The child was weary with sleep. His eyes were drifting shut. Yet he resisted, striving to keep the gates of his perception flung wide. Everything around him was dark. Through a tear in the tent’s canopy, a faint breeze—the dying breath of the harsh winds howling from the mountains—filtered inside. Amidst the whistling wind, the neighing of horses reached his ears. He could hear voices speaking in the Ancient Tongue. From afar, the muffled sobs of a woman drifted toward him. A baby was crying. Then, the curses of two men cut through the night. Farther away, perhaps at the very edge of the endless mountain ranges, lightning flashed. The sound of the night held no meaning in the absence of man.

  Soon, the dim light of a small flame struck his eyes. Furrowing his brow, he turned his head toward the entrance of the tent. An old woman was approaching, her long robes sweeping the ground as she moved. The candlelight from the wick in her hand illuminated the white-threaded interior of the tent; the light of the night found its path through her. As she drew closer, he could discern her features more clearly. He recognized the grandmother. A few steps before she reached his pallet, he closed his eyes and began to breathe slowly and rhythmically, as if deep in slumber. He could hear her footsteps, the rustle of her skirts. After a few seconds, the sounds ceased. He continued to wait with bated breath.

  “I know you are not asleep, my child,” the grandmother’s cracked voice filled his ears. “Who could blame you? You were born into the heart of war; you grow up on the threshold of defeat.” Her voice seemed to strive for a whisper, but as it rose with a brittle rasp, it failed to convey that silent tenderness.

  “Where is my father?” the boy asked.

  “I am certain he will be here shortly,” the grandmother replied, placing the candle atop a barrel beside the pallet before crouching down and tucking her legs beneath her. “He asked me to watch over you. Shall I tell you a fable to help you sleep?”

  “Why does he not come?” the boy insisted.

  “He will come, child; find some peace within yourself,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek and stroking it, spreading the faint scent of candle wax. “His war need not be yours; his burdens need not be your own.”

  “You said my mother would come, too,” the child said, turning his back to the old woman to hide his tears. “But she never returned. What if my father does not return either? And where is my mother, Grandmother? Why does she not tell me fables?”

  A shadow of sorrow, an inexplicable devastation, appeared in the woman’s eyes. The boy, watching her from the corner of his eye, did not miss her wiping away the gathering tears with her index finger. He did not know why he had upset the old woman, who was now sniffing back her grief, but he knew the cause was the same as the sorrow within himself. He sat up and threw his arms around the woman’s neck. For a moment, it seemed she might break into sobs; then, she too embraced the child, stroking his head as she whispered into his ear: “Ah, my precious child… What you have endured at such an age, what agonies you have witnessed. Should the day come when life grants you serenity, will these bitter memories not cast a shadow over those happy days?”

  “Where is my mother, Grandmother? Tell me.”

  “She will not return, my child,” the grandmother said, this time holding him even tighter, wiping away her grief against his small frame. “Your mother will never return. She is with the Great Spirit now, held in His embrace.”

  The boy began to weep. Neither his sobs nor his whispered outcries were to reach beyond the tent. This was a grief meant only for the grandmother’s ears, a sorrow that spoke only to the minds of spirits, finding its meaning in the tears he shed inwardly. His soul was weeping; his eyes were merely discarding the tears that his sorrow had caused to overflow. Then, the grandmother’s grip loosened. The old woman gently laid him back down upon the pallet, then placed her hand on his stomach, speaking with a forced smile while biting her lip: “I shall tell you a story. I shall tell you of our history, of the suffering of our people. I tell it so that you may know the reason for all our wars, and the shadows of the lives we have lost.” She then placed her hand beside the child and rested her head on her shoulder. Thus, she began her tale. As she spoke, the child’s tears subsided, and his sadness remained only in his heart.

  “Once, our people were magnificent. Ages, expressed in numbers yet unnamed, have passed since those days. But in that time, our ancestors dwelt upon the vast plains of the Great Continent. Do you remember the stories I told you? Do you remember the people of Miyoden, the Great Farn Orgol? We lived under the power of the mighty Horse Lords who descended from them—our now-forgotten sovereigns, our Farns. They rode upon the most majestic of steeds, the Great Stallions. Can you imagine it? An era of brave men galloping in every direction? We were everywhere; we were happy and strong. The Trandans bowed before us. The entire world, all the lands, belonged to us. But nothing beautiful lasts forever, child. Those glorious years did not last either.

