Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Secrets Out

Don’t be upset, Luther. I can assist you in finding your mom whenever you want,” John whispered. “I am always by your side. You will never feel alone.”

A heat fluttered in Luther’s chest. Someone was finally with him, willing to overcome all problems.

When I’m eighteen,”

Luther replied,

voice steadier than he had any right to hope,

“I’ll begin looking for her.

And I have another dream.

I want to be a Lord—the greatest Lord there’s ever been.”

John’s eyes widened. “A Lord? Why?”

“I’ve heard the stories from Dad,” Luther said, gazing off to the tops of the trees. “Lords are greater than great leaders.”. They defend their villages, they bring peace, and gain respect from everyone.

They wear differently, eat well, take care of the weak ones. People can sleep during the night because of them. Not being a Lord is not a word; it is a responsibility. I wish to give hope to hopeless and make villages stronger as a team.

I would like to be the strongest Lord, not for glory, but for elevating people.

John laughed out of the blue, a ringing, explosive laugh that sent a flock of birds scattering.

“Hah!

No chance I’ll ever be a Lord like you,”

he laughed.

“You said it all,

and I admire it

but it’s not my desire.

I believe in my own strength.

I’ll mold my fate with my own hands. That’s my willpower.”

Luther smiled weakly. “You’re right about that.”

They talked until the shadows became long on the jungle floor. When time to leave came, Luther’s injured hand and scratches on his leg slowed him down.

A knot of anxiety formed in his stomach. If I’m late, Dad will worry again.

John noticed. Wordlessly he bent down and motioned. “Get on. I’ll take you partway.”

Before Luther could protest, John picked him up easily and started toward the village.

At the road intersection, he set Luther down. “From here you can walk home. Your father won’t be far.”

“Thanks,” Luther said, still in awe of John’s tranquil strength.

Two Days Later:

Late afternoon light filtered dappled through the thick canopy as Harold entered the jungle. He used to come here to clear his head, but today he froze at the sound of voices—one of them without a doubt Luther’s. Another, lighter, more brash, responded.

Another kid?

Interest—and something sharper—dragged Harold deeper among the trees. He crept quietly, keeping in the shadows until he reached a small clearing.

What he saw brought him to a halt.

Luther smiled, tossing a stick in the direction of a thin boy whose clothing shone with a soft glow even in the fading sun. The fabric of the clothing was something Harold never saw in their village before.

deep indigo with subtle silver designs that caught every ray of sunshine. Around the boy’s ear flashed a small hoop with an engravement of a lion’s head.

Harold’s intake of breath. Potara.

The vision unleashed memories that he had tried to suppress. The Potara was not any sort of ornament. It was reserved only for blood descendants of old Lords—a sign as rare as moonlight at noon.

And the lion emblem… Harold’s mind was racing. Power. Courage. The mark of soldiers who once rattled kingdoms.

The boy moved slightly, and Harold saw the tranquil confidence in his face, the effortless grace of his movements. This was no common child. A prince? A young lord?

There was a chill thread of fear along Harold’s chest. Centuries past, the Dark War had ravaged these lands. Its purpose was evident: to wipe out all weak Lords and their villages.

A few survived, but those who did so bore scars greater than flesh. Some of the surviving Lords were said to be kind; others were still cruel, hardened by lies and blood.

Harold’s head whirled faster. If John is actually that blood. why is he here?

He watched the boys play, their laughter unguarded, their movements innocent. There was no cruelty in John’s expression, no hint of the hatred Harold feared. But the Potara glowed like a threat.

Was he a spy? The idea squeezed Harold’s chest. Is he spying on Luther, trying to learn who he is and where he is from?

The threat of losing his one and only son—having already lost his wife—ran a shiver down Harold. The memories of war, of comrades turned enemies, of burning villages, constricted him like smoke.

No danger here in this clearing, however. Only two youths, one his beloved child, the other an enigma wrapped in royal symbols.

Harold huddled out of sight, his heart pounding. He was not yet seen. Not until he understood who—what—this John actually was.

The jungle darkened into evening, and the cold wind moaned down the leafy branches. Harold’s eyes did not leave the Potara’s faint silver glint. Questions fluttered as leaves on an autumn wind.

Who called this boy?

Why is he here with my son?

And what does the lion symbol mean for us this day?

Harold gripped his hand more tightly around the tree trunk at his side, resolve hardening.

I have to protect Luther… no matter what.

And then…..

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