Hello guys its a pleasure to be posting this here, this was actually meant to be a very short story and i didnt expect it to reach this before any form of editing. Turns out i made some errors
The character name wasn't consistent, I didn't clarify some things too, used long sente that confused my confusion😅.
Here's the edited work though.
Image: Meta Ai
The sea had always been Henry’s true calling. Its briny scent and boundless expanse called to him more powerfully than his tutors’ lessons or his father’s stern disapproval. Every night, while the castle slept, he slipped away to the fishing docks, leaving a pillow-shaped lump beneath his blankets to fool any watchful eyes. The fishermen humored him, chuckling at the noble boy who chose their rough nets over fine silks.
That night, the air crackled with the threat of a storm. The crew hauled in a squirming catch of cod, laughing as Henry rushed to help. But as they turned toward the distant glow of Rickwall, lightning tore across the sky. The storm devoured them. Waves tossed the boat like driftwood. Henry’s knees hit the deck as he grabbed an empty barrel—the lid sealed shut just as the world flipped upside down.
He awoke to the metallic tang of blood and the grit of wet sand. Shattered wreckage littered the shore, but there were no bodies—only the silent forest, its pines whispering like mourners. Pain shot through his leg as he stood, but the snarls behind him were worse. Three gaunt wolves, ribs jutting beneath patchy fur, stalked closer. He ran—only to trip on a root. Hot breath seared his ankle—
A gunshot shattered the silence. One wolf fell; the others fled.
“Lucky shot,” grunted the huntsman, lowering his rifle. His cabin reeked of smoke and something foul. Henry ignored the dark stains on the floor as the man bandaged his leg.
“Where you from, boy?” the hunter asked, stirring a pot of greasy stew.
“A village near Rickwall,” Henry lied, fingers brushing his mother’s locket—a silver pendant she’d pressed into his hand with a warning: “Only if there’s no other way.”
When the hunter stepped out, curiosity got the better of Henry. The carved chest in the corner wasn’t meant to be opened. Inside, yellowed bones lay beside an inscription: “Respect the remains, for those who consume them on the fourth night shall inherit the Carbarian’s strength.” he instantly knew the people here were cannibals
The locket burned against his skin. He pressed its hidden clasp, and the metal dissolved into swirling dust, reshaping into a glowing map—his mother’s face flickering briefly before the image settled into unfamiliar terrain. Traps marked the hunter’s land. A single path shimmered.
Henry fled on horseback. The hunter appeared at the treeline, and for a moment, Henry thought he saw regret in the man’s eyes.
“The bridge won’t hold unless the altar’s fed,” was all he said.
Two days later, Henry stood before a shattered bridge spanning a dizzying chasm. The dust-map flew to a stone altar, locking into place with a click. Gears groaned, and the bridge reassembled. Behind him, Carbarians—faces painted like skulls—gave chase. Henry urged the horse forward. Arrows bounced harmlessly off a sudden shield of swirling dust. The bridge collapsed the moment he reached safety.
At Rickwall’s gates, the executioner’s noose was already tied. Henry’s cry halted the hanging. His parents wept with relief. That night, celebrated as a hero, he touched the empty space where the locket had been—and wondered if his mother had known the cost of his escape.
You can try the topic if you want " The compass that always point..."
Thanks for viewing🫶🫶