This special issue is not one of our usual narratives, but an entirely fictional tale. Any resemblance between its characters and real-world figures is, of course, entirely coincidental!

Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms on opposite shores of an inland sea.

The Northern Kingdom had forests, mines and winters that often forgot to leave. The Southern Kingdom had workshops, busy harbours and a firm belief that the sun rose there first.

For generations, they traded across the water. The North sent timber, iron and fish south. The South sent tools, cloth and perfume north. Southern ships were built from northern cedar, and northern houses stood firm with southern nails.

Between them moved a restless wind. It crossed the sea without a passport and filled the sails of both kingdoms without paying a single coin.

No one thought this strange.

The king of the South had once been a prince with small hands and a father who believed kindness made boys weak.

For his tenth birthday, the finest craftsmen made him a magnificent kite. Its frame was northern cedar, light and strong. Its covering was southern silk, blue as the sea at dusk. At its centre, they embroidered a golden sun—the emblem of the Southern Kingdom.

At the spring festival, the prince carried it into the palace gardens. The king, his ministers and several hundred courtiers gathered to watch.

The kite rose quickly.

For one perfect moment, it climbed above the palace towers. The prince looked at his father, waiting for a smile.

Then the northern wind gave a sudden pull.

The string burned his fingers and escaped his grasp. The kite flew over the palace wall, crossed the sea and disappeared.

A few courtiers laughed before remembering that laughter near the royal family could shorten a promising career.

The old king looked at his son.

“A prince who cannot hold a string,” he said, “will never hold a kingdom.”

The wind carried the kite to the northern shore, where it became tangled in a pear tree.

A girl gathering branches found it. She recognized the golden sun of the Southern Kingdom, repaired the torn silk and took the kite to a southern merchant returning home across the sea.

Before he left, she tied a note to its string:

“The wind did not steal it. It only carried it somewhere you could not follow.”

When the kite reached the prince, he read the note many times. He might have seen kindness in it. Instead, he heard the laughter in the garden and his father’s cold voice.

He locked the kite and the note inside a cedar chest.

Years passed. The old king died, and the prince inherited the throne. His hands had grown larger, his palaces brighter, and he had learned that people preferred grand promises to careful explanations.

He promised to restore the greatness of the Southern Kingdom.

No one remembered exactly when that greatness had disappeared, but everyone was pleased to hear it was returning.

One morning, the royal treasurer entered the throne room.

“Our ships brought timber, iron and fish from the North this month,” he said.

“What moved them across the sea?” asked the king.

“The wind, Your Majesty.”

“Which wind?”

“Mostly the northern wind.”

The king leaned forward.

“How much does the northern wind pay when it enters my kingdom?”

“Nothing, Your Majesty.”

The room became silent.

“So this wind has crossed our border for generations without paying a single coin?”

The treasurer knew that wind belonged to no kingdom. He also knew that the king did not like being corrected.

“It would appear so, Your Majesty.”

Before sunset, the king announced a Tariff on Foreign Wind. Every northern gust crossing into the Southern Kingdom would owe fifty gold coins to the royal treasury.

The decree was written on twelve scrolls, stamped with thirty-six seals and announced by forty trumpeters. The trumpeters did not understand it, but they played it magnificently.

To collect the new tariff, the king created a Ministry of Wind, which soon employed three hundred people but never caught a single breeze.

There remained one problem: no customs officer could stop the wind and ask it for money.

The Ministry solved this by charging southern shipowners whenever the northern wind filled their sails.

“We are not the wind,” the shipowners protested.

“You are simply paying on its behalf,” replied the customs officers.

The shipowners added the tariff to the price of their cargo. Timber became expensive. Then tools became expensive. Bread followed, though bread had never travelled by ship and felt unfairly involved.

Each evening, the royal trumpeters announced that the foreign wind had paid another fortune into the treasury.

Each evening, southern merchants brought the money.

Trade slowed. Ships disappeared from the sea. Markets grew quieter, prices rose, and life became harder on both shores.

The king looked down from his balcony at the empty harbour.

“Our policy is working,” he said. “Look how little foreign wind enters now.”

A year later, he announced a festival to celebrate his victory.

On the morning of the festival, the king opened the cedar chest. Inside lay the kite and the girl’s faded note.

He placed the note in his pocket and summoned the royal kite-maker.

The old man examined the kite.

“The silk can be repaired,” he said. “The frame is still strong.”

“What is it made of?” asked the king.

“Northern cedar, Your Majesty.”

The king withdrew his hand.

“My son will fly this kite today as a symbol of our independence. Remove the northern wood.”

“The cedar is what makes it light.”

“Remove it.”

The kite-maker replaced the cedar with thin rods of gold from the royal treasury. They shone beautifully beneath the blue silk.

They were also very heavy.

That afternoon, thousands gathered in the palace gardens. Ministers sat beneath silk canopies. Trumpeters raised their instruments. Merchants and dockworkers stood at the back, where unhappy people were traditionally placed during royal celebrations.

The king placed the kite in his young son’s hands.

“Today,” he told the crowd, “the Southern Kingdom will rise without help from the North.”

A strong northern wind swept across the grass.

“Run,” the king told his son.

The boy ran.

The kite lifted for a moment, turned sideways and fell heavily to the ground.

“Again,” said the king.

The boy tried once more. The string burned his small hands.

At last, he turned to his father.

“The wind is strong enough,” he said. “The kite is too heavy.”

The old kite-maker stepped forward.

“We could put the cedar back, Your Majesty.”

The king looked at the crowd, the kite on the ground and his son’s red hands.

For a moment, his father’s words returned to him:

“A prince who cannot hold a string will never hold a kingdom.”

The king tightened his jaw. He took the old note from his pocket and read it one last time.

Then he tore it in two.

“No,” he said. “Try again.”

The boy began to run.

The kite remained on the ground.

YF, August 28, 2026