A gentle breeze wound its way through the tall grasses of Verdeland, brushing against Someone's legs as he was walking walked. The man stopped for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The air was fresh and clean, unlike the smoke-filled air of his village. The only sounds were the rustling of the grass and the chirping of birds hidden amongst the wildflowers. He knelt down, running his fingers through the soft blades. They tickled his skin, a sensation so different from the rough ground he was used to.

The sweet scent of lavender filled the air, mixing with the earthy smell of damp ground The marigold flowers, rose and other pure grass smells filled The air. Sunlight peeked through the clouds, dotting the rolling hills with patches of warm light. Here, shadows danced playfully, swayed by the wind. Unlike his war-torn village, this land felt peaceful and quiet, a safe haven.

A young man no older than twenty-six. Dirt smeared his face, and his tattered clothes spoke of a hard life. But despite the exhaustion in his eyes, a spark of defiance flickered within them.

He had stumbled upon Verdeland in a dream, a place unlike anything he'd ever seen. Here, freedom stretched as far as the eye could see, a stark contrast to his own village's harsh reality. A gasp escaped his lips as a wide smile spread across his face. Tears welled up in his eyes, a mix of joy and disbelief. "Is this it?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "The land free from war and fear? Can this truly be freedom?"

Collapsing onto his knees, a wave of relief washed over Alistair. The burden of doubt, the one that made him a laughingstock back home, finally lifted. "I knew it existed!" he sobbed, No one believes Me But yes!! it Exists, the weight on his shoulders disappearing.

A wave of darkness crashed over Alistair, swallowing the vibrant fields of Verdeland whole. The gentle caress of the breeze, the sweet scent of lavender - all vanished in an instant, replaced by the stifling darkness of his tiny room. He blinked his eyes open, the dream fading away like smoke on the wind, leaving only a faint echo of its beauty.

He found himself back in his tiny room, a cramped space carved out of a ramshackle hut. The rough wooden walls felt cold and damp against his back. The uneven dirt floor was bare except for a thin straw mat that did little to soften the ground. The air hung heavy, not just with the morning chill, but with the ever-present weight of poverty. A single, flickering candle provided the only light, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The meager furnishings did little to hide the emptiness of the room: a threadbare blanket lay crumpled in one corner, a chipped wooden stool sat beside it, and a small, dusty chest held his few belongings.

Alistair sat up, the bittersweet taste of his dream lingering on his tongue. Verdeland felt so real, a paradise compared to his own harsh village. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the thin straw mat and walked towards the small kitchen, a designated area in one corner of the room. It was a cramped space, barely large enough for one person to move around comfortably. The only furniture was a large mud-brick stove that dominated the room. Countless fires had blackened its surface, a testament to the countless meals cooked over its meager flames. A soot-stained pot hung from a rusted iron hook above the stove, and a few chipped wooden bowls sat precariously on a narrow ledge beside it. The entire scene spoke of their meager existence, a constant reminder of the poverty that hung heavy in the air.

He said ,"This was a dream, the whole thing is a sign of something it means freedom is calling me from a distance..The land with no wars , no fear and complete freedom, it exists..beacuse i can still Remember the Smells of that land." Alistair saw his hand and then he said ,"I think i should Tell my Mother About this." Alistair woke up and ran through to her mother.

There, he found his mother hunched over a small pot, stirring something that smelled faintly of burnt porridge. Her face, lined with worry and hardship, softened when she saw him. "Good morning, Alistair," she greeted him with a tired smile.

"Mother," he blurted out, excitement bubbling in his voice, "I had the most amazing dream! There was a place where everyone was free, no war, no fear!"

His mother stopped stirring, her smile fading as quickly as the light from a dying candle. She looked at him with a mixture of love and sadness in her eyes, a look that spoke of a life spent facing harsh realities. "Alistair, my sweet boy," she started, her voice gentle but firm, laced with the weariness of someone who had borne the weight of their world for too long. "That was just a dream. There is no place like that in our world. Every land has a king, or someone else in charge, and with those in power comes rules and taxes. War and hardship are a part of life, a burden we all must bear."

