The Shattered Crown

Chapter 3 — The First Cut

The clang of steel rang through the training yard as dawn painted the sky in crimson streaks. Elias swung his blade against the practice dummy, each strike harder than the last, his breath sharp with frustration. The wooden figure splintered under his assault, but it wasn’t enough. Splinters didn’t plot treason. Splinters didn’t whisper poison into his father’s ear.

“Again,” Elias muttered, driving his sword into the dummy’s chest.

From the shadows of the yard, Commander Kael watched silently. He was broad-shouldered, his armor scuffed from decades of war, his face carved by scars earned in the king’s service. At last, he stepped forward.

“You’ll break your sword before you break that thing, boy.”

Elias lowered the blade, sweat dripping from his brow. “Better the dummy than Alaric. At least the dummy doesn’t fight back with honeyed words.”

Kael chuckled, though his eyes were grave. “Careful where you spit that name. Walls have ears, and Alaric feeds them well.”

“I don’t care who hears.” Elias’s voice hardened. “If my father won’t see Alaric’s treachery, then I will. And when the time comes, I’ll cut him down myself.”

Kael studied him, silence stretching heavy between them. Then he said, “A king’s heir cannot afford anger without discipline. Rage will blind you. And Alaric will use that blindness to slit your throat.”

Elias met his gaze. “Then teach me how not to be blind.”

The commander’s lips twitched into something like approval. “Very well. If you want to be ready, you’ll train not as a prince, but as a soldier. From this day, you belong to the steel, not the silk of court.”

Elias nodded, clutching the dagger hidden in his tunic—the gift from the scarred soldier in the corridor. The crown demanded blood, and he would not be the one to bleed first.

That evening, the great hall brimmed with laughter and wine. Nobles feasted at gilded tables, their voices echoing beneath vaulted ceilings painted with saints and kings of old. But beneath the surface joy, Elias felt the tension coiling like a serpent. He sat at his father’s side, watching Alaric glide through the crowd, speaking soft words into willing ears.

Elias’s stomach churned. Each bow, each smile, was another thread in the net Alaric was weaving around the throne.

“Eat, my son,” the king urged, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Tonight is meant for peace, not worry.”

Peace. The word stung. How could his father not see? Peace was a dream while traitors feasted in their hall.

As the night wore on, Alaric rose with a goblet in hand. “Your Majesty,” he began, voice smooth as velvet, “may I offer a toast? To the crown, which binds us all, and to the wisdom that guides it.”

The hall cheered, goblets raised high. Elias’s grip on his cup tightened until his knuckles turned white. Wisdom. Alaric spoke as though the crown already bent to him.

But then—movement caught Elias’s eye. A servant, trembling, carrying a tray of wine. The boy’s hands shook violently, his eyes flicking toward Alaric before darting away. Elias’s instincts flared.

He stood abruptly, knocking over his goblet. “Father, wait—”

But it was too late. The king had already lifted his cup.

Elias lunged forward, striking the chalice from his father’s hand. Wine splashed across the table, crimson as blood. The hall fell silent.

The servant froze, pale as death. His tray slipped from his fingers, the cups crashing to the floor. Soldiers rushed forward, seizing him before he could run.

“Explain yourself!” the king roared, his voice echoing through the chamber.

The boy stammered, shaking his head, but the terror in his eyes told the truth. Elias seized the goblet from the floor, sniffing the dregs of wine. A sharp, bitter tang cut his nose. Poison.

Gasps filled the hall. Nobles whispered furiously, their eyes snapping to Alaric, who alone remained calm, his expression unreadable.

“Poison,” Elias said, holding the goblet aloft. His gaze locked on Alaric. “Planted by those who would see the crown fall.”

The king’s face darkened, but Alaric stepped forward smoothly. “My prince, these are dangerous accusations. Do you suggest I would endanger my king in his own hall?”

“I don’t suggest,” Elias snarled. “I know.”

The chamber froze. The words were a blade drawn in the open, and once drawn, they could not be sheathed.

Alaric’s eyes glinted like steel. “Careful, boy. A throne is heavy, and a tongue too sharp can cut its own master.”

The king slammed his fist against the table, the sound silencing the hall. “Enough! The truth will be found, and until then, there will be no more accusations. Guards—lock the boy in the dungeons until his tongue loosens!”

The servant screamed as he was dragged away, his protests echoing into the night. The nobles shifted uneasily, torn between fear and suspicion. And Alaric, with the faintest curl of his lips, knew he had turned the blade back on Elias.

Later, alone in his chambers, Elias paced like a caged beast. He could still feel the weight of the poisoned goblet in his hand, still see the mocking calm in Alaric’s eyes.

The council would call him reckless. His father would call him paranoid. And Alaric would grow stronger.

He pressed the dagger into his palm until the edge bit his skin. No more waiting. If no one else would strike, then he must.

But in the silence of the night, a whisper returned to him: “Walls have ears.”

If Elias struck too soon, the crown might shatter before it was his to defend. He had to be ruthless, but he also had to be patient. He had to become the shadow before he could become the sword.

And so he swore another oath, darker than the last: The first cut would not be his father’s, nor Alaric’s. The first cut would fall where it hurt most—on those Alaric trusted. He would bleed the traitor dry, piece by piece.

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