Episode3
1676 Words
Far beyond the reach of men, beyond the hunting grounds of kings and the smoke-filled villages below, there stood a chain of ancient mountains called the Silent Teeth.
Their peaks were jagged like broken blades, forever covered in thick white mist.
Deep within those mountains, hidden behind cliffs and thorny vines, was a cave no ordinary man could find.
It was there that the good wizard had taken the child.
The cave was cold, dark, and damp. Water dripped endlessly from cracks in the stone walls, and the nights were merciless.
Winds howled through the narrow openings like angry spirits searching for flesh. This was no place for a newborn child.
Yet it was the only place where she could survive.
The wizard, known among the forgotten as Zorun, was old beyond memory.
His beard was silver and reached his waist, his back slightly bent from decades of wandering and battle. Though his magic was mighty, age had made his bones weak and his hands tremble.
Still, he cradled the tiny infant as though she were the most precious treasure in existence.
The child barely stopped crying during the first weeks.
Her cries echoed through the cave each night, sharp and desperate. She was hungry, cold, and motherless.
Zorun had no milk to give her, no blankets soft enough to warm her skin, and no experience raising a baby.
Many times, he stared helplessly at her tiny face as tears streamed from her eyes.
“How does one fight darkness,” he muttered one bitter night, “yet tremble before a crying child?”
He wrapped her in dried animal fur and placed warm stones beside her to fight the freezing mountain nights.
Every morning before dawn, Zorun climbed dangerous cliffs in search of roots, berries, and medicinal herbs. His staff struck against the rocks as he walked carefully along narrow paths.
One wrong step would send him plunging into endless valleys below.
He gathered bitter roots known as moon tubers, crushed healing leaves, and wild honey hidden inside tree hollows.
To feed the baby, he boiled roots until they softened into a thin paste, mixed them with herbal liquids, and carefully fed her through a carved wooden spoon.
Sometimes she swallowed.
Sometimes she spat it out and screamed until her face turned red.
“There, there,” Zorun would whisper awkwardly. “You fight harder than warriors thrice your size.”
But survival was no simple matter.
The child fell sick often.
The mountain air was too cold for her fragile lungs. Some nights, her breathing became shallow and weak. Her tiny body burned with fever as sweat covered her forehead.
Those were the nights of terror that gripped even the great wizard.
He would sit beside her for hours, chanting protective spells while placing cool herbs on her chest.
“Not yet,” he would whisper desperately. “The prophecy cannot end here.”
He burned sacred leaves that filled the cave with fragrant smoke, driving away sickness and evil spirits alike.
More than once, he believed she would die before sunrise.
But at each dawn, the child opened her eyes again.
Alive.
Small.
Fragile.
Stubborn.
Weeks turned into months.
Zorun learned things no battlefield had ever taught him.
He learned how to rock the child gently when nightmares woke her crying.
He learned that humming low melodies calmed her faster than magic.
He learned that she liked warmth and hated loud thunder.
Most of all, he learned that though tiny, she possessed a will unlike any child he had ever seen.
One stormy night, as rain battered the mountains, the baby suddenly stopped crying and stared directly into his eyes.
Her gaze was unnervingly calm.
Not like a child.
Like someone ancient.
Zorun froze.
Then the fire beside them suddenly rose higher on its own.
Not by wind.
Not by magic cast from his hand.
But by her.
The flames twisted upward in bright gold before settling again.
The wizard stared in silence.
“It begins,” he whispered.
The child had power.
Raw.
Untamed.
Sleeping within her blood.
And far away, in the great black palace of King Alpha Muga, darkness was stirring.
Alpha Muga sat upon his throne of carved obsidian, surrounded by gold pillars shaped like snarling beasts.
Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering violently as though afraid of him.
He had not slept peacefully since the night the child was born.
His soldiers had failed him.
His execution of the child’s parents had not silenced the prophecy.
One evening, Alpha Muga summoned his royal diviners.
Three old men dressed in black robes entered his throne room trembling. Their faces were painted with ash, and bones hung around their necks.
Before them stood a golden basin filled with dark water.
Alpha Muga’s voice was cold.
“Tell me where the child is.”
The eldest diviner knelt.
“My king, we have searched the spirit realm.”
“Then speak.”
The diviner sliced his palm with a ceremonial blade and let blood drip into the basin.
The water hissed.
