He had no name. Not anymore.
The forest once whispered it through rustling leaves, the mountains carried it in the hollows of wind, and even the stars paused in their spinning to murmur it between their glimmers. But the name was taken—stripped, sealed, and buried so deep that only the roots remembered. And roots do not speak unless bled.
Even the Grove, old as breath, had ceased to utter it. Not out of fear. Not out of grief. But reverence.
Because there are names too sacred for sound.
He had no crown. Because he had refused one.
Because thrones demanded submission, demanded the weight of law above the lawless pulse of life itself. And he had only ever sought balance. Not peace through power, not dominion over soil or song, but harmony through presence. Through being. Through the qui
