Location: Elowen Village, Kingdom of Veyra
Altan Yüce's Age: 10
Time had passed quietly, like a stream carving its way through the earth. Since the wolf attack on Elowen, three years had gone by. The village had fortified its borders, patrols had increased, and Altan… had changed.
He trained every day. Not just with wooden weapons anymore, but with real blades, real weights. His muscles had grown firmer, his gaze sharper. And most notably, he had begun speaking less. Observing more. He had become a part of the forest—moving through it like a shadow, thinking like a hunter, surviving like a beast.
His little sister, Lira, now three years old, followed him like a small echo. Though she couldn't keep up with his steps, she always tried. Their bond had deepened, mysterious and silent.
One evening, as the sun melted into the forest, Altan sat on a rock sharpening a knife. His father, Doran, approached, his hands behind his back.
> "Altan," he said with a smile, "I have a surprise for you."
Altan raised an eyebrow, setting the blade down.
> "What kind of surprise?"
Doran didn't answer right away. Instead, he unrolled a bundle of dark fabric.
It was a cloak. But not just any cloak.
Deep forest green, reinforced with leather padding at the shoulders. The hem shimmered subtly under the dying light, as if woven with strands of dusk. On its back, an embroidered symbol—a silent hawk, wings spread wide.
Altan reached out, almost hesitant, and brushed his fingers over it.
> "This… is for me?"
> "It belonged to my grandfather," Doran said. "He was a scout in the northern border wars. This cloak saved his life more than once. It hides scent, blurs outlines in the woods, and muffles movement."
Altan was speechless.
> "I made some adjustments," Doran continued. "It's yours now. You've earned it."
Altan took the cloak and slowly placed it over his shoulders. It was surprisingly light—yet felt like it carried stories, battles, and memories. When he stood, the cloak moved with him like a living thing.
> "Thank you," he said quietly.
That night, the village gathered for a small spring feast. Children ran between the tables. Altan stood quietly under a tree, observing as usual. But this time, something was different.
A group of kids around his age approached.
> "Hey, Altan," one of them said, rubbing the back of his neck. "That thing with the wolves… was it true you killed two of them?"
Altan didn't reply at first. He gave a slight nod.
> "Whoa…" another whispered.
> "Is that why your dad gave you that cloak?"
He didn't answer. But his silence only made the others more curious.
The rest of the evening passed with glances and whispers. Some admired him. Some feared him. Others tried to befriend him. But none truly understood him.
And Altan… didn't mind.
That night, as he lay beneath his cloak, looking up at the ceiling beams of their small home, he whispered to himself.
> "Just a little more…"
Because deep inside, he knew: this was not his end. It wasn't even his beginning. It was merely… the first breath before a storm.
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End of Chapter Note:
Altan's journey has now passed into a new phase. With the cloak comes weight, responsibility, and memory. As the village shifts, so too does his place within it. But peace never lasts forever.