Alistair felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. His mother's words hit him like a punch. The memory of Verdeland was so vivid, so real, how could it not be true? He shuffled out of the hut, the weight of his mother's words pressing down on him.

The village bustled with a strange kind of activity. People hurried through the dusty streets, their simple, worn clothes whipping in the dry wind. Alistair recognized the faded brown tunics and threadbare cloaks most villagers wore for work. A woman carrying a basket of mending had a bright green scarf peeking out from under her cloak, a splash of color in the otherwise drab scene. Every face Alistair saw seemed etched with worry lines, like deep canyons carved by years of hardship. Despite the poverty that hung heavy in the air, a constant clatter and clang was coming from various workshops. Blacksmiths hammered on anvils, the rhythmic thumps echoing through the village. A young apprentice peeked out from a doorway, his face smudged with soot and sweat.

Alistair wandered, kicking up dust with each step. His gaze fell upon a woman huddled on a rickety wooden porch, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Curiosity gnawed at him, and he cautiously approached.

The woman flinched, startled by the sound of his voice. She looked up slowly, revealing a face etched with grief. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from tears, reflected a deep well of despair that seemed to cut through the air like a cold knife. Alistair felt a pang of sympathy for her, a tightness in his chest that mirrored the woman's sorrow. Before she could answer, a gruff voice boomed from behind Alistair.

The man hesitated, his eyes darting nervously around the street. Finally, he leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper. "King's soldiers raided their farm this morn," he rasped, his calloused hand clenching into a fist. "Took young Elara, his pride and joy. Said she'd be... 'trained' for the king's pleasure." A shiver ran down Alistair's spine at the implication.

Alistair's blood ran cold. Elara, the lively girl with bright eyes and pigtails, always skipping rope with the other children? Gone? "But... her father?" he stammered, voice barely above a squeak.

The man's face contorted in grief. "Tried to fight them off, bless his heart. Didn't stand a chance. They left him for dead in the field, Four villagers also tried to help but King Thassalor just not even a second cut off all four villagers' heads in one strike, a warning to anyone who dares defy the king." He glanced around again, his voice dropping even lower. "They took everything, Alistair. Food, livestock, even the little coin they'd saved. Left the wife there, wailing on the porch like a banshee."

Alistair felt a white-hot rage bubble up inside him, a fury that threatened to consume him. "This can't be right!" he roared, his voice cracking with emotion. "Why do we have to live like this? Why can't we be free?"

Alistair clenched his fists, a newfound determination burning in his eyes. "There has to be a place… a place like I saw in my dream. A place, where there is freedom!"

The man chuckled sadly. "Alistair, there's no place like that. This world is ruled by kings and their iron fists. I know You and your family well you are a great person please Dont Talk About These things About the Dream...The Place which Never Exists Not even in books that I read...There is the rule of kings all over every part of the land...You better go and play...!!"

Disheartened by the news of Elara and the villager's dead news, Alistair trudged towards his father's workshop. The image of Verdeland, a beacon of freedom in his mind, flickered with a touch of doubt. Reaching the familiar, cluttered space, the rhythmic clang of the hammer against metal welcomed him like a comforting heartbeat. Inside, his father, a mountain of a man with a thick beard etched with worry lines, stood hunched over a fiery forge, shaping a sword with practiced ease.

Alistair watched in awe for a moment, the heat radiating from the forge warming his face. Then, the burning question that had plagued him blurted out, "Father, I dreamt of a place a place with No war, no fear, just freedom for everyone. Is it real? Can a place like that exist?"

His father stopped hammering, the clang echoing in the sudden silence. He turned slowly, his weathered face unreadable. A long sigh escaped his lips, the sound heavy with unspoken stories. "Son," he began, his voice gruff but laced with a touch of tenderness, "dreams can be powerful things. They can light a fire in your heart, a fire for something better."

His father, focused on his work, grunted a noncommittal response. Alistair, used to his father's gruff demeanor, wasn't discouraged. He playfully picked up a practice sword, its weight causing him to stumble. "Soon," he declared, a childish bravado in his voice, "I'll be strong enough to fight and protect everyone from bad people!"

