Whispers of the Forgotten Kingdom

Make by Hanifullah

The forest was older than memory itself. Travelers who strayed too far from the beaten road sometimes spoke of ruins hidden beneath the moss and fog, a kingdom swallowed by time. Most laughed off these stories as campfire myths, but others swore that if you listened closely, you could hear voices in the wind—whispers from a forgotten past.

Liora had heard the whispers since childhood.

She was a scholar’s daughter, curious where others were cautious. While the people of her village feared the haunted woods to the east, Liora was drawn to them. At night, as she sat by her window, faint murmurs drifted across the valley. They weren’t frightening to her—more like gentle sighs carried by the breeze. She couldn’t understand the words, but she felt they were calling her.

One morning, with nothing but a lantern, a leather-bound journal, and her father’s compass, Liora stepped into the forest.

The deeper she went, the quieter the world became. Birdsong faded, leaves hung still, and even her footsteps seemed hushed. Hours passed until finally the trees thinned, and she stumbled into a clearing. Her breath caught.

Before her stood the ruins of a city—arches twisted by vines, stone bridges cracked and crumbling, towers leaning like tired giants. The air shimmered faintly, as though the place was caught between the present and the memory of another time.

The whispers grew louder here. They curled around her ears, tugging at her thoughts. Welcome back… welcome home…

Liora’s pulse quickened. She had never been here before, yet something about it felt achingly familiar.

At the heart of the city lay a marble fountain, dry and broken. Around it were statues, weathered but graceful, their eyes worn smooth. As Liora touched the fountain’s edge, the whispers sharpened into words.

"Find the crown… awaken the kingdom."

She stumbled back, clutching her lantern. The voice was neither male nor female, neither kind nor cruel—it was ancient, carrying both sorrow and hope.

“Who are you?” Liora whispered into the still air.

The wind stirred, and the shadows around the fountain lengthened. For an instant, she thought she saw figures moving among the ruins, translucent shapes like fragments of memory. Then they were gone.

Determined, Liora pressed deeper into the city. The streets wound like a maze, guiding her past halls of shattered stained glass and libraries where ivy had devoured every shelf. She wrote furiously in her journal, sketching what she saw.

By twilight, she found herself at the gates of a vast palace. Its doors, though splintered, still held carvings of a crown encircled by flames. As she pushed them open, the whispers became a chorus, echoing through the empty halls.

Inside, moonlight fell across a throne room. The throne was cracked, yet regal, and above it hung a tattered banner bearing a golden crown. Liora felt her skin prickle. This was it—the heart of the Forgotten Kingdom.

Suddenly, the air grew heavy. A figure emerged from the shadows: tall, cloaked in black mist, with eyes like dying embers.

“You should not be here,” it said, its voice deep and hollow. “This kingdom was buried for a reason.”

Fear rooted Liora in place, but her curiosity pushed her words forward. “Who are you?”

The figure’s gaze burned. “I am the last guardian. Once, I swore to protect this land. But when greed poisoned its people, the kingdom fell to ruin. Only whispers remain, and I keep them silent.”

“The whispers don’t want silence,” Liora said softly. “They want to be remembered.”

The guardian’s shadowed form flickered. For a moment, his voice softened. “Memory is dangerous. To remember is to awaken old pain.”

“But to forget,” Liora replied, “is to lose who we are.”

The lantern in her hand flared suddenly, casting a warm glow across the hall. The whispers swelled, filling the chamber. Liora lifted the lantern toward the throne, and in its light she saw it: a crown, broken but still gleaming faintly, resting at the throne’s base.

The guardian stepped forward, his mist swirling violently. “Do not touch it!”

But Liora knelt, her heart pounding, and reached for the crown. The moment her fingers brushed its cold surface, the whispers roared into a song. The ruins shivered, and light spilled through every crack of stone.

Visions flooded her mind. She saw the kingdom alive: banners fluttering, streets bustling, children laughing. She saw a wise queen upon the throne, her crown shining bright. But then came fire, betrayal, and darkness. The people’s greed had shattered the bond between them, and the kingdom collapsed into ruin.

Tears welled in Liora’s eyes. The crown was not just a relic—it was a memory of unity, a reminder of what had been lost.

The guardian knelt, his form trembling. “You… you hear them. You carry their voices.”

“I will not let them fade,” Liora whispered. “Their story deserves to live.”

With those words, the crown flared in her hands. The whispers softened, weaving into her heart like threads of gold. The kingdom did not rebuild, nor did the ruins vanish. But something had changed.

Where silence had ruled, memory now breathed. The whispers no longer mourned—they told their story, and through Liora, they would be heard again.

The guardian’s shadow lightened, his ember-eyes softening into peace. “Then my duty is ended. The kingdom is yours to remember.” Slowly, he faded into the moonlight, leaving the hall silent once more.

At dawn, Liora left the ruins. The crown rested in her pack, not as a weapon, but as a story waiting to be told. When she returned to her village, she gathered the people and spoke of the kingdom, of its rise and fall, and of the voices who longed not to be forgotten.

Her friends listened in wonder. Some wept, others smiled, but all understood: the whispers were not curses, but gifts.

And as night fell, when the wind stirred through the valley, the whispers no longer sounded lonely. They were voices, alive again, carried by the one who dared to listen.