Chameleon Magazine

In a land split by endless quarreling, there once rose a leader named Eldar, chosen not for strength, but for his gentle words. He believed that peace was a thing one could weave like cloth — thread by thread, promise by promise.

He walked among the ruins of cities, clasping the hands of those who had once lifted swords against each other. To the north, he promised forgiveness; to the south, he promised understanding. He wrote treaties, built councils, and bent his back under the weight of hope.

But every time he mended one tear, another ripped open.

The war-makers smiled at his softness. They took his treaties as shields, his kindness as weakness. His words were honey to their ears but dust in their hearts.

Years passed, and the fires only spread.

Then came Aranon, a king from beyond the mountains — a man whose presence seemed to hush the wind. He did not hold meetings. He did not ask for counsel. He sent one message, carried by thunder and iron:

“Lay down your arms, or I will lay down your cities.”

The people trembled, the war-makers bowed, and in a single season the fires died. There was no debate, no compromise — only silence and peace that tasted of steel and command.

When calm finally returned, Eldar and the other leaders gathered in the capital, claiming, “We prepared the way for peace! It was our long labor that made this possible.”

But when they walked among the people, no one bowed, no one cheered.

The eyes of the weary turned not to them, but to the mountain where the king’s banner waved like a warning against the sky.

For the people knew: peace had come not from gentle words, but from a single voice that could not be ignored.

And in the end, Eldar sat beneath the quiet banners and whispered,

“I spoke to hearts that would not hear, but he spoke to fear—and fear obeyed.”

 “There are times when peace must be commanded before it can be cherished.”