The little hamlet of Uscua is home to a few hundred residents.
With rugged dunes to the north, a frigid ocean to the south, a sizable lake to the east, and a wetland to the west, the inhabitants of this region primarily survive by hunting the orcs that lurk around in the swamps.
However, they have done it for far too long. They have waited for far too long.
They are worn out and exhausted, much like a penned bird who yearns to be let free to flutter and discover the world's grandeur.
The village's chief is poised, and he is heading his people, an army of spear wielders, while clutching a recurve bow that he painstakingly made from a fine red maple tree.
He has opted to cross the land of orcs, the foolhardiest of the four alternatives, because he believes anything which needs to be safeguarded always has something to hide.
But in the wake of his desperation, he has abandoned Lily, and so have they. One of the tiny flames, with a distinctive colour, an orphan.
Lily was content to remain within the cage if it meant she would be cherished; she never hated the notion of doing so.
And now she sits alone, on the porch of her house, peering into the wilderness that just spared her.
Several days are up, but she is not sad; she is only famished, and it appears that help is on the way.
A man is approaching her. He is tall and imposing. His exquisite short-sleeved, linen jacket is haphazardly knotted with thread slightly to the right and wraps him to the waist.
His boots are made of hide, and his plain, immensely baggy pants extend to them.
Lily can perceive that he is affluent, but she is unable to respond to his questions.
She is drained, and the man knows precisely what to do.
He reaches out to his Tasque, which is fastened around his waist, and draws out a couple apples, which he effortlessly chops with the aid of his little, broad, warped blade before force-feeding them to her.
He is by her side and allows her to sleep for a night and then for two, but he knows he needs to go promptly since his own company awaits him in the sweltering heat in the dunes.
"Mister, Mister, how is this place in contrast to where you are from?" She wonders aloud while beaming broadly and with excitement.
"Now why do you ask that? A home is a home, and it's always special compared to any other place in this world."
"No, yours may be more special because people left theirs to get to yours."
"What, who left?"
The man has uncovered the answer he was searching for, and he is already advancing boldly into the feral land.
Although he is not apprehensive, he is wary of the prospect of death rattling his knees.
The forest is endless and so is his search, but mercifully he only needs to hide when he hears a cacophony of ferocious noises resonating in the air.
He walks, runs, and hides, walks, runs, and hides over and over again until he finally senses a hellish symphony of blood and dread.
The land ahead is mundane. Maybe he has finally struck the end or perhaps he is hallucinating because he doesn't want to witness what lies ahead for him.
A feast on a few dozen happy faces. The orcs here are way bigger than any he's ever battled.
And, despite the fact that he has not succumbed to terror, he has made a cry.
He came here to break their shackles, but now he is ensnared in one. Nevertheless, he has long embraced his ultimate fate because he is conscious of the cost of obeying a monarch without a hand.
"I shouldn't have gone to you for, irrespective of the fact that you gave me existence, it was never acceptable of you to take it away from others."
Blood trickles down his body, through his clothes, and onto the floor, yet he manages to remain upright.
He laughs as he struggles to fathom why his legs won't let him lie flat.
Perhaps they'd like to remind him that the path one helps to create is the path one takes.
Perhaps the bird has reciprocated benevolence.
"Draw out your bows, point for the head, hold, hold, fire!"
The regal army stands formidably.
As a nine thousand strong army advances, the ground quakes.
All of the soldiers are operating together in sync, ready to face and vanquish their adversary.
They were eager but led, and now they have strewn devastation across the field in a bid to protect their new ruler.
"Thy, majesty! Thy magnificence! Please hold on, we have the medic here. "
The little hamlet of Uscua is now home to the new king.
With lovely meadows to the north, a grand trade route to the south, an artificial reservoir to the east, and the capital city to the west, the inhabitants of this region don't have to worry about life.
They bake, they dance, and they read about how a small group of people enlightened the monarch about the splendour of their homeland.
Meanwhile, the king lounges on a magnificent gold porcelain throne within a sort of pagoda within his hall.
He is contemplating the conclusion of his tale while holding his quill.
It asserts that although we cannot know whether the choices, we make will be good or bad, whether they will enable us to transcend the walls into which we have been cut, or whether they will keep us confined even farther, they will undoubtedly result in bliss.
While the duration may be significant and the intent may not exist, one of the wonderful things about life is that we can always give it a meaning.
After all, a home can double as a cage, and likewise, a cage can double as a home.
Upon hearing a knock at the door, the king folds the piece of paper he was working on in silence.
The entrance is granted, and he is delighted to see the person who has come to meet him.
In order to preserve some privacy, he claps his hands to excuse the guards positioned nearby.
He then smiles as he anticipates the visitor's response.
"Father, I believe I have encountered the love of my life; do you think you have some time to meet him?"
"Of course, let's meet him, Lily."