Blood on the throne

The war was over, but the weight of its aftermath bore down on the soldiers like an iron yoke. They trudged through the blood-soaked plains, battered and exhausted, their armor dented and tarnished by the clash of steel. Some carried their wounded comrades on crude stretchers fashioned from shields and spears, while others leaned heavily on each other, every step a struggle.

Panseke, the neighboring kingdom, had fallen, but the victory rang hollow. It was not a triumph born of glory but of necessity—land had been the prize, a stretch of fertile soil that both kingdoms claimed as their own.

The soldiers walked in heavy silence, their faces etched with the kind of weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. Whispers began to ripple through the ranks, quiet voices breaking through the oppressive quiet like fragile sparks in the dark.

“Over land,” one soldier murmured, his voice tinged with bitterness. “We bled and died over land.”

“Land that isn’t ours to till,” another added, shaking his head.

“You think it wasn’t worth it?” a grizzled veteran interjected, his voice low but firm. “Without land, there’s no kingdom. Without a kingdom, there’s no crown. And without the crown…” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

The group fell silent again until another soldier, younger and more brash, leaned closer to his comrade. “Do you think this is why the king fell?” he whispered. “Because of this land?”

“We lost the king,” someone muttered from another part of the group, his voice thick with grief. “Sadly, we lost the king.”

A tense pause followed before another voice cut through, sharp and angry. “He has sons,” the man snapped.

The mention of the king’s sons, Lucian and Darius, shifted the tone of the conversation. The soldiers glanced around cautiously, ensuring their whispers wouldn’t reach the wrong ears.

“I’ll tell you this,” a soldier murmured, his voice barely audible, “Darius will lead us to a brighter future. He’s got the heart for it. The people love him.”

“Heart doesn’t win wars,” another hissed, his eyes narrowing. “Lucian is the one we need. He’s already proven he can lead men in battle. What good is love when the enemy is at our gates?”

“But Lucian is reckless,” the first soldier countered, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and lowered it again. “He fights with his sword, not his head. You think the people will follow a prince who leads them to their deaths?”

“Better that than a prince who doesn’t lead at all,” the other snapped.

“Enough,” the grizzled veteran growled, his tone carrying the weight of authority. “You speak as though the crown is already theirs. The king is barely cold, and you’re already picking sides. Have some respect.”

The group fell into uneasy silence, but the tension lingered, thick and oppressive.

Cut to: A lone rider galloping toward the capital.

The scene shifts from the weary soldiers to a lone messenger racing across the open plains. His cloak billows behind him, his face set in a mask of urgency. Dust rises in his wake as his horse thunders forward, its breath coming in harsh pants.

The kingdom must know.

His knuckles whiten around the reins as he urges the beast to move faster. The war had ended, but the battle for the throne had just begun.

Fade to black.