A long time ago, far from here, there was a quiet and beautiful kingdom. Its name was Valedros. The fields were green, the rivers clean, and the people were happy.
The king of this land was named Edrian Malrik. He was strong, brave, and fair. He ruled with wisdom, and his people loved him. But there was one thing he loved more than his crown or throne—hunting.
He didn’t hunt for food or for trophies. He hunted for the thrill. The chase made his heart beat louder. It reminded him he was still alive.
One morning, before the sun had touched the hills, King Edrian rose. He left his palace quietly, without guards, without servants. Just his bow on his back and his boots on his feet. Into the forest he went.
The trees whispered softly in the early light. The wind moved through the leaves like a gentle song. And then, as if waiting for him, a deer appeared.
Not an ordinary deer. It was tall and lean, with silver fur that shimmered in the morning light. It stood still by a quiet stream, its eyes calm and knowing.
Then it turned, and it ran.
Without a second thought, the king chased it.
He ran fast, pushing through low branches, stepping over roots, slipping in the mud. The deer darted between trees, always just ahead.
His cloak tore. His boots got muddy. His crownless head dripped with sweat. Yet still he ran. Deeper and deeper into the forest.
Then—he stopped.
The deer was gone.
The path was gone.
He was lost.
He looked around. Every tree looked the same. Every shadow whispered the same empty sound.
He tried to go back, but the forest had swallowed the trail. He was alone. Dirty. Tired.
And hungry.
He walked, his stomach aching, until he saw something strange in the distance. A light between the trees. He followed it.
It led him to a garden. A wide space filled with pomegranate trees. The red fruits glowed in the branches, heavy and ripe. In the middle of the garden stood a small stone house.
An old man stood outside, watering the roots. His beard was white. His hands were steady.
The king stepped forward, weak with hunger.
“I’m… hungry,” he said softly. “Could I have something to eat?”
The old man smiled, a kind and quiet smile.
Without a word, he reached up and picked a single pomegranate. He opened it, pressed the seeds gently, and filled a glass with red juice.
“Drink,” he said.
The king drank. The juice was sweet, rich, alive.
“May I have another?” the king asked.
The man nodded, took another fruit, and again filled a glass with just one.
The king sipped this one slower, looking around. The garden was full. Every tree carried many fruits.
A thought slipped into his mind.
> “If this man can fill a glass with just one pomegranate, imagine how much money he could earn. He must be making more than most. Shouldn’t he be taxed? Shouldn’t the crown benefit?”
His royal thinking returned.
He stood up, brushed off the dust from his torn tunic, and said, “Thank you. I’ll be on my way. But… may I have one last glass before I go?”
The gardener nodded.
He took a fruit, opened it, and pressed the seeds.
This time, the glass was only half full.
He picked another pomegranate and tried again. Still, the glass was not full.
The king frowned.
“You used two fruits, but the glass is not full. Why?”
The old man looked at him with calm eyes.
He said, quietly:
> “Before, you were hungry. Now, you are greedy.”
The king stared at the half-filled glass. Something shifted inside him.
“What do you mean?”
The gardener spoke again:
> “When your heart was clean, one fruit was enough. The earth gives fully to those in need. But when desire enters, the fruit holds back.”
> “The fruit listens. It knows when a man’s hunger is real… and when it’s not.”
The forest fell silent. Even the leaves stopped moving.
The king looked down.
He had come as a hungry man. Now, he was thinking like a ruler. A man wanting to take, not to ask.
He felt a quiet shame grow inside his chest.
He didn’t ask for more.
He didn’t speak.
He simply bowed, turned, and walked away.
The forest, which had once been thick and strange, now opened gently. A path appeared. The trees no longer looked the same. He walked through, not chased, not hunted. Just a man returning home.
When he reached the palace, his people hardly knew him. His clothes were torn, his face was rough, but his eyes—his eyes were gentle.
He told no one about the deer.
He said nothing of the orchard.
But from that day, he changed. He did not add new taxes. He did not question the gardeners or farmers. He let the land give, as it always had.
And once every year, when the pomegranates turned red, he would leave his palace.
He would walk alone to the fields.
He would find a tree.
Pick one fruit.
Press one glass.
And drink.
Just one.
Never more.
The story lived on after him.
Children heard it from their grandparents. Travelers told it in quiet corners. Some said the deer was not real, but a spirit. Some said the old man was the guardian of the forest. Some even said the garden disappears after you leave.
But all agreed on one thing.
> “The earth gives freely to those in need. But to those who come with greed, even plenty turns to little.”
And so the king who once chased a silver deer found something greater than a prize.
He found wisdom—in a garden, in a glass, in the quiet truth of one old man.
