FROM PITS TO THRONE: A Crown Forged In Chains

From the highest tower of Walton's castle which served as the palace of the kingdom of Miraolden, seventeen-year-old Prince Liam watched the horizon swallow his kingdom. Black smoke rose in thick columns from the outer villages, carried on a wind that already stank of pitch and death. Below him, the capital’s streets churned with fleeing citizens, their cries rising like a tide against the stone walls and the great iron-banded gates still held, but for how long?

Liam’s hand was tightened on the pommel of his sword, no longer the boy who sparred with blunted weapons under the watchful eye of the master-at-arms. Today he was the heir, and the kingdom expected him to bleed for it.

A horn sounded three times from the walls, serving as a signal that Robert Hawks’ vanguard had reached the outer ditch.

Liam turned and ran down the stairs, boots clanging on stone as he passed servants loading carts with silver plate and ancient tapestries, their faces gray with terror. In the great hall he found his family gathered around the high table, lit by the orange glow of torches and the dying light through the tall windows.

King Morth Walton stood at the head, clad in full plate, the crowned stag of their house gleaming on his breastplate. Even at fifty-eight, he carried the bearing of the warrior who had held Miraolden’s borders for three decades. But his eyes were weary the same as Liam’s.

Beside him stood Queen Eliza, pale but composed, her hand resting on the shoulder of fifteen-year-old Calista, the youngest princess clutched a small bundle of belongings, her dark hair falling loose from its braids. Across the table, eldest daughter Tamira held her six-year-old son Silas close. The boy’s eyes were wide, confused, sensing the fear that adults tried to hide.

“Father,” Liam said breathlessly. “They’ve reached the moat. The trebuchets are in place.”

Morth looked at his son for a long moment, as if he was memorizing his face.

“Then it is time,” the king said quietly. “Liam, you will ride with me to the walls. Tamira, take Silas and Calista to the inner keep. Eliza…”

“I’ll stay with you,” the queen interrupted with a voice steady. “Until the end.”

Morth did not argue. There was no time for that now.

Liam bowed to his mother and sisters, meeting each gaze in turn. Tamira’s eyes held fierce pride; Calista’s, unshed tears. Silas reached out his small hand and Liam squeezed it once before turning away.

The walls were chaos.

Archers lined the battlements, arrows nocked and below, was Robert Hawks’ army spread across the plain, tens of thousands of men in mismatched armor, mercenaries bought with the gold of conquered lands.

Liam took his place beside his father on the gatehouse tower. Captain Harlan of the House of Agosto, the king’s oldest friend stood on the other side with helm tucked under his arm.

“They outnumber us four to one,” Harlan muttered. “And their siege engines are already throwing.”

As if in response, a boulder arced overhead and smashed into the lower town, sending up a spray of splintered timber and screams.

Morth raised his voice so the nearest men could hear. “Men of Miraolden, this land has been ours since the days of the First Kings. We do not yield it lightly.”

A ragged cheer went up from the defenders, but it died quickly by the assault that followed almost immediately.

Scaling ladders slammed against the walls. Grappling hooks bit into stone. Arrows fell in sheets, clattering off shields and finding flesh. Liam fought with the royal guard, he killed his first man that night, a ladder captain whose eyes widened in shock as Liam’s blade slid under his gorget. The prince felt nothing but cold determination.

For three days they held the city and then on the fourth, betrayal came from within.

A postern gate in the eastern wall was opened under cover of night. Robert’s shock troops poured through it before the alarm could spread and by dawn, fighting raged in the streets. The outer walls fell, by noon the middle ring followed.

Liam found his father in the courtyard of the inner keep, bloodied but unbowed, rallying the last of the household knights.

“We fall back to the castle proper,” Morth ordered. “Bar the doors. We make our stand there.”

But even as they retreated, Liam saw the truth in the soldiers’ faces. It was over.

