In the year 1200, following the mysterious disappearance of Queen Ploom—the beloved monarch of the Zency Kingdom—unease spread like a shadow. For eleven long years, no one knew what had become of her. Since that fateful day, the kingdom slowly withered: its strength fading, its people divided, and its wealth eroded by time and silence.
Far from the heart of the kingdom, on its poor and crumbling outskirts, lived twin siblings—Moner and Novamelle—twelve years old, with soft pink hair that shimmered like fading petals in the light. They lived with their parents in humble conditions. Their father, Vines, a skilled herbalist and master of natural remedies, crafted medicines from rare powders and herbs. Though his expertise was respected, it was no shield against the poverty that gripped not only his family but the entire kingdom.
Vines, a man in his fifties, wore the weight of his past upon his face—lined and serious, eyes that spoke of wisdom and quiet grief. Threads of gray streaked his hair, and though his clothes were simple, his presence bore the dignity of a healer who had weathered loss.
Beside him stood Nana, his wife. Also in her fifties, her features softened by sorrow, yet her eyes still carried warmth and unshaken tenderness. Her long, slightly curly hair framed a face that had known heartbreak, yet continued to offer comfort. Despite the years, she lived for her family, her hands steady and her embrace unwavering.
But Moner was not one to be defeated by hardship. He held a fire in his chest—a dream of becoming a merchant, and perhaps one day, even king. He made a quiet promise to himself and his family: things would not stay as they were.
Each week, the family made their way to the central garden—one of the last remnants of beauty in a kingdom slowly being devoured by rot. Unlike the crumbling streets and faded facades of Zency, this garden remained vivid and untouched, a sanctuary of life.
Towering pines and ancient oaks lined its walkways, their thick canopies shielding visitors from the searing summer sun. The garden, the largest recreational haven in the kingdom, stretched wide and green, adorned with ornate fountains scattered like jewels across its expanse. But at its heart stood the centerpiece of it all: the statue of Roseos—the first king, the founder of Zency.
The statue stood tall in the grand plaza, its sheer height commanding the attention of all who passed. Carved in the image of a king at the height of his glory, it wore a majestic crown whose tips glittered as if brushing against the light of the heavens. His serene smile held a quiet power—not the arrogant grin of tyrants, but a blend of pride and peace, the expression of a ruler who had waged wars and returned victorious without losing his humanity.
His right fist was raised skyward, clenched with such force it seemed to grasp victory itself—not merely symbolize it. Etched across his chest were ancient markings, telling of battles fought, choices made, and sacrifices endured. The statue did not merely honor a man—it immortalized the journey of a nation.
Moner stood before it, his eyes locked onto the stone details that seemed, somehow, alive—whispering in a language only understood by those who had tasted defeat and still dared to dream of greatness. Statues do not move, yet Moner felt the king looking back at him.
A strange light flickered in his eyes, as though something had ignited deep within. A searing, silent longing rose from his core and took the shape of a question that needed no answer: Could I become like him?
In that moment, poverty, fear, and hunger meant nothing. The statue stood as a symbol of what could be. And Moner, with his trembling fist at his side, had already taken the first step toward that dream.
While Moner stood before the statue, his ears caught faint sounds drifting from the corners of the plaza. There were those who seemed to have nowhere else to go but the neglected streets, slowly crawling toward the passersby, their hands stretched out in desperate need. Their faces were pale, eyes sunk deep in an endless misery. One of them approached Moner, wearing torn clothes that offered no protection from the cold or the heat, and spoke in a voice so weak it was barely audible: "Just a little? Only something to keep us going… we're not asking for much. Just a little money, it could help us survive."
Their words were laden with despair, their bodies quietly bleeding from the years that had passed without mercy. The plaza was teeming with them, drifting between the crowd like lost shadows, as though they didn't belong to this world. No one showed them kindness; no one even spared them a glance. The harsh reality was undeniable: the kingdom, which once embodied glory in the statue of the first king, had left its people with nothing but poverty and degradation. It seemed as though change was an impossible dream, fading at the edges of sight.
it was a temporary escape. There, Moner and Novamelle played with their friends: John, a confident boy with sharp eyes and short brown hair, a year younger than the twins; and Sifor, older by two years, reserved and thoughtful, his thick lashes casting shadows over cautious eyes.
Often, their conversations turned to the Life Line—an eerie boundary known for strange creatures and dark stories.
"Do you really think it's a dangerous place?" Moner asked .
John nodded. "I've heard people who cross the barrier return deformed… or never return at all."
Moner's eyes lit with curiosity. "There are legends buried there. I want to go. Hunt something. The creatures are valuable—worth a fortune."
Sifor frowned. "Don't be foolish. That place is dangerous."
Novamelle, always the voice of quiet logic, said, "It won't be if we stay near the edge. We'll be careful."
"Exactly," Moner added. "What do you think?"
John hesitated. "Why do you want to hunt?"
Novamelle replied, "We need to sell what we catch. We need the money."
Moner added, "But we'll train first. Get stronger."
John's voice turned apologetic. "I don't need money. My family's doing well."
Sifor shook his head. "I'm not risking my life for coin. You go without me."
Moner sighed. "Fine. We'll prepare on our own."
Later that day, after returning from the garden, they walked in silence to a forgotten corner of the village, where a small grave lay half-hidden beneath a tangle of wildflowers and ivy. The stone was worn smooth by time, its carved name barely visible beneath moss and dust. A single wilted lily rested at its base—weathered, but lovingly placed.
It was the resting place of their older brother, Kyle, who had died eleven years ago.
Moner stood behind him, the silence pressing down on his chest. His gaze lingered on the moss-covered stone, as if expecting it to speak.
Then came the question—quiet, but heavy.
"Why did my brother have to die?"
Vines knelt by the grave, his knees sinking into the damp earth. His hands trembled as he brushed away the vines with reverence, his eyes brimming with tears he refused to let fall.
"Your brother passed from illness," he whispered, as though the truth still pained him. "And even with all my knowledge… I couldn't save him."
Though the twins were too young to remember Kyle, the pain lingered like smoke in their home.
The days stretched on, and with them, the twins' resolve hardened.
Each morning, just after dawn, Moner and Novamelle slipped quietly into the forest—always stopping just before the Life Line. The twisted boundary shimmered with a tension that made even sunlight hesitate to fall. It was close enough to feel the threat pulsing from beyond, yet far enough to pretend they were still safe.
Here, beneath a canopy of tangled branches and the distant hum of strange creatures, they trained. With worn spears inherited from their father and makeshift bows carved from ashwood, they honed their reflexes. They struck sacks stuffed with leaves and dodged between trees, listening to the rhythm of the wild. The forest was their teacher—and its silence, their test.
Mud clung to their boots. Sweat soaked their shirts. But with every bruise and aching muscle, their confidence grew.
"One day," Moner whispered, pausing between drills, "we won't just be ready to hunt… we'll be ready to survive."
Novamelle, always more precise than bold, nodded silently and loosed another arrow.
Later, just before leaving the forest, the twins climbed the ridge above the trees—the highest cliff that overlooked the border.
There, they stood side by side, the wind tugging at their worn clothes, hair tousled by the breath of something older than time.
Below them, the Life Line stretched like a scar across the land. A shimmering boundary that divided the known from the forbidden, the real from the rumored. From that height, it looked almost beautiful—like mist clinging to the edges of a dream.
But the air was heavy. The light bent strangely. Something pulsed beneath the earth.
They did not speak. They only watched.
The forest beyond did not welcome them.
But it didn't turn them away either.
And that, Moner thought, was enough.