Act 3 - The King without mercy

1630 — Volume 1

Act 3: The King Without Mercy

Written by Kingson Das

The sun rose slowly over the kingdom, but its warmth did little to ease the sorrow that hung over the land. Smoke still lingered in the air from the fires the king’s soldiers had left behind the night before. Homes that once stood proudly now leaned at awkward angles, their walls blackened and charred. Streets that had once been filled with children’s laughter were now silent, save for the low whimpers of those who had lost everything.

In the small village of Alara, mothers clutched their children tightly. Their hands were calloused and trembling. Fathers stared at the sky, gripping empty tools that could no longer serve them. And the old sat quietly in their corners, their eyes distant, carrying memories of better days that felt like another life.

“Why, why does he do this to us?” whispered a woman, her voice breaking as she tried to shield her daughter from the horror outside. “We have done nothing wrong. Why does he hate us so much?”

Around the village square, others joined in low murmurs of prayer. Their voices intertwined, soft yet desperate. One man stepped forward, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face, his hands lifted toward the sky.

“For God, we all have trust in you,” he cried. “Please save us, please send us a savior or warrior!”

The words hung in the morning air, swallowed quickly by the cracked stones of the empty streets. Villagers echoed them quietly, some bending to kiss the earth, others staring at the clouds as if expecting an answer to fall from heaven.

Even as they prayed, soldiers of King Muhammad Umar patrolled the outskirts, riding on black horses that seemed almost too large for the weak men who guided them. The clatter of hooves against stone sent shivers through the remaining villagers. Every face showed the same truth: fear. Fear of the king. Fear of what he would do next. Fear that hope itself had abandoned them.

In the shadow of the ruined market, a group of villagers gathered, whispering rumors they had barely dared to speak before. “They say the king has a new guard,” one man murmured. “A man taller than the tallest tree, stronger than ten men combined.”

“And they say he carries chains of fire,” another added, his voice trembling. “No one who meets him comes back to tell the tale.”

The stories spread like wildfire, each word heavier than the last. But even in the panic, even in the hopelessness, a small ember of hope persisted. It was fragile, almost invisible, but it clung stubbornly to the hearts of those who had nowhere else to turn.

Luna, the old woman with eyes as sharp as daggers, moved slowly among the villagers. Her long robes dragged over the dirt, and her hands were lined with age and wisdom. When she spoke, people listened, even if her words were riddles.

“Despair not,” she murmured, her voice carrying across the square. “For darkness is never complete. The shadow grows, yes, but it also shapes the light. And when the time comes, the light will rise where you least expect it.”

A small boy, no older than ten, looked up at her, eyes wide. “But… the king… he kills anyone who stands against him. How can light rise?”

Luna’s eyes softened, though they remained steady, unwavering. “Bravery is not the absence of fear,” she said. “It is the choice to move forward despite it. A warrior may come from where no one thinks to look. And when he does, even kings must tremble.”

In the village streets, the despair of the people continued to weigh heavily. Food was scarce. Water had been poisoned in some wells by the king’s orders. Crops had been burned, leaving the villagers to scavenge whatever the land could offer. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, fatigue at their bones. And yet, they clung to their prayers, to the hope that their cries had not fallen on deaf ears.

At night, the village square was filled with the soft light of torches, flickering against the walls of ruined buildings. Families huddled together, telling stories of better times, of heroes who might one day return. Some spoke of ancient warriors, tales passed down through generations. Some whispered the old prophecies that Luna had repeated to them over the years.

“The one who rises will carry the shadow and the light together,” a young woman whispered to her sister, holding back her tears. “He will bring the king’s end, but he will not come until we believe.”

Even King Muhammad Umar, in the high towers of his black palace, could sense the stirrings of something different. Reports came to him of villagers murmuring prayers, of small acts of defiance, of whispers of someone rising in the east.

“Do not be foolish,” he sneered, tossing a goblet across the room. “They are nothing. They are shadows in the wind. Crush them before they even remember how to fight.”

But shadows, he would learn, are never fully extinguished. They wait, patient and quiet, gathering strength until the moment comes when even the mightiest king cannot ignore them.

Back in the village, as the first stars appeared in the sky, the people knelt again. Their voices were soft, trembling, but full of hope.

“For God, we all have trust in you,” they repeated. “Please save us, please send us a savior or warrior!”

The words drifted into the night, carried on the wind to places unknown. Somewhere, far away, unseen, the first stirrings of that savior began. A boy, a young girl, a figure moving in secret—whatever form he or she would take, the hope of a kingdom depended on them.

And though no one in the village knew it yet, the shadow over their lives was beginning to crack. One small glimmer of light had appeared, faint but undeniable. And in that glimmer, the promise of change—and the end of the king’s cruel reign—began to take shape.

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