From the throne room windows they watched Robert Hawks’ banners rise over the outer gates. The great doors of the castle shuddered under ram blows. King Morth sat on the ancient oak throne one last time, helm in his lap, while his family gathered close.

Tamira held Silas, who had finally fallen into exhausted sleep. Calista stood beside her mother, hand clasped tightly in Eliza’s. Liam stood guard at the door with sword drawn, the energy of his youth was sure.

The doors gave way with a thunderous crack as Robert Hawks strode in at the head of twenty armored men. He was taller than Liam had expected, broad-shouldered with a trimmed beard and eyes like winter ice. At his side walked General Dorian a lean, scarred man whose reputation for cruelty preceded him.

Morth rose slowly, “Robert of the Hawks,” the king said, voice carrying in the sudden silence. “You have won the field through treachery. Will you now murder a defeated king in his own hall?”

Robert smiled, “I have no need to murder you, Morth Walton. Your army is broken. Your city burns. Yield, and I will be…merciful.”

Liam stepped forward, with his sword raised. “You will not touch my father.”

Robert’s gaze flicked to him in amusement. “The cub shows his teeth. A brave but foolish thing to do.”

Guards seized Liam from behind before he could strike. His sword clattered to the floor. More men disarmed the remaining knights.

Morth did not resist when they took his blade. He looked only at his wife, conveying a message only she understood.

Eliza stepped forward, chin high as always.

“If you want this throne,” she said to Robert, “you will have it through me. Marry me. Bind your claim in law and blood. In return, you spare my children.”

A murmur rippled through Robert’s men. Dorian leaned in to whisper something, but Robert raised a hand for silence.

He studied Eliza for a moment, her beauty still striking even in defeat, her poise unbroken.

“A practical woman,” he said at last. “Very well. I accept. The children live.”

Liam struggled against the men holding him. “Mother, no…!”

Eliza turned to him, eyes fierce. “Live, Liam. All of you. That is my command.”

Robert gave orders in a calm, conversational tone as he drew his own sword.

Morth met his death without flinching. The blade took him through the heart. He sank to his knees, then forward, blood pooling beneath the throne that had been his for thirty years.

Eliza did not scream. She closed her husband’s eyes with steady hands.

Silas woke then and began to cry, the battle had taken his father, now his grandfather too.

Robert sheathed his sword.

“Prepare the queen for the wedding on the morrow,” he told Dorian. “And see to the heirs. They are to be sold abroad, far apart to different kingdoms. I want no chance of them ever returning to trouble me.”

Dorian bowed. “And their…fates?”

Robert glanced at the children, Tamira holding her sobbing son, Calista trembling beside her mother and Liam still straining against iron grips.

“Arrangements will be made,” he said softly. “They are never to see Miraolden again.”

In the dungeons that night, the royal siblings were separated.

Tamira and Silas were dragged away first, bound for the slaver ships heading north to Preliand. Tamira fought until a guard struck her senseless; Silas’s small screams echoed down the stone corridors.

Calista was next, destined for the free city of Nidus in the distant south. She reached for Liam’s hand one last time through the bars of her cell but he could not reach back.

Finally, it was Liam's turn, Dorian himself oversaw his chaining.

“You have your father’s eyes,” the general said almost conversationally as the irons clicked shut. “Pity they’ll never see this kingdom again.”

Liam spat blood at his boots. “I will come back. And I will kill every man who served him this night.”

Dorian only smiled, “Many have promised that but none lived long enough to keep it.”

They marched him out under cover of darkness to a waiting ship at the harbor. The city still burned behind him with rooftops collapsing in showers of sparks, the great banner of Miraolden torn down and trampled.

As the oars bit into black water and Miraolden receded into the distance, Liam made a vow to the stars.

He would survive.

He would find his sisters and his nephew.

And he would return with steel in his hand and vengeance in his heart.

The ship sailed east, toward the Kingdom of Etoibard, where a quiet arrangement had already been paid for; one dead prince, delivered discreetly.