His father straightened up, his eyes flashing with a sudden intensity. "Swords are for more than childish games, Alistair," he said, his voice low and serious. "They are instruments of destruction, and their use carries a heavy burden. They take lives, innocent and guilty alike. Remember that."

He gestured towards the sword he was crafting, the metal glowing red in the dim light. "Swords are not toys, Alistair. They are tools, tools that can bring both destruction and salvation. They can take lives, but they can also defend them."

Alistair looked down at the practice sword in his hand, its weight suddenly feeling heavier. His father's words resonated deep within him, shattering his naive dream of a world without conflict. But within the harsh reality, a seed of hope sprouted.

"So, even if the freedom place you said isn't real," he said, his voice filled with newfound determination, "we can still fight for a better tomorrow, right? We can protect our village, our families, and maybe, just maybe, create a little bit of freedom for ourselves."

A slow smile spread across his father's face, his eyes shining with pride. "That's the spirit, son," he boomed, a hint of his gruffness melting away. "Now, put down that toy, and let me show you how to hold a real sword. Because even if Verdeland is a dream, the fight for a better life is very real, and we all have a part to play."

The clanging of the hammer against metal resumed, now a powerful rhythm that resonated with a newfound purpose in Alistair's heart. The dream of Verdeland might have been shaken, but the spark of hope for a better future burned brighter than ever.

Alistair lowered the sword, his playful smile fading. His father's words resonated deeply, casting a shadow on his dream of becoming a warrior. The weight of the practice sword felt heavy in his hand, a stark symbol of the harsh reality. Lost in thought, Alistair wandered out of the workshop and into the cool embrace of the forest bordering the village. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor.

As he walked deeper, a haunting hoot echoed through the silent trees. Alistair stopped, his gaze searching the branches overhead. A rustle in the leaves caught his attention, and he spotted a large owl perched on a thick bough. Its amber eyes, wise and unblinking, stared down at him.

Alistair felt a strange connection to the creature. He raised a hand in greeting. Alistair greeted cautiously. "What are you doing out here in the daytime?"

The owl hooted again, the sound echoing through the stillness. He chuckled, a nervous sound. "Probably just a wise old bird," he muttered, feeling a little silly.

Alistair passes to the woods after at a distance in the Bushes A figure emerges from behind a massive oak tree, The figure is tall and cloaked in a dark robe, the hood pulled low over its face, revealing only a flash of piercing blue eyes. a familiar hoot echoed from above. The owl he'd encountered earlier swooped down, landing gracefully on the outstretched arm of the cloaked figure. It hooted again, its amber eyes seeming to fix on Alistair with an unnerving intensity.

As Alistair continued his walk, the forest floor softened beneath his feet, giving way to a carpet of moss and wildflowers. A hidden stream gurgled nearby, its music both calming and inviting. Drawn by the sound, Alistair pushed through a curtain of hanging vines and emerged into a clearing bathed in sunlight.

He sat down under the shade of the oak, on a big stone the scent of damp earth and wildflowers filling his senses. Closing his eyes, he listened to the gentle murmur of the stream and the chirping of birds. The trees gave way to a vast meadow bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Alistair emerged into a scene of peaceful serenity – a seemingly endless expanse of green dotted with fluffy white sheep, grazing contentedly. He found a large, smooth stone beneath a sprawling oak tree and sank down, his chin resting on his hand.
Discouragement gnawed at him like a persistent rodent. No one believed him about Verdeland, his dream fading like mist in the morning sun. The harsh realities of King Thassalor's rule pressed down on him, a heavy weight on his young shoulders. The king's reputation as a ruthless tyrant preceded him, his iron fist crushing any hope of rebellion with brutal efficiency.

A sheep, bolder than the others, ventured closer, its fluffy white coat a stark contrast to Alistair's darkening mood. He reached out a hand, hesitant at first, then stroked its soft head, finding strange comfort in its gentle presence.

"You have it easy," he sighed, his voice barely a whisper. "No worries about war or tyrants. Just endless fields and endless grass."

