Yahvelnek

       Long ago, in a land carved by wind and time, there lived an old man named Elion who wandered  from village to village with nothing but a wooden staff and a heart full of kindness. He had no throne, no crown, and no desire for either. Yet wherever he went, people whispered, “There walks a king.” Elion healed the sick with herbs he gathered from distant cliffs, mediated disputes with words that  soothed like rain, and taught children to read the stars. He slept under the open sky, ate what was  offered, and gave more than he ever took. His wisdom was deep, not from books, but from listening, truly listening—to the pain and joy of others. One winter, Elion fell ill. Word spread like wildfire. Hundreds came, not with fear, but with fierce devotion. They brought blankets, food, medicine, and prayers. The village healer wept as she said, “He is the soul  of our people.” His hospital bill vanished into the hands of strangers who insisted it was th...

         In the misty lowlands of southern Vietnam, where the lotus fields shimmered like scattered stars across the water, lived a man named Ameyan. To the villagers of Bạch Liên, he was a humble gardener—quiet, solitary, always seen at dawn tending the sacred lotus blooms with reverence. His hands, though calloused, moved with the grace of a poet. Children whispered that he spoke to the flowers, and the elders nodded, believing he carried the spirit of the land. But when the sun dipped behind the hills and the shadows grew long, Ameyan became something else entirely. By night, he was a phantom. A protector. A reckoning. American mercenaries—rogue agents sent under the veil of secrecy—had begun to stalk the countryside, targeting innocent Vietnamese civilians in a campaign of terror. They moved like ghosts, but Ameyan was the wind that hunted ghosts. No one knew how he tracked them. No one saw him strike. But one by one, the mercenaries vanished—swallowed by th...

                In the harsh wilderness of the Yukon Territory, survival wasn’t just a matter of strength—it was about trust. Jack Renshaw, a seasoned musher with a beard like windblown pine and eyes pale as ice, lived alone with his loyal team of huskies. His sled dogs were not just animals—they were companions, warriors in the snow, each with a tale etched into their fur. And none had a legacy like Windslow. Windslow had led Jack’s sled team for seven long years. Fierce but gentle, strong yet intuitive, he had an uncanny ability to read danger in the snow. But age doesn’t spare even legends. Jack made the difficult decision to retire Windslow, letting him live out his days in the warmth of the cabin, watching over the younger huskies from behind a weathered doggie door. Needing to fill the empty harness, Jack brought home a new husky—a striking beast with a silver coat and ice-blue eyes, silent and strong. There was something... different. ...

   Jesse Boone was born with sawdust in his veins and greasepaint on his dreams. His  earliest memories were of his father, Graydee Bulletproof” Boone,flipping through the air, giggling in the face of danger, a rodeo clown who could dodge a bull and sling a punchline in the same breath. But laughter turned to silence the day Lucifer’s Grin—a mean 2,000-pound legend—caught  Graydee off guard. It was his last rodeo. Jesse,twelve at the time, sat frozen in the crowd as his hero fell for the final act. For years, Jesse couldn’t touch a pair of clown shoes without feeling the weight of grief.  He tried carpentry, truck driving—anything but chasing bulls. But every detour led back to dust, barrels, and a ghost in face paint. At twenty-two, Jesse stepped into the arena with trembling hands and a bucket full of doubt.  The crowd did...

  Marx lived in a place where the walls peeled their own skin in agony, where the pipes whispered threats in the night, and where the air carried a scent of resigned decay. The tenement was a cathedral of misery—its congregation a mass of derelicts, discarded by the world. But Marx held onto something they had lost: clarity. He walked through the corridors, his footsteps echoing like a death knell. The others watched from shadows, hollow eyes blinking in the dim light. They hated him—not for what he had done, but for what he was. In the pit of their despair, he remained unbroken. "Why do you act like you're better than us?" a figure rasped, emerging from the filth. The others stirred, their resentment pooling into something sharp. "I'm not better," Marx said. "Just awake." The word rippled through them like an insult. Awake. It meant choice. It meant seeing beyond survival—beyond the rot they had grown comfortable in. He saw them for what they were...

  Elena had always been perceptive—too perceptive, some would say. At just sixteen, she saw details others overlooked: the way Mr. Grayson always seemed to be standing at his window when she passed, the hurried whispers of her neighbors that stopped when she entered a room, the feeling of unseen eyes crawling over her skin. She cared about people, even those she didn’t know, perhaps too much. She was always the first to ask if someone needed help, always the last to give up on someone who seemed lost. But lately, the weight of her concern had begun to crush her. There was something wrong with her neighborhood, something unsettling in the way her street functioned like an intricate web—and she, the unsuspecting prey caught in its center. It started subtly. The sudden hush when she stepped outside, the eerie way people turned away as soon as she made eye contact. Then, one evening, she overheard a fragment of conversation between two neighbors. “She knows.” Elena had frozen in pl...