Early Struggles in Exile
The lightning that split the sky that night still flickered in Azfaran's memories—though he couldn't truly recall the event itself. He had been just a baby when the coup struck the heart of Iskhalin, forcing his grandmother to flee to a remote region, far removed from the pulse of civilization. A small village at the foot of Mount Gedi became their refuge—witness to the beginning of a long journey of an exiled child who would one day shape history.
Years passed. Azfaran had grown into a ten-year-old boy, with dark hair and sharp eyes that hinted at a quiet brilliance. Yet the royal blood in his veins made him an outsider in the village community. The other children avoided him, having overheard hushed, fragmented tales—stories that spoke of the palace, of power, of difference.
The adults, however, treated him kindly. They remembered King Saleem—Azfaran's grandfather—as a wise and peace-loving ruler. Though they knew little of the full story, they honored the legacy that flowed through the boy's veins.
"He is the grandson of King Saleem," whispered an elderly villager one day. "The king who rejected war and fought for peace and the people's well-being."
But children did not understand history. They only saw someone "different." And for young Azfaran, that rejection was enough to wound deeply.
"Why don't they want to talk to me?" he asked one evening.
His grandmother, a weathered woman with kind, clear eyes, gave a sad smile. "Because they don't know you yet. All they see is your bloodline, not your heart."
Her words lodged themselves in his heart—but they did little to ease the sting of being cast aside.
New Surroundings: Tribes at the Foot of Mount Gedi
Life beneath Mount Gedi was a far cry from the grandeur of Iskhalin his grandmother used to speak of. Villages were scattered like freckles across the forested slopes and valleys, inhabited by simple tribes who lived off the land and water. They grew root crops and mountain rice, and fished from a small lake nestled at the base of the mountain. Wooden houses with thatched roofs stood close together without fences—but not without invisible boundaries.
Resources were scarce. Water had to be hauled from the lake in heavy wooden pails, and their farming depended entirely on the whims of rain. In the dry season, crops failed and hunger crept into every home. Technology was almost nonexistent—not from ignorance, but because the knowledge had long since vanished, swallowed by time and war.
Azfaran's village held barely a hundred souls. Each evening, smoke curled from cooking fires, mingling with the sound of chickens, children's laughter, and the whisper of mountain wind. Though modest, the village pulsed with rhythm and community.
But not all were welcoming—especially the children, who felt Azfaran didn't belong.
Adaptation and Turning Point
At first, Azfaran kept to himself. He helped his grandmother pound herbs and tend to their small garden. Yet his curiosity grew. He began to notice how rainwater was carefully rationed, and how villagers had to walk miles just to fetch a bucket of water.
One day, as the dry season set in, Azfaran dared to speak to a village elder named Uncle Ralph. Ralph was a calm, wise man, respected by all.
"Uncle Ralph," Azfaran said quietly, "why don't we dig a well, so we won't have to go so far to get water?"
Ralph looked at him with mild surprise. "You know what a well is? Have you ever seen one?"
Azfaran nodded. "Yes… Grandmother told me there were wells in the palace. She can teach me how it was made."
Ralph was silent for a moment, then gave a faint smile. "Then show me. Let's see what you can design."
In the days that followed, Azfaran asked his grandmother for everything she knew. She had once overseen the construction of a well within the palace walls. Guided by her memories, Azfaran began to sketch rudimentary diagrams. Using charcoal and bark paper, he marked the best spots to dig based on her teachings about underground water paths and soil composition.
With Ralph's permission, some of the village youths began digging at the site Azfaran had suggested. At first skeptical, they soon struck softer, damp earth—sparking a flicker of hope.
A Test Beneath the Rain
Not everyone welcomed change.
Though Elder Ralph had given Azfaran his blessing to try digging a well, many of the villagers remained unconvinced. Some whispered that it was a waste of effort—that a child, no matter how bright, should not tamper with nature's will. One evening, as Azfaran walked past a group of older boys sharpening tools near the village's edge, he overheard their sneers.
"He's just playing prince," one muttered. "Drawing with charcoal won't bring water."
Azfaran clenched his fists but said nothing. That night, he sat beside his grandmother in silence, poking at the firewood.
"They don't trust me," he finally said.