The sheep bleated softly, as if in response, then turned back to its grazing. Alistair watched it for a moment, a flicker of something new igniting in his eyes. Maybe there was another way.

Looking up, his gaze drifted across the vast expanse of the sky. A majestic falcon soared overhead, its powerful wings effortlessly carving graceful patterns in the endless blue. Alistair watched, mesmerized, as the bird dipped and turned, a silent master of the air currents. A flicker of hope, faint but persistent, rekindled in his heart. "Free as a bird," he whispered, the words carrying the weight of his yearning.

"Free as a bird," he whispered, a flicker of hope rekindling in his heart. "That's what I want, to be free."

He stood up, a newfound determination hardening his gaze. "I will find the place with no wars, no freedom. I will prove it exists. Even if no one else believes me, I know it's real."

His stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him of his skipped lunch. He'd been so engrossed in his thoughts about Verdeland that he'd forgotten to eat. Hunger gnawed at him, but it was a dull ache compared to the sudden spike of worry. He Thaught of Returning back to His house he stepped back with a big walk the big Owl was still there alistair saw but ignored He was hungry He started to run.

He quickened his pace, his gaze fixed on the distant smoke rising from the direction of his home. Maybe it was just a chimney fire, a foolish hope that flickered and died as he got closer. The closer he got, the clearer the sounds became – shouts, screams, and the unmistakable clang of metal on metal.

"What's going on?" he muttered, dread coiling in his gut. He broke into a run, his legs pumping like pistons. As he crested a small hill overlooking the village, his breath caught in his throat.

Soldiers in the king's crimson livery swarmed the village like angry hornets, their cruel laughter carried on the wind. Smoke billowed from several buildings, black against the clear blue sky. Alistair spotted his parents amongst the crowd, their faces etched with terror as the soldiers herded them toward the center of the village. His blood ran cold. This wasn't a raid – it was a full-scale assault.

He spun around, his gaze fixed on the distant smoke rising from his home. Panic surged through him, ice-cold and paralyzing. Soldiers in the king's crimson livery swarmed the village like angry hornets, their cruel laughter carried on the wind.

Alistair spotted his parents amongst the crowd, their faces etched with terror as the soldiers herded them toward the center of the village. His blood ran cold. This wasn't a raid – it was a full-scale assault.

He watched, frozen in a moment of horrified disbelief, as the soldiers ripped the door from his humble home. A strangled sob escaped his lips. The pang of helplessness was back, stronger than ever, but this time, it was laced with a burning rage.

"They took my family!" he roared, the scream ripping from his throat. But the sound was lost in the growing chaos. Alistair knew he had to act, and fast. But what could a single boy possibly do against a battalion of ruthless soldiers?

Alistair was torn. Fleeing felt like cowardice, abandoning his family in their darkest hour. Yet, facing the soldiers head-on was a suicide mission. He was just a scrawny boy with dirt-caked fingernails and dreams bigger than his village. He wouldn't last a minute against their ironclad armor and sharpened swords.

But then, a memory flickered in his mind – his father's gruff voice echoing in the workshop. "Swords are not toys... they are tools... that can take lives, but they can also defend them."

He took a deep, shaky breath, the weight of the decision settling on his young shoulders. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he blinked them back, forcing himself to focus. With a newfound determination hardening his jaw, Alistair reached down and picked up the practice sword. It felt heavy in his inexperienced hands, a symbol of both his fear and his newfound resolve.

He peeked through the leaves one last time. The soldiers were herding the villagers toward the center of the village, his parents were lost in the terrified crowd. Alistair knew this was a desperate gamble, a fight against impossible odds. But at that moment, under the vast blue sky and the watchful gaze of the ancient oak, Alistair made a choice. He wouldn't be a helpless boy anymore. He would be a protector, a defender. He would fight for his family, for his village, and maybe, just maybe, find a sliver of freedom in the face of tyranny.

"What should I do?" he whimpered, his voice choked with emotion. He continued, "I can't even hold Swords and alson't fight. But the Cruel King Thassalor Waith.He will show No mercy. What should I do now??"

------------------------------------------------------------Chapter 1 End-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------