The Shattered Crown

Chapter 2 — Shadows in the Hall

The council chamber smelled of polished oak and old dust. Torches lined the stone walls, their light flickering across banners that bore the crest of the kingdom: a crown split down the middle by a crimson sword. It was a symbol meant to remind men of unity through strength. But to Elias, seated at his father’s side, it felt like a warning.

King Rodric’s voice thundered, commanding the attention of the bickering nobles. “Our borders bleed, and yet you argue about land and tariffs like children squabbling over scraps! The South calls for reinforcements, and I will not see them abandoned.”

Elias tried to keep his face calm, but his hands tightened into fists beneath the table. Every council meeting ended like this—nobles weighing profit against loyalty, their voices like knives carving into the king’s resolve. And there, always seated with an unreadable smile, was Lord Alaric.

“Your Majesty,” Alaric said smoothly, rising to his feet. His robes of midnight blue flowed as he placed one hand against his chest in mock respect. “No one doubts your wisdom, but sending soldiers to the South weakens our capital. If rebellion brews closer to home, who will defend the throne? Sometimes, sacrifice must be made for the greater good.”

The chamber erupted in whispers. Elias felt heat rush to his cheeks. Sacrifice. That word, from Alaric’s lips, sounded like poison. He glanced at his father, expecting a sharp rebuke, but the king’s eyes narrowed with something closer to weariness than fury. Alaric’s influence was spreading like rot.

“My prince,” Alaric said suddenly, turning his gaze on Elias, “you are young, but perhaps you see more clearly than us old men. Tell us—should we bleed our coffers dry for the South, or preserve our strength where it matters most?”

The question was a trap, and Elias knew it. Speak in favor of the South, and he would look naïve. Side with Alaric, and he betrayed the very soldiers dying under his banner. The council leaned forward, eager for his stumble.

“I would do neither,” Elias said at last, his voice firm. “I would send aid, but not blindly. The South bleeds because the enemy knows we are divided. End the divisions, strengthen the unity of the crown, and no army will dare cross our borders.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then a low murmur rippled through the chamber. Some nodded in approval, others sneered at his inexperience. Alaric’s smile widened, but there was a flicker in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that Elias had avoided the snare.

“Well spoken,” the king said, his hand gripping Elias’s shoulder. Pride shone in his voice, though it was tempered with something Elias couldn’t name. “You will make a fine king one day.”

The words should have filled him with hope, but instead they carried the weight of a shadow. Because Elias saw the way Alaric bowed, hiding his smirk, and in that moment he understood: these halls were not a council chamber. They were a battlefield, and the war for the crown had already begun.

That night, Elias wandered the corridors of the castle, unable to sleep. The torches had burned low, casting the stone passages into deep shadow. Every sound echoed—the drip of water, the scrape of his boots, the faint shuffle of armored guards. He paused before a narrow window and looked out across the city. Fires dotted the streets where the poor huddled, cold and hungry, while the noble villas glowed with warmth and wine.

A whisper of movement broke his thoughts. He turned sharply. “Who’s there?”

From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in gray. The man bowed low, then drew back his hood to reveal a scarred face. “Forgive me, my prince. I bring a warning.”

Elias’s heart pounded. “Who are you?”

“A friend. A soldier once loyal to your father. But loyalty is dying, even in the barracks. Alaric has bought men with promises of gold. Soon, he will not just sway the council with words—he will command the steel of your own guard.”

The man pressed something into Elias’s hand: a small dagger, its hilt engraved with the crown and sword crest. “Keep it close. You will need it, sooner than you think.”

Before Elias could speak, the man melted back into the shadows, gone as suddenly as he’d appeared. The dagger’s weight felt heavy, too heavy for comfort. He looked down at its gleaming edge, and for the first time, the halls of his home felt like the walls of a cage.

When dawn came, Elias stood at the balcony of his chambers, sleepless but resolved. Alaric’s power was no longer whispered—it was rising, undeniable, poisoning the very heart of the throne. And his father, weary and trusting, could not see the blade being drawn against him.

Elias clenched the dagger. He knew then that survival was no longer enough. If he wanted to protect the crown, he had to step out of the shadows and become the warrior fate demanded. But the cost would be steep, and the first blood might come from within his own family.

And in the silence of that morning, Prince Elias swore an oath: if betrayal was the language of the court, then he would answer in kind. The crown might shatter, but not without a fight.

---