༺⚔ Chapter Three ⚔༻
Night had begun to cast its veils when Martin the Wise mounted his legendary steed Tricia, heading toward the Forgotten Valley. He distanced himself from the noise of the kingdom and the bustle of politics to seek a rare moment of peace in a place that belonged to him alone. The village of Dermoth, hidden in the embrace of nature, was one of the few spots where he did not feel the weight of the throne, where he could be just a man, neither a king nor a legendary warrior.
The road was long and winding, lined with ancient trees whose branches whispered with the wind, while wooden huts scattered along the sides of the road with faint lights, still as if they were part of the earth itself. In the central square, where an old stone well stood, children ran barefoot on the dirt while an old woman sat telling them a story from a time long past...
Despite the poverty gnawing at the village, there was a rare serenity, as if this place had survived the harshness of the outside world, or perhaps the world had completely forgotten it.
Martin stopped in front of an old dilapidated hut near the village entrance. He knocked twice, then stood silently until a harsh mocking voice came to him:
— "Damn, who is this?"
The door opened slowly, revealing the face of Firman Griffin with his gray tousled hair and blazing eyes full of surprise which he did not try to hide.
— "Martin."
He looked at him carefully then burst out laughing.
— "You lost your way, you fool."
Martin did not reply but opened his arms to embrace his old companion, the man who fought by his side in the Millennium War when blood covered the ground and they were alone against the hordes of elves.
— "You know," said Martin calmly, "I truly envy you, Firman."
Firman laughed as he pushed him inside where smoke rose from a humble stove.
— "A king envies a peasant? For what? Cold bread and muddy water."
Martin sat on the worn wooden chair and gazed at the burning fire before him.
— "I crave a simple life: a small cottage, a wife, and a son, away from the faces of nobles and the games of politics. Power, my friend, is boring and deadly."
His words were clear, coming from a heart weighed down by years. Firman responded only with silence, knowing that some burdens no one can carry for another, even an old friend.
— "Is something troubling you, Martin?" Firman finally asked.
Martin hesitated then spoke softly.
— "I feel something I cannot explain: a catastrophe, sadness, much blood."
Firman smiled as he poured drinks into two cups.
— "Perhaps you worry for no reason. After all we have been through, what could happen to us now? Didn't the Millennium War end the worst that could happen?"
Martin gave him a strange look but said nothing.
After moments, he reached inside his cloak and took out a sealed letter, handing it to Firman.
— "I have always wanted to give you this."
Firman took the letter but did not open it; he just stared at Martin as if trying to read something deeper than just words.
Martin stood ready to leave and called his horse.
— "Tricia, it is time to return."
Firman stopped him before he left.
— "One last request, Martin."
The king slowly turned, and his eyes met his old friend's.
— "Edian," he said firmly, "take care of him."
Firman looked at him for a long time, then spoke with a voice tinged with sorrow.
— "I will, Martin."
The king turned his back and rode away on his horse while Firman remained standing at the hut's threshold watching him disappear into the darkness of the night, his eyes shining with something he could not hide.
Maybe he knew something, maybe he not.