hermit sat opposite,hand on the staff, staff across his knees, eyes glinting as if he'd been waiting. "Dreams?" he asked softly.
Mutasa wiped his face with trembling hands. "… My !! My father."
The hermit only nodded, as though he had expected that answer.
Before Mutasa could speak again, the first pale streaks of dawn bled across the treetops. The hermit rose, gripping his staff, and struck the ground once. "Up. Your trial begins."
Mutasa asked which trial!!?
"The first step in burning away the boy in you," the hermit said. He gestured toward the forest. "You will run. Without food, without water, until you can go no farther. Then, when your body fails, we will see if your spirit can rise."
Mutasa blinked in surprise, disbelieving. "Run? That's your test?"
The hermit's eyes narrowed. "Kings do not falter when their people march for days without rest. Kings do not collapse when war drives them beyond endurance.Kings do not rest when war is going on Your body is weak with comfort, but your blood holds more power . We will drag it out, or you will die."
Rhygar got angry and said. "This is madness. He's barely slept—"
Mutasa raised a hand, silencing him. His father's words still rang in his ears. Rise from ruin, my son. Or let the line end with you.
He nodded once. "I'll do it."
The hermit's lips curled into something between approval and cruelty. "Good. Then run."
And so Mutasa did.
At first, the rhythm of his feet pounding against soil gave him strength and power. The cold air cleared his head, sharpened his grief into a single blade. He thought of Maleeq, of his father's lifeless eyes, of the crown stolen rolling on the floor. Each step became a vow: I will not die here. I will not be forgotten.
But as the hours dragged on, his legs burned, his lungs screamed. Rhygar followed close, shouting encouragement, though even his seasoned voice grew hoarse. The forest blurred, a tunnel of endless green.
When Mutasa finally stumbled and fell to his knees, the hermit was suddenly there, staff planted in the earth beside him.
"Here it comes," the old man said, voice calm, almost pleased. "The breaking."
Mutasa's vision fade .His body begged for rest, for surrender. He thought of letting go, of collapsing into the dirt and never rising again. But then his father's face flashed in his mind once more—You carried the flame forward when all else turned to ash.
Something within him flared. He pushed one hand against the ground, forcing himself up. His body screamed, but he ignored it, staggering back to his feet. His breath came ragged, but still he stood strongly.
The hermit's eyes gleamed like firelight on steel. "Yes… there it is.
Mutasa didn't understand what he meant, but he felt it—the faintest thrum beneath his skin, a pulse not of blood but of will. His heart hammered, yet with each beat came strength, unnatural and steady, as though some hidden reservoir had cracked open inside him.
He took another step. Then another. Then another.
The hermit's smile was grim and knowing. "The King's Aura stirs."