Elijah Harrow was born into silence. Raised by his father in an isolated patch of the Appalachian wilderness, Eli never knew school, neighbors, or softness. Just drills, weapons, scripture, and static-laced radio broadcasts about collapse. His father, Jedediah, called their fenced-off compound “Tiny Kingdom.” It wasn’t a nickname—it was doctrine.
Jed trained Eli like a soldier. Taught him how to trap, skin, shoot, and fear anything beyond the treeline. No internet. No electricity. Just cold storage meat, CB radios, sharpened blades, and the constant belief that the world beyond was diseased, corrupted, unfit for contact. Eli didn’t question any of it. He didn’t know how.
Then Jed died. Quietly, suddenly—alone on the ground beside the greenhouse. His body stiff and soured by morning. Eli burned it without a word, dug the ashes into the compost pile, and took his place in the watchtower. Without hesitation, he activated the radio system and made his first decree: Jed is gone. The Kingdom stands. I am the fire now.
A few days later, someone entered the woods.
Her name was Isobel Reddick. Mid-thirties. Callused hands, worn boots, haunted eyes. She wasn’t a government agent, or a settler, or a threat—not really. She was searching for her younger sister, Jamie, who vanished three months earlier hitchhiking through the region. The last ping from Jamie’s phone came from near Eli’s sector of the forest.
Isobel crossed the fence. She avoided the tripwire, but not the snare trap. She woke up in the root cellar of the main cabin, wrists bound, face bleeding. Eli interrogated her in fragments—asking about surveillance, infection, loyalty, and things that didn’t make sense. His voice was quiet, robotic, disassociated. He fed her but never broke eye contact.
For days, Isobel tried to talk to him. Told him about towns, highways, movies, sugar. He didn’t believe her. He thought it was bait. Every night, he climbed the tower and broadcast warnings: that his land was sacred, that trespass would be punished by cleansing, that no woman would bring rot into the kingdom again.
Then Isobel found the box.
Buried beneath the shed floorboards were torn clothes, jewelry, IDs, and a photo of Jamie. She wasn’t missing—she was murdered. Jed had lured women into the woods using fake distress calls on the CB, offering shelter from storms or safe passage. Eli hadn’t known. But when Isobel showed him, he didn’t cry. He just stared and said, He told me they couldn’t be trusted.
Something broke. Or maybe something clicked.
That night, Eli painted his face with ash, put on his father’s coat, and started broadcasting not just to local signals but to broader frequencies. He called himself the Firstborn of Fire. Said he was ready to inherit the kingdom his father died protecting. And people listened.
Old drifters. Burnt-out militia. Failed preppers who once followed Jed’s voice. They came to the woods with rusted rifles and camouflage duct-taped to their bodies. They bowed to Eli, called him a prophet, and built new altars in the forest.
Isobel watched it unfold like a nightmare that grew roots. Eli wasn’t just a boy anymore. He was a symbol to the broken—one they could load with meaning and madness.
She knew she couldn’t leave. Not with him still alive. Not with more women bound to vanish beneath the vines. So she set traps of her own. Learned the compound’s layout. Waited for the storm.
When it came, she lit the fire.
Gasoline in the greenhouse. Propane tanks beneath the tower. When Eli climbed the platform to address his new congregation, she struck the match and walked into the blaze.
The explosion cracked through the mountains. Flames lit the sky. The compound fell.
In the wreckage, only one body was recovered. It wasn’t Eli’s.
Some say he died. Some say he ran deeper into the trees. Others say the radio still clicks on at night, playing a boy’s voice repeating the same phrase over and over again:
“Tiny Kingdom lives. I am the fire now.”
And if you listen long enough, you can hear it blink through the static.
Still burning. Still waiting.
Still king.
Jed trained Eli like a soldier. Taught him how to trap, skin, shoot, and fear anything beyond the treeline. No internet. No electricity. Just cold storage meat, CB radios, sharpened blades, and the constant belief that the world beyond was diseased, corrupted, unfit for contact. Eli didn’t question any of it. He didn’t know how.
Then Jed died. Quietly, suddenly—alone on the ground beside the greenhouse. His body stiff and soured by morning. Eli burned it without a word, dug the ashes into the compost pile, and took his place in the watchtower. Without hesitation, he activated the radio system and made his first decree: Jed is gone. The Kingdom stands. I am the fire now.
A few days later, someone entered the woods.
Her name was Isobel Reddick. Mid-thirties. Callused hands, worn boots, haunted eyes. She wasn’t a government agent, or a settler, or a threat—not really. She was searching for her younger sister, Jamie, who vanished three months earlier hitchhiking through the region. The last ping from Jamie’s phone came from near Eli’s sector of the forest.
Isobel crossed the fence. She avoided the tripwire, but not the snare trap. She woke up in the root cellar of the main cabin, wrists bound, face bleeding. Eli interrogated her in fragments—asking about surveillance, infection, loyalty, and things that didn’t make sense. His voice was quiet, robotic, disassociated. He fed her but never broke eye contact.
For days, Isobel tried to talk to him. Told him about towns, highways, movies, sugar. He didn’t believe her. He thought it was bait. Every night, he climbed the tower and broadcast warnings: that his land was sacred, that trespass would be punished by cleansing, that no woman would bring rot into the kingdom again.
Then Isobel found the box.
Buried beneath the shed floorboards were torn clothes, jewelry, IDs, and a photo of Jamie. She wasn’t missing—she was murdered. Jed had lured women into the woods using fake distress calls on the CB, offering shelter from storms or safe passage. Eli hadn’t known. But when Isobel showed him, he didn’t cry. He just stared and said, He told me they couldn’t be trusted.
Something broke. Or maybe something clicked.
That night, Eli painted his face with ash, put on his father’s coat, and started broadcasting not just to local signals but to broader frequencies. He called himself the Firstborn of Fire. Said he was ready to inherit the kingdom his father died protecting. And people listened.
Old drifters. Burnt-out militia. Failed preppers who once followed Jed’s voice. They came to the woods with rusted rifles and camouflage duct-taped to their bodies. They bowed to Eli, called him a prophet, and built new altars in the forest.
Isobel watched it unfold like a nightmare that grew roots. Eli wasn’t just a boy anymore. He was a symbol to the broken—one they could load with meaning and madness.
She knew she couldn’t leave. Not with him still alive. Not with more women bound to vanish beneath the vines. So she set traps of her own. Learned the compound’s layout. Waited for the storm.
When it came, she lit the fire.
Gasoline in the greenhouse. Propane tanks beneath the tower. When Eli climbed the platform to address his new congregation, she struck the match and walked into the blaze.
The explosion cracked through the mountains. Flames lit the sky. The compound fell.
In the wreckage, only one body was recovered. It wasn’t Eli’s.
Some say he died. Some say he ran deeper into the trees. Others say the radio still clicks on at night, playing a boy’s voice repeating the same phrase over and over again:
“Tiny Kingdom lives. I am the fire now.”
And if you listen long enough, you can hear it blink through the static.
Still burning. Still waiting.
Still king.
