The forest seemed to pulse with every heartbeat of the King. Mist clung to his armor, wet and cold, and the shadows of the trees bent toward him, whispering names that were not his own but felt painfully familiar.
Betaal floated silently beside him, his corpse-like form swaying as if moved by an unseen wind. The air smelled of iron, ash, and a faint, sweet rot — the scent of forgotten graves.
> "King Vikram," Betaal began, voice soft but sharp as a blade, "the first tale begins now. Pay attention, for this story is not merely to teach, but to mirror."
Vikram didn't speak. His eyes narrowed, scanning the twisting trunks and dense fog. He could feel the forest's gaze pressing on him, probing, waiting.
> "Once," Betaal continued, "there was a prince. Young, proud, and brilliant beyond his years. He had a secret… a companion known to no one: his own shadow."
The fog ahead thickened. Trees dissolved into darkness, replaced by a palace floating in nothingness, its walls of black glass reflecting stars that didn't exist. Vikram stepped forward, and the air trembled. His own shadow stretched before him, impossibly long, moving with a will of its own.
> "The prince would speak to his shadow each night," Betaal said, "and the shadow would answer. It whispered secrets — of betrayal, of envy, of sins no one dared to confess."
Vikram's hand tightened on his sword, though he realized the steel was irrelevant. This place obeyed other laws. The shadows here obeyed the mind, not the body.
---
🌑 Enter the Tale
The prince appeared in the black palace, seated on a throne of glass shards. He was young, but his eyes held the weariness of centuries. His shadow stretched across the walls, moving like liquid ink, shaping into faces of men and women he had known.
> "Why do you speak?" the prince asked the shadow, voice trembling.
The shadow replied, its tone a mirror of the prince's own:
> "Because you fear forgetting. Because you cannot face what is hidden in your heart. I am your truth."
The prince shivered. Every whisper, every secret, seemed to echo from the walls, surrounding him, pressing into his chest. He realized then: the shadow knew everything. Every thought, every betrayal, every sin.
Vikram felt a chill as Betaal's voice layered over the scene:
> "The forest shows you not what has been, but what must be faced. The prince is not a boy, King. He is a reflection. Perhaps of you, perhaps of the men who came before you. Each story here is a key… to open the gates inside your mind."
---
🕯️ The Shadow's Demand
The shadow stretched its fingers across the floor and touched the prince's hands.
> "You have grown powerful," it whispered. "But power without acknowledgment is poison. Tell me… will you follow your desires blindly, or will you heed what you refuse to see?"
The prince's reflection on the throne mirrored his own hesitation. In a single instant, Vikram realized the dualities within himself: the king who ruled, the man who loved, the soldier who killed without mercy.
> "I… I will follow my duty," the prince said, though his voice quavered.
The shadow laughed, soft and cruel.
> "Duty? Or fear of your own heart? Every choice is a mirror, and every mirror is a lie."
Vikram's chest ached. He felt the same fear clawing at his chest — the fear that his own shadow knew him better than he knew himself.
Betaal's voice pierced the mist:
> "See, King? This is why kings fail. Not because of enemies, not because of war, but because they refuse to see the shadows they carry."
---
🩸 Merging Realities
Suddenly, the black palace shuddered. Walls stretched and twisted, stars leaking into fog. The prince looked up — and Vikram saw his own reflection in the prince's eyes.
> "It is you," the prince whispered. "You who walks the forest, who seeks the tales. You who refuses to remember…"
The shadow rose, coiling around the prince like smoke.
> "I am not just his," it said. "I am yours. Every doubt, every fear, every memory you bury feeds me. Speak, or be consumed."
Vikram's knees buckled. The forest outside seemed to press in through the floor of the palace, roots snaking upward, whispering names of soldiers, children, innocents. He realized the truth: the forest did not just mirror history — it breathed memory. Every action, every sin he had ignored, had taken form here.
> "This is the first tale, King," Betaal said. "The prince and his shadow are you. Every king must face the darkness that grows within, or it will swallow him whole."
---
🌌 The Choice
The shadow extended toward Vikram, now manifesting from the mist of the forest itself.
> "Will you see yourself, or will you continue to walk blind?"
Vikram raised his sword — not to strike, but as a symbol of will. He closed his eyes, letting the memories flood:
A village burned under his command.
A soldier he executed for questioning orders.
A child he could not save, screaming in his dreams.
Betrayals he had ignored to keep his crown intact.
He felt pain, guilt, rage — a tempest inside his chest. His knees buckled again, and the shadow circled him, taunting, whispering, pressing.
> "See it," Betaal whispered. "Own it. Only by acknowledging the darkness can you move forward."
Vikram forced himself to stand. He opened his eyes. The shadow's form rippled, and for the first time, it paused, awaiting his response.
> "I see it," Vikram said, voice trembling but firm. "I see what I have done. I accept it."
The shadow recoiled slightly, as if struck. The black palace shivered. The stars above twisted into new constellations — faces of the dead, watching silently. The prince on the throne bowed his head, acknowledging the King.
Betaal's voice resonated, gentle but chilling:
> "Good. Recognition is the first step. But remember, King… shadows do not disappear. They only wait. The forest waits. And the tales… the tales are endless."
---
🌑 Transformation of the Forest
The black palace dissolved into mist, returning Vikram and Betaal to the forest clearing. But the forest had changed:
Trees now had faces carved in bark, eyes blinking.
Roots moved like serpents.
The river of black blood shimmered with reflections of all the kings who had come before.
Vikram stumbled forward, his chest heavy. He had survived the first story — but he felt more exposed than ever. The forest was no longer just a physical place; it was a living entity, watching, judging, remembering.
Betaal floated above him, smiling faintly.
> "You have survived the first tale, King. You have faced the shadow… but the forest is patient. And the next story… will not be so forgiving."
Vikram looked ahead. The path was shrouded in thicker fog. He could hear whispers — not of the first tale, but of other voices, other stories waiting to emerge.
> "Every step you take," Betaal said, "is a choice. Remember: the forest does not just test courage. It tests the soul. And your soul… is already bleeding."
---
🩸 Reflection and Resolve
Vikram knelt beside the river of black blood. Each drop mirrored a memory, a sin, a moment he wished to erase. He reached out and touched the water. The ripples formed visions: the prince, the shadow, the hanging corpse, and his own reflection intertwined.
A single thought struck him: if he could face these shadows, perhaps he could master them — or at least survive them.
He rose, gripping his sword. The mist swirled, parting slightly, revealing a path deeper into the forest, lined with twisted arches and doors carved into the trunks.
Betaal hovered at the edge, voice like silk over steel:
> "Come, King. The next story awaits. The prince has taught you to see. But will you act on what you have seen… or will you stumble blindly into the darkness?"
Vikram swallowed, feeling fear and determination merge. The first tale had been a mirror — the second would be a trial. He took a step forward.
The forest seemed to inhale.
And somewhere above, unseen, the hanging corpse smiled.
End of Chapter 4 — The First Tale: The Prince Who Spoke to His Shadow