"They fear what they do not understand," his grandmother replied gently. "But don't let their fear become your shame."
A few days later, dark clouds rolled in from the east. The sky churned like a restless beast, and the wind began to howl across the open fields. Rain came—not the soft kind that kissed the soil, but a brutal downpour that flattened crops and overflowed the narrow water channels. The villagers scrambled to protect what little they had: bundling dry wood, covering the granary, tying down livestock.
Azfaran, standing outside their small home, watched as the clay path to the nearby fields turned into a brown river.
But something else caught his eye—the water barrels. They were filling too fast. Overflowing. Wasting what could be stored.
"We don't have enough containers," he said aloud.
Then he saw a family—one with many children—struggling to keep their roof from collapsing. Their home, built too low on the slope, was already half-flooded.
Azfaran didn't hesitate. He grabbed the small wooden cart his grandmother used for herbs, covered it with oilcloth, and ran out into the storm.
People called to him, told him to come back, but he kept moving. First, he helped the family lift their bedding and baskets to the upper floor. Then he stacked flat stones to help redirect the water away from their door.
"Why are you helping?" the father asked, panting.
"Because water is life," Azfaran replied. "But only if we learn how to hold it."
By the time the rain stopped, Azfaran had visited three houses. His arms were scraped, his clothes drenched, but his eyes burned with quiet fire.
The next morning, Elder Ralph found him asleep beside the empty barrels—having spent the rest of the night digging a narrow trench to guide overflow toward the vegetable gardens.
The elder simply stood there for a while, watching. Then he turned to the group of skeptical villagers gathered nearby.
"You doubted the boy," Ralph said. "But he didn't doubt you."
They said nothing—but many lowered their heads.
That afternoon, when the skies cleared and the sun returned, the villagers came together. Not just to thank Azfaran, but to help him. The next attempt to dig a well was no longer his alone—it became a village effort.
And for the first time, Azfaran wasn't just tolerated.
He was believed.
Azfaran's Contribution: Knowledge from Iskhalin
With his grandmother's guidance, Azfaran taught the youths how to craft a manual pump from bamboo and rattan. He also introduced a basic gravity-fed irrigation system to bring water to nearby gardens.
But his greatest idea came when he observed the village's fish pond. Recalling a lesson from his grandmother, he remembered the principle of aquaponics—a system that combined fish farming with plant cultivation in a mutually beneficial cycle.
"Fish waste can become fertilizer," he told Uncle Ralph.
They built a small prototype behind his house. Water from the fish pond was channeled to irrigate rows of vegetables. The results were astonishing. The plants grew faster and lusher, while the fish thrived.
Word of "Azfaran's garden" spread quickly. Farmers began replicating the system. Within five months, crop yields nearly doubled.
More than just food improved—so did the spirit of the people. They began to see that the boy from the palace was not a bearer of misfortune, but a vessel of forgotten wisdom.
Acceptance and Belonging
That season, the village held a modest harvest celebration. For the first time, Azfaran was invited to sit among the elders and young men. He was given a woven cloth—an emblem of belonging.
Uncle Ralph stood and placed a hand on Azfaran's shoulder. "Today, we do not honor royalty. We honor a young man who has given us more than a name—he has given us life."
Azfaran lowered his head, his eyes shimmering. For the first time, he felt like he belonged—not because of his title, nor his bloodline, but because he had made a real difference.
That night, he sat beside his grandmother beneath the star-filled sky.
"Grandmother," he whispered, "if I ever return to Iskhalin… I want to rule like this. Not with a sword, but with knowledge."
She smiled. "Then you are already one step ahead of every king who has ever worn the crown."
When Shadows Return
Azfaran was no longer just the exiled child. He had grown into a young man with a vision for the future. The village children who once mocked him now stood beside him. The once-barren land slowly turned green and full of hope.
But peace would not last forever.
Days later, a hunter from a neighboring village arrived with troubling news. He had seen horsemen crossing the eastern mountain pass—bearing a banner long thought lost: the sigil of the rebel nobles who had once overthrown the throne of Iskhalin.
Azfaran stood atop a hill, staring into the mist that veiled the mountains. The wind carried a distant rumble, its source still unclear. But one thing was certain—
The days of peace were numbered.
A new journey was about to begin.