The Outcast’s Cry in the square

In the realm of Elderglow, where spires clove the heavens and mists spun enchantments o’er emerald vales, a lad named Pericese, bereft of surname, came wandering. At five winters, a fire had devoured his parents, their faces lost in memory’s ash. Through wilds he roamed, a child alone, yet beasts befriended him—foxes sharing their dens, otters dancing in streams, sparrows perching on his shoulder. These creatures, kinder than men, taught him to harm not, to eat only fish or flesh fallen, to lift the voiceless. Years of wandering forged his heart, gentle yet fierce, with a creed to heal cruelty’s wounds.

When Elderglow’s domes and arches gleamed afore him, Pericese, twelve and weary, hoped for a home. The kingdom was a marvel, its stonework intricate as lace, bridges and towers wrought beyond mortal ken. Yet its soul languished, schools barred to all save lords and their kin, the poor left to scrape and starve. Folk spake a tongue of English kissed by French romance—“mon cher,” they’d hail, or “vite, à la lumière!”—but their hearts were cold. On his first morn, Pericese, bold with youth’s fire, climbed a fountain in the market square, its waters glinting like stars. Standing high, he preached, his voice a trembling clarion: “O Elderglow, why dost thou scorn the poor, the beast, the stranger? Let us heal, be just, give voice to all!”

The elites, clad in velvet, scoffed. “Beggar lad, hold thy tongue!” cried a merchant, rings flashing. “Thou know’st naught, pauvre démon!” Townsfolk joined, their jeers a tide—“sacrebleu, silence him!” A burly smith hurled a stone, striking Pericese’s head. Dazed, vision blurred, blood trickling, he stumbled from the fountain, the mob’s shouts hounding him. He fled, staggering, till he found refuge ‘neath a great bridge of jagged stones, arched o’er a gentle river. Its base bore words nigh forgotten: “Through shadow, light endureth.” Shunned as cursed, the bridge was his sanctuary, for none dared cross its moss-clad span.

A Life Beneath the Stones

Now sixteen, Pericese bore teeth crooked as shattered shells, raiment tattered as dreams. Shy and sad, yet goofy to rare friends, his lopsided smile sparked mirth o’er shared fish. Agile as a fox, his mind keen for timing and stealth, he longed to be a knight, clad in honour, guarding the weak. The townsfolk, recalling his sermon, branded him “démon,” their scorn deepened by his weathered look. Even urchins spurned him, save grimy thieves with whom he gambled trinkets—“cher ami, a wager!” Thrice he joined their heists, heart racing, but danger’s shadow—guards’ blades, chains’ clank—drove him to vow no more. Apples he filched from Master Tobin, who chased with a merry “sacrebleu, lad!” as if it were a jest.

Beneath the bridge, serene yet shunned, Pericese made his home. He fished the river, its ripples a lullaby, and foraged berries in dawn’s light. Downstream, he tended a rock privy, dug deep and dirt-covered, a small dignity. In winter’s bite, he bathed in the chill river, shivering but clean. His beast-friends—a sparrow named Flick, an otter called Glimmer—kept him company, their trust a balm. At festivals, he blended with ragged children—“vite, mes amis!”—watching the castle’s towers, dreaming of knights. Yet loneliness gnawed, for Elderglow’s cruelty mocked his wish to heal their unjust hearts, to make them see the voiceless as kin.

The Princess by the River

One spring eve, as Pericese sat, head bowed, a maiden in a verdant cloak stepped from the mist: Liora, Princess of Elderglow, sixteen and fierce with love for leaf and stream. Her speech was high, as from a tome: “Why dost thou sit alone, lad, in such melancholy?”

“I am Pericese, milady,” he mumbled, shy. “This bridge… none cometh, for ‘tis cursed, they say.”

Liora laughed, silver-bright. “Cursed? ‘Tis a place of peace. I flee hither from my father’s yoke.” King Aldric, a tyrant whose will bent queen and kingdom, kept Liora cloistered, her days a silken cage. In her teenage rebellion, she sought the world’s truth, unfiltered by courtly lies. Like Pericese, she ate no flesh, honouring life’s breath. They spoke of rivers, of Flick’s chirps and Glimmer’s dives, and in their creed, a friendship bloomed, not of amour but of souls entwined.

Yet Liora’s defiance—slipping free, defying Aldric—stirred whispers of possession. The court, in folly, harked back to Pericese’s fountain sermon, naming him a démon who twisted her heart. “They deem thee evil,” Liora warned, eyes afire. “Come to my tower. Prove them false, for I know thy truth.”

The Old Man’s Hearth

As torches hunted him, Pericese fled to a cabin at the forest’s edge, where dwelt Eldon, a frail fisherman, timid yet revered. Eldon, perchance mourning a lost son, saw the lad’s plight and offered shelter. “Rest, mon cœur,” he whispered o’er steaming soup, his eyes soft. Pericese, warmed by the hearth, shared his tale—of the fire, the beasts, the fountain’s scorn. Eldon listened, stirring his broth, and said, “Thou hast a knight’s heart, lad, though they see it not.”

But Aldric’s guards, believing Pericese sought to defile Liora, stormed the cabin, their boots thudding like thunder. Pericese dove into the pantry, breath stilled, as swords glinted past. By grace or chance, they looked not there. An hour hence, Eldon spake softly: “They are gone, mon petit.”

“I seek but to clear my name,” Pericese pleaded, his voice a tremor.

Eldon shook his head, eyes distant. “They heed not truth, lad. Return to thy bridge, and guard thy heart.”

