The Shattered Crown

Chapter 4 — The Whisper in the Walls

The dungeon stank of mold and iron. Chains clinked in the dark as Elias descended the narrow stairway, torchlight flickering against stone walls. His father had forbidden him from interfering, but Elias had no intention of obeying. If the servant knew who had ordered the poison, Elias would hear it from his own lips.

The boy knelt in the straw, wrists shackled, eyes hollow. He looked younger now, stripped of the tray and goblets, more like a frightened child than an assassin.

Elias crouched before him, lowering the torch. “You carried poisoned wine. Why?”

The boy flinched, shaking his head. “I didn’t—I was told it was for a toast—”

“By whom?” Elias’s tone cut like steel.

The servant hesitated, his mouth opening, then shutting again. Tears welled in his eyes. “If I speak… they’ll kill my family.”

Elias’s grip tightened on the dagger at his belt. His chest burned with fury. Always the same. Always Alaric pulling strings while others paid the price.

“Listen to me,” Elias said, voice dropping low. “If you stay silent, you’ll hang as a traitor, and your family will still be at their mercy. But if you speak, I swear by my blood you’ll be protected.”

The boy trembled, then leaned forward, his whisper barely audible. “It wasn’t Alaric who gave the cup