The Shattered Crown

The torches in the grand hall sputtered, shadows stretching across the crimson-stained marble. Prince Elias could still hear his father’s ragged breath echoing in his ears. One moment King Alden was seated proudly upon the obsidian throne; the next, a blade slipped between his ribs.

The court had erupted into chaos. Nobles shrieked, soldiers clashed steel against steel, and amidst the noise Elias stood frozen, the taste of copper thick in his mouth. He had rushed to his father’s side, but the king’s eyes had already turned glassy, his crown slipping from his brow and clattering onto the blood-slick floor.

Elias pressed his hand against the wound, desperate, but the warmth drained away too quickly. “Father…” His whisper drowned in the shouts around him.

Then he saw it. The dagger. Still wet, still warm, lying discarded where the assassin had been struck down by guards. Elias’s chest tightened as his gaze traced the blade’s hilt — carved with the crest of the High Council.

His council.

His stomach dropped. Someone within the king’s most trusted circle had orchestrated this.

Before Elias could demand answers, Alaric, the king’s most silver-tongued advisor, stepped forward. His black cloak billowed as though he had expected this very moment.

“Lords and ladies!” Alaric cried, his voice slicing through the panic. “The king is fallen — and only chaos awaits if Prince Elias does not take his rightful place.”

Dozens of eyes turned on Elias. Some wide with pity, others sharp with suspicion.

He clenched his fists. His father’s body still lay at his knees, the crown gleaming in blood at his feet. He wanted to scream, to weep, to drag the truth from every liar in the hall. But he swallowed the storm within him, forcing his voice steady.

“I will not let this realm fracture,” Elias said. “But my father’s killer sits among us. Until I find who betrayed him, none of us are safe.”

The nobles exchanged glances. Already whispers spread like fire through dry grass.

A guard stepped forward, kneeling. “Your Highness, we caught one assassin alive.”

Elias’s pulse spiked. Finally, a chance for answers. “Bring him.”

Two soldiers dragged in a hooded man, bloodied but smirking despite the bruises. The assassin spat onto the floor, crimson staining marble.

“Who sent you?” Elias demanded.

The man chuckled, his teeth cracked and broken. “Does it matter, boy? The throne is already shattered. Soon, you’ll be nothing but another corpse at its feet.”

Elias’s vision swam with rage. He wanted to end the man then and there — but his father’s voice echoed in his memory: A king who rules by rage alone is no king at all.

He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, torn between mercy and fury. The hall waited, watching, testing.

At last, he gave the order: “Chain him. I’ll have his confession before dawn.”

The assassin sneered. “Ask all you want, little prince. The blood on this throne will never wash away.”

And then he laughed. Loud, manic, echoing in the vaulted hall until it curdled into silence.

Elias’s skin prickled. That laugh… it wasn’t just madness. It was confidence.

The guards hauled the prisoner out, and nobles began filing from the hall, whispering behind their sleeves. Alaric lingered at the edge of the throne steps, his eyes unreadable.

“You did well,” Alaric murmured smoothly. “Showing strength when others expected weakness.”

Elias turned sharply. “Do not mistake restraint for weakness. Whoever did this will answer.”

Alaric inclined his head, lips curling into a shadow of a smile. “Of course. But remember — the crown is not won by vengeance, but by survival. And survival demands… choices.”

The words slithered into Elias’s chest, heavy with implication.

When the hall finally emptied, Elias stood alone with his father’s body. He lifted the crown from the bloodied floor, staring at the way it glinted in the dying torchlight. The weight felt wrong in his hands — heavier than steel, colder than stone.

And then he noticed something.

Carved along the inner rim of the dagger, so small he almost missed it, were words etched in haste: “By your council’s hand.”

His blood ran cold.

The betrayal was deeper than he feared. His father’s death had not been an attack from outside the palace walls. It was born within them.

Elias raised his eyes to the darkened hall, whispering into the silence.

“I will find you.”

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