The First Ascent to the Tower

Pericese, undaunted, returned to the bridge, his resolve a flame. He’d watched the castle at festivals, mapping its walls, its iron gates, its tower where Liora’s window glowed like a star. With his agility—honed leaping river rocks—and stealth, sharp as a hawk’s eye, he’d climb to her. Under a storm’s cloak, when rain veiled the moon, he ran, heart pounding. He scaled the outer wall, fingers gripping slick stone, and leaped to a rail below the tower. Guards paced beneath, their lanterns dim in the downpour. Timing their steps—one, two, turn—he darted o’er a ledge, climbing a vine-choked trellis to Liora’s window. His knock was soft, a sparrow’s tap.

Liora opened the glass, her eyes wary yet kind. “Thou art bold, Pericese,” she said. “Why risk such peril?”

“They call me démon,” he answered, voice low, “for thy rebellion, which they deem possession. I preached mercy in the square, and they struck my head. I am but a lad who loveth beasts and peace, who wisheth to heal their cruel hearts.”

Liora’s gaze softened. “I believe thee, for I know thy soul from our talks by the river. But they will not—” A maid’s tread echoed in the hall. Pericese ducked behind a velvet drape as the maid entered, gasped, and shrieked, “Démon!” Guards burst through the door, swords drawn. Pericese leaped to the balcony, scaling the rails down as steel flashed. Liora, swift-witted, cried, “He fled yonder, to the west gate!” Her ruse bought him seconds. He vaulted a courtyard gate, splashing through mud, and vanished into the storm’s embrace.

A Heart Rekindled

Back at the bridge, Pericese huddled, rain-soaked, his sadness deep as the river. The blow to his head years ago, the mob’s jeers, echoed in his mind, yet Liora’s faith kindled his hope. She saw him—not a démon, but Pericese, friend to Flick and Glimmer, dreamer of knighthood. He’d try again, bolder, for her, for the voiceless. At the next festival, he stole a cloak, its hood shadowing his face, and studied the castle’s sewer grate, a forgotten path. His timing and stealth, honed by years of survival, would be his sword and shield.

Under a moonless sky, Pericese crept through the grate, navigating dank tunnels by touch, the air thick with rot. Emerging in the castle’s stables, he dodged a sleeping groom, his steps silent as an otter’s glide. Up a servant’s stair he climbed, heart a-thrum. Guards were thicker now, alerted by his first breach. He tossed a pebble down a hall—clink!—and three ran, cursing, “qu’est-ce?” Slipping past a fourth, he reached Liora’s tower, knocking softly.

Liora opened the door, her eyes wide with wonder. “Thou art impossible, Pericese,” she said, a smile breaking free. They sat on her balcony, the kingdom’s lights below like fallen stars. Pericese spoke of his wanderings—of foxes that led him to water, of the fire’s scar on his heart. Liora shared her rage at Aldric, her love for the world beyond her cage. “Thou art my friend,” she said, “and I would see thee free of their lies.”

For an hour they talked, of beasts, of dreams, till a guard’s shout shattered the quiet. “Intruder!” Pericese froze, but Liora pushed him toward a tapestry. “Hide there,” she whispered. As guards stormed in, she stood tall, her voice clear as a bell: “No démon dwelleth here, but a lad of truth, braver than ye who serve a tyrant’s whim.”

The Truth Beneath the Stars

The guards, uncertain, dragged Pericese and Liora to the courtyard, where Aldric awaited, his eyes cold as iron. Villagers gathered, torches flickering, their whispers—“le démon!”—a bitter wind. Pericese stood atop a fountain, the same he’d preached on years ago, now a stage for his truth. Liora stepped beside him, her voice ringing: “Hear me, Elderglow! Pericese is no démon, but a friend to beasts, who seeketh to heal our cruel hearts. I am no possessed maid, but a daughter who chooseth her path. He climbed these walls to speak truth, as he did afore, and ye struck him for it. Will ye strike him now?”

The crowd faltered, her words a mirror to their shame. Eldon, frail yet bold, shuffled forward, his voice a whisper carried by the wind: “I’ve seen his soul, mon cœur. ‘Tis pure, like my lost boy’s.” Master Tobin, grinning, added, “He stealeth but apples, milord, and runneth faster than I!” A murmur of laughter broke the tension, then silence.

Aldric, sensing his grip weaken, raised a hand, his voice a blade: “Enough. Let the lad live, but watch him.” His eyes promised vengeance, a shadow yet to fall. The villagers dispersed, some casting glances of guilt, others of wonder. Pericese, trembling, met Liora’s gaze. She smiled, a friend’s vow, and whispered, “Thou hast done it, Pericese.”

A New Dawn by the Bridge

Pericese returned to the bridge, no longer a fugitive. Villagers, chastened by Liora’s courage, left gifts at its edge—fish wrapped in cloth, a woolen cloak, a carved sparrow from a child. Flick perched on his shoulder, Glimmer splashed nearby, and Pericese’s heart, though scarred by fire and stone, felt light. Eldon visited, sharing soup and silence, his eyes proud. Liora, still cloistered, sent notes by a trusted maid, plotting her escape to see the world’s truth. “Wait for me,” she wrote, “by our bridge.”

Pericese, no knight in steel but a lad of heart, knelt by the river, carving his name beside the bridge’s words: Pericese, who endured. The stones, moss-clad and steadfast, seemed to hum, as if the river itself bore witness. Elderglow was not yet healed, its unjust heart slow to mend, but Pericese’s truth, like the light in the bridge’s creed, had pierced its shadow. And in the friendship of a princess, the trust of beasts, and the quiet of his haven, he found a home.