Arin walked across the scarred lands.
The world was still healing —
forests regrowing, rivers finding their paths again, cities rising from broken stone.
She did not ride a throne.
She did not sit atop golden palaces.
She walked.
With bare feet, broken hands, and a stubborn heart.
Everywhere she went, people gathered.
Children ran to her, bringing flowers.
Villagers bowed and offered her homes, lands, titles.
She refused them all.
Instead, she taught.
She helped build homes with her own hands.
She planted seeds in the fields.
She listened to every cry for help — not from a throne, but from the dirt.
"I am not your queen,"
"I am your shield.
Your voice.
Your light.
Nothing more.
Nothing less."
Whispers of the Hero of Light spread.
Not just as a warrior.
As a protector.
A guardian who lived among the people.
The world blossomed under her stubborn, broken wings.
And somewhere, in the silent nights,
she still whispered thanks to the forgotten boy who made it possible.