The Escape: a tale of love and war

Jack traced his finger along the ancient page. Dust curled from the edge as he read the names aloud—warriors, heroes, ancestors. Men who fought, bled, and died believing in the “Day of Visit.” He scoffed. “All of them… waiting for a ghost.” “Watch your tongue,” Thomas warned from across the room. His voice carried the weight of command—a soldier’s voice. Jack didn’t flinch. “I’m serious, Dad. I’m eighteen now. Old enough to know truth from myth.” Thomas stood. The chair scraped the stone floor. His eyes, once tired, now sharp as a blade. “Speak like that outside these walls, and you won’t live to see nineteen.” Jack met his gaze. Unshaken. “So I should just smile, train, and die waiting like everyone else?” Thomas’s jaw clenched. “Enough. Get your gear. Training grounds. Now.” Swords clashed. Dust kicked up from the earth. Jack’s grip faltered—again. Thomas growled, “You’re swinging like a farmer.” “I am swinging like a warrior,” Jack snapped back. “Unless you'd prefer I knock your old bones flat.” Silence. Then Thomas stepped in—stance low, shoulders coiled. “Try me.” Jack braced, heart pounding. But before steel met flesh— DONG. The bell. It rang once. Loud. Hollow. DONG. Twice. That never happened. Only the priests… or the general… could sound that bell. Thomas froze mid-step. “Get Shaw. Now.” Jack didn’t ask. He ran. War? Or worse…? He saddled Shaw—white, strong, alert—and leapt on behind his father. They rode. Toward the Council Hall. Toward the unknown. Village square...... The village square buzzed with whispers, thick as the dark clouds rolling overhead. The summons was rare—urgent. Priests arrived, gliding forward like shadows. The sky darkened further, a breath held in suspense. Priest One’s voice cut through the murmurs: “The sign has come.” Priest Two’s proclamation followed: “The Day of Visit is near.” A roar of joy exploded from the crowd. But Priest Three's words fell like ice: “Only the lucky generation will witness it.” Unease rippled through the crowd, growing like wildfire. Priest Four’s furious voice slammed down: “Silence! Have you no fear in the presence of the Six?” The villagers froze. Then Peter, the fisherman, broke the silence—his voice raw with anger: “Lies! All lies! Our fathers died waiting for this day, and still it never came!” “My father waited for this ‘day.’ My grandfather too. They died with hope in their mouths—and nothing in their hands.” He turned, not just to the priests, but to the crowd. > “How many more generations will waste their lives chasing riddles? How long will we kneel to shadows and empty promises His words ignited the crowd. Shouts of “Deceivers!” and “Liars!” erupted. Chaos burst like a storm. The villagers surged forward, fury in their eyes. The royal guards formed a barrier, Thomas among them, weapons raised. Orders were clear—protect the priests, no harm to the people. But the crowd overwhelmed them, desperate to silence the priests once and for all. Then the earth trembled. Priest One’s eyes turned obsidian black. His voice boomed. Suddenly, the ground split open like a gaping maw, swallowing dozens of villagers in screams and dust. Jack’s heart thundered. Panic surged through his veins. He leapt onto Shaw, the white mare, and galloped from the madness. But safety was an illusion. Captain Charles and his guards blocked the way, whips cracking through the air. Jack dodged, throwing himself from Shaw just in time, and ran like his life depended on it—because it did. The Ancient fear was awaken, but nevertheless life continues The market was a cacophony of noise—voices shouting, merchants hawking their wares, horses snorting and hooves pounding cobblestones. The smell of fresh fish mixed with dust and sweat. Jack moved quickly, eyes sharp. Fish and grain in hand, he was almost done. Then—a sudden, sharp kick. His hand jolted, the baskets tipped, fish and grain spilled across the ground. The rider dismounted with a smug grin. Parker. Son of Captain Charles. “What are you gonna do, huh?” Parker taunted, a cruel smile spreading across his face. Jack’s blood ran cold. His jaw clenched. The crowd’s attention snapped to them. Without thinking, Jack’s fist shot out—smashing into Parker’s nose. Blood gushed. Parker staggered, stunned. “Go after him!” he barked to his guards. But Jack was already moving—swift, fierce, unyielding. He fought off the guards with quick strikes and bursts of speed, vanishing into the maze of alleys.