Dark smoke rose from its surface.
Images began to form.
A mountain.
Snow.
A hidden cave.
An old man.
And the child.
Alive.
Alpha Muga shot to his feet so violently his throne shook.
“No,” he growled.
The second diviner bowed lower.
“She lives, my king.”
The room grew colder.
Alpha Muga’s face twisted with pure hatred.
“How?”
“The wizard took her.”
At those words, Alpha Muga’s eyes burned.
“Zorun.”
The name escaped his lips like poison.
His oldest enemy.
A man he had hunted for decades but never captured.
The diviners continued.
“The child remains hidden in the mountains of the Silent Teeth.”
Alpha Muga walked slowly down from his throne.
Each footstep echoed like doom.
He approached the basin and stared at the reflection of the child.
So small.
So harmless-looking.
Yet destined to destroy him.
He clenched his fists.
“I should have ended her that night.”
“My king,” whispered one diviner, “her power grows stronger each moon.”
Alpha Muga turned sharply.
“Enough.”
He slammed his hand into the basin, shattering it across the floor.
Water and glass exploded outward.
The diviners flinched.
Alpha Muga’s breathing was heavy now, his rage barely contained.
“I will not be overthrown by an infant.”
He pointed toward the mountains visible through the palace window.
“I swear by blood and throne, I will find that child.”
His voice lowered into something darker.
“And when I do…”
He imagined his hands wrapped around her throat.
Tiny neck.
Fragile bones.
Life is fading from her eyes.
His lips curled into a cruel smile.
“I will strangle her with my own hands.”
Thunder cracked outside as though the heavens themselves rejected his vow.
But Alpha Muga was beyond fear.
He summoned his commanders immediately.
Within the hour, twenty elite soldiers assembled before him, armored in black steel.
Massive wolves snarled at their feet, bred for war and tracking blood over impossible distances.
Alpha Muga stood before them.
“In the mountains lies a child.”
The soldiers exchanged confused glances.
One young soldier swallowed hard. “Commander… they say the wizard Zorun guards her.”
Rokan glared at him.
“They say many things.”
“But they also say he destroyed an army of shadow wolves alone.”
A silence followed.
Even the wind seemed to pause. Commander Rokan unsheathed his blade.
“Then pray you are not the first to meet him.” With that, he turned toward the mountain.
He continued.
“That child is death disguised in innocence.”
He drew his sword and raised it.
“You will climb the Silent Teeth.”
“You will tear apart every cave.”
“You will slaughter any creature or man who stands in your way.”
“And you will bring me the child alive.”
One commander stepped forward.
“And the wizard, my king?”
Alpha Muga’s face darkened.
“Kill him slowly.”
The soldiers bowed.
“As you command.”
As they departed, Alpha Muga remained alone in the throne room.
He walked to the shattered remains of the basin and knelt.
A single fragment still held a reflection of the child.
Alive.
Watching.
For a moment, he saw no weakness but a threat.
Not infancy, but destiny.
He crushed the shard beneath his boot.
“No prophecy controls me,” he hissed.
Back in the mountains, Zorun was unaware the hunt had begun.
He sat beside the child, who now slept peacefully in a bed of furs.
Outside, snow drifted gently past the cave entrance.
The wizard fed wood into the fire and sighed deeply.
His hands were scarred from gathering herbs.
His robes were worn thin.
Dark circles lined his ancient eyes.
Raising the child had drained him more than war ever had.
Yet when he looked upon her sleeping face, something softened inside him.
He had once lived only to fight evil.
Now he fought for something else.
Hope.
He brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead.
“You do not know it yet, little one,” he murmured.
“But kingdoms tremble because you breathe.”
The child stirred.
Her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his.
And at that moment, the wizard smiled.
Outside, a distant howl pierced the mountain winds.
Not natural.
Not random.
War wolves.
Zorun’s smile vanished.
His body stiffened.
He rose slowly.
Another howl came.
Closer.
Then another.
And another.
The child awoke and began to cry.
Zorun gripped his staff tightly.
His face hardened like stone.
“So,” he whispered.
“He has found us.”
The flames in the cave suddenly danced wildly.
The storm outside intensified.
And somewhere below, Alpha Muga’s soldiers were climbing the mountain.
Coming for the child.
Coming for blood.
The war for the child of prophecy had truly begun.
- Writer
