In the Kingdom of Ashroth, there was a man from the House of Ramah, in the mountains of Epithaph, whose name was Lucian, son of Tonah, the great Sorcerer. Tonah was known throughout the land for having restored peace to the kingdom with his extraordinary gift bestowed upon him from birth.
It was said in the House of Ramah that whoever possessed this great gift is destined to Save its people and they dwell in the mountain of Epithaph, a towering hill covered with jagged rocks and surrounded by fire that burned fiercely, day and night. The flames had not been extinguished for over a thousand years.
This powerful gift had been passed down solely through the family of Ramah for millennia. It is believed that whenever the mother of a great Sorcerer gives birth, it would always be twins. one child with the power to save lives and the other with the power to destroy them.
The child destined for destruction is killed immediately after birth to prevent the fulfillment of a dark prophecy. Following the death of this child, the mother would die naturally three days later, while the surviving twin would live on as the Great Sorcerer. This ritual had been in place for as long as anyone could remember, even until the time of Tonah’s birth.
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Silent Struggle
No one noticed the moment his life began to feel heavy. There was no single disaster, no dramatic fall. Everything happened slowly—quietly—like dust settling on furniture no one cared to clean. From the outside, his life looked normal. He woke up, went to work, smiled when needed, and returned home exhausted. But inside, a silent struggle was growing every single day. His name was Hamza. Hamza used to believe effort was always rewarded. As a child, he was told that if you worked hard, life would eventually open its doors for you. For a long time, he held onto that belief. He studied late into the night, sacrificed weekends, and stayed disciplined when others took shortcuts. But as years passed, reality felt cruelly different. People with less effort moved ahead. Opportunities passed him by. Promises turned into excuses. At work, Hamza was dependable—but invisible. When projects succeeded, others were praised. When mistakes happened, eyes quietly turned toward him. He never complained. He didn’t want to be seen as weak or ungrateful. Instead, he stayed silent. That silence slowly became his habit. At home, expectations followed him like a shadow. Everyone assumed he was “doing fine” because he never spoke about his struggles. Friends stopped asking how he was. Conversations became shallow. No one knew how many nights he lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if something was wrong with him. The hardest part wasn’t failure. It was feeling unseen. One night, after another exhausting day, Hamza sat alone in his room. The city outside was loud, full of people chasing dreams, celebrating small wins, living loudly. Inside his room, everything felt still. He picked up his phone and scrolled through social media. Success stories. Smiling faces. Motivational quotes. Each post felt like a reminder of how far behind he was. His chest tightened. A thought crept into his mind—soft, dangerous, and persistent. “Maybe I’m not meant for more.” That thought scared him. Not because it hurt—but because it felt believable. For the first time, Hamza considered giving up. Not dramatically. Not by quitting everything. Just… stopping the effort. Doing the bare minimum. Accepting an ordinary life without expectations. No one would notice anyway. But something held him back. It wasn’t hope. It wasn’t motivation. It was stubbornness. A quiet refusal to completely let go. The next morning, nothing changed externally. The same routine. The same people. The same silence. But inside Hamza made a small decision: “I’ll keep going—even if nothing changes.” He stopped waiting for encouragement. He stopped seeking validation. He focused only on improving himself, one small step at a time. He learned after work when others relaxed. He practiced skills no one asked him to learn. He failed quietly and corrected himself without announcing it. Some days, he felt strong. Most days, he felt tired. But he showed up anyway. Weeks turned into months. There were still no rewards. No applause. No sudden success. But something subtle was happening—something Hamza didn’t notice at first. He was becoming resilient. Things that once broke his confidence no longer shook him as much. Rejection still hurt, but it didn’t stop him. Criticism no longer crushed him; it taught him. Silence, once painful, became his training ground. One evening, a major issue arose at his workplace. A complicated problem that others avoided because failure would be visible. Managers were tense. Deadlines were tight. Blame was already being prepared. Hamza didn’t speak up immediately. He simply started working. He stayed late. He researched. He tested ideas. He made mistakes and fixed them. There were moments he doubted himself. Moments when fear whispered, “You’re not good enough for this.” But he answered back with action. Days later, the problem was solved—not perfectly, but effectively. This time, people noticed. Not with applause. Not with excitement. But with curiosity. “Who handled this?” “When did he learn that?” “Why didn’t we see this before?” Hamza didn’t feel proud in the way he expected. Instead, he felt calm. Grounded. Secure in a way that didn’t depend on others. When his manager finally called him in and acknowledged his work, Hamza thanked him politely. But inside, he knew the truth: This moment wasn’t built overnight. It was built during silent nights. Unseen effort. Unrecognized discipline. Life hadn’t ignored him. Life had been watching. Testing whether he would keep going without praise. Years later, Hamza looked back at the version of himself who almost quit. The man who felt invisible. The man who believed silence meant failure. He wished he could tell him one thing: “Your struggle wasn’t wasted. It was shaping you.” Not everyone’s journey is loud. Not every victory is celebrated. Some people are built quietly—strong enough to stand when others fall. If you are struggling silently today, know this: You are not behind. You are not invisible. You are not weak. You are being prepared. And one day, without warning, life will notice. Final Line (Powerful Ending): The strongest people are often the ones no one sees fighting—but they keep going anyway.
By Inayat khan7 days ago in Writers
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