Let me tell you something strange, something small, so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking with your heart as well as your eyes. It began not with thunder or trumpet, but with sunlight. Yes, sunlight. The sort that feels older than time, like it’s been waiting for just the right moment to spill across the land… and on this day, it did.

The sun hung low in the sky, lazy and golden, painting the world in warm honey and memory. And below it stretched a meadow. Oh, not just any meadow, mind you, but a living quilt of colour: lavender and poppies, daisies and tall grasses swaying like they were listening to a tune only they could hear. It lay nestled deep within the palace grounds of Adirama, beyond the eastern colonnade and past the terraced rose gardens, where the stone paths gave way to soft earth and wildness was allowed to bloom. Sheltered on three sides by weathered marble walls and watched over by ancient olive trees, the meadow sloped gently down toward a quiet reflecting pool fed by a hidden spring. Few came here, and for those who did, it felt like stepping into a memory the kingdom had chosen to keep safe.

And there, at the edge of it all, sat Prince Fahari. Young, proud, and dazzling, as some would say, in both appearance and certainty. He rode a black stallion, sleek and silent, its coat gleaming like water under starlight. They moved together as if they’d been stitched from the same cloth, the Prince with his bow drawn, eyes narrowed, breath still.

Now, Prince Fahari, well…he was a sight to behold. Handsome, yes. With skin like polished mahogany and eyes like those of a gentle deer, soft, deep, and watching the world not just for danger, but for wonder, too. He wore deep blues with gold trim, a circlet resting lightly on his brow, and his bearing was unmistakably regal. You could see it in the way he held his shoulders, in the way the wind didn’t dare ruffle his cloak too much.

But the real story? It begins not with his beauty nor his bow. Neither with the pride in his heart. No, no. It begins with a bird.

The Prince was aiming, arrow cocked, breath steady, arms strong from years of training. The targets stood before him, red and white circles flickering like eyes in the dusk. Just as he loosed the arrow, just as the string sang its quiet song of war…

A Sunbird.

Tiny. Bright. Fast. It flickered across his vision like a flame come alive, all wings and light and mystery. His aim faltered. The arrow veered. The horse danced sideways, startled, and the prince cursed under his breath.

“Blast it,” he grumbled, which was about the mildest thing he could’ve said.

But the Sunbird, oh, the Sunbird didn’t care. It circled once, twice, as if to say, “Catch me if you can, O mighty Prince.”

And Fahari, well, his ego didn’t take kindly to being bested by a wisp of feathers. He reached for another arrow. Drew. Aimed. Eyes narrowed. His bow creaked like an old door remembering a familiar tune.

But then… something strange.

Not silence. No, the meadow still hummed with bees and breeze. But stillness, as if time itself was watching, waiting to see what he’d do.

The fire in him cooled. His arms lowered. His breath, which was thundering in his chest, steadied. The Sunbird glided overhead, unbothered and beautiful. And something shifted in the Prince’s heart, just a little, like a stone rolled from the mouth of a cave to let the light in.

“I was a fool,” he whispered, and the meadow heard him.

The Sunbird landed on the branch of a great old tree, one so ancient its roots surely knew secrets from before the first crown was forged. The bird sat there, quiet, watching him.

Not afraid. Not proud. Just…observing.

Fahari dismounted. The earth was soft beneath his boots. He stepped toward the tree. Less like a prince commanding his domain. More of a child approaching a wonder to behold.

He reached out a hand, trembling. Not from fear, but from that other thing…that feeling you get when you’re about to touch something holy.

And then, as tales often go, a voice broke through the reverie.

“Your Highness!”

Ah, yes. Reality. Duty. Interruptions.

It was one of the guards. Stern. Formal. Unforgiving. “Lord Maraki summons you.”

The Prince sighed. A quiet sound, but one the wind carried far. The Sunbird lifted its wings. With a final look, it flew. Not away, not really. Just…onward. And with it, something inside Fahari flew too.

He mounted his horse. The stallion turned without being asked, as if it too felt the change. They rode, hooves thudding like the steady beat of a heart learning a new rhythm.

But let me tell you this, and listen well: that Sunbird was no ordinary bird. No simple creature of sky and feather. It was a sign. The first sign. And though the Prince did not yet know what it meant, he felt it deep in his bones.

The world had begun to turn again.

And nothing, nothing, would ever be quite the same.

This edition of Telios Chapters is an excerpt from Song Of The Flameborn By Racheal Furaha.

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