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  A time came—none remember when—that the carriers of hell arrived from the South. We resisted them; we resisted extinction. But there was no hope. Their wrath was so sharp, their influence so absolute, that none could stand against them. Our great state, our people, collapsed; we were on the brink of annihilation. Those few of us who survived remained in hiding; no children were born, and there was not a single place left to live in a world smothered in ash. But amidst all that darkness and disaster, the spirits heard our voices. Desali’tora, the most merciful of the gods, heard us. Under his guidance, Farn Hagan brought us to the Valley. The merciful Hagan had taken the Trandans with him as well. Thus, we crossed the insurmountable Eastern Mountains and reached our new sanctuary. Here we grew, we multiplied, and we waited for the apocalypse to pass. We dreamt incessantly of the day we would return to our homeland. Our children would grow there; the people of Farn would be reborn.

  But the Trandans are treacherous. It was they who stabbed us in the back. They rebelled against the Enelkans and murdered the last Farn, Fanas, son of Hagan. Since that day, there is no suffering we haven't endured. We can neither remember nor imagine those days. They nearly put chains upon our throats. But then, we rebelled. We are those who would not bow. We did not win the war, yet we escaped being slaves to the Trandans. However, as centuries passed, those young humans, who do not share our long lives, forgot. Once again, we were faced with servitude. We, the children of Orgol, the heirs of Velorgol, could not accept living under the yoke. It was then that the last seer known among men spoke the prophecy that gave us all hope. The lineage of Farn would be reborn. Under the guidance of the Five Heroes—the five champions of destiny—mankind would be free once more. Thus, humanity would return once again to its ancient home; once again, Velorgol would be exalted. It is with this hope that we have waited for centuries. We worshipped the Toras in secret; we maintained our traditions in the shadows.

  Now, we are in rebellion once more. You are the true victim of this uprising, my child. You and all the innocent Enelkans. The day will come when we shall be free once again, you shall see. The horizon of white hopes will arrive one day,” screams and outcries were heard from outside. The child turned his head, trying to see what was happening. The grandmother took his head between her hands and finished her words as if she heard nothing: “The day will come when the lineage of Orgol will be granted to us again. Our Farn will return to us.”

  The moment she finished her words, the child fell silent. He was listening to the sounds. He was afraid. Then, suddenly, his father burst inside. From outside came incomprehensible shouting, noises, and metallic clangs. He ran to embrace his father, but the man stood there with a bloodied sword in his hand. Without a word to his son, he looked at the grandmother. “They have come; they have caught up to us. Take him to our people, Doya. I have had the horses prepared. Whatever the cost, get him to the others. Protect him with your life.” The grandmother bowed her head. The tenderness from moments ago was gone from her eyes. In its place was determination and steel. As his father stepped out, his grandmother took him by the hand and followed. As soon as they emerged from the tent, the child saw the flames in the night. He tasted the salt of war; he saw the death prowling in every direction reflected in the faces of men.

  His father knelt and embraced him with one arm. He held him so tightly it felt as though he were making amends for a lifetime. Then, he placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. Amidst the chaos of war, he drowned out the screams of the people. “Go, and lead our people. Learn from our mistakes, my son. Let us pray that the day of the prophecy arrives soon. If it is you who shall see that blessed day, guide the Farn. Protect the Enelkan at any cost, my son. You will always be in my dreams.” He then kissed him on the forehead. “Watch over him; my son is entrusted to you, Ladvar,” he said to the warrior standing beside the grandmother. Although a sorrowful, protesting expression appeared on the man’s face, he bowed his head in hurried obedience.

  “You come too.” But his sentence was cut short as the grandmother grabbed his arm and pulled him away. As he was being dragged away, several men appeared behind his father. They wore iron armor and carried long, straight swords. “Father!” the child struggled, crying out in sobs as he was hoisted up by the soldiers his father trusted and carried away quickly. “Father!” but it was in vain. The man shouted as he struggled with difficulty against the men facing him, “Go, son of Starnyass!” The child was placed upon the horse. He looked at his father one last time before Ladvar struck the horse’s flank. Three soldiers now stood over the man, who was on his knees. An arrow was in his back. Another soldier had raised his sword to strike, standing right beside him. As the horse began to gallop, he clung on and rested his head against the horse’s neck to keep from falling, and amidst all the noise, he heard his father’s cry.

  “VELORGOL!”

  And there was only that cry as he raised his head and looked at the stain upon the foothills of the mountains, created by the thousands of children, mothers, and elderly fleeing toward the heights. It would remain so for the rest of his life. Velorgol. Freedom. Enelkan.

  But that was thirty years ago. Shaking off his memories, the man buried his childhood in the back of his mind. His eyes were fixed on a single spot on the large map spread across the table before him. He softly whispered the name written on the map, listening as the word was swept away by the wind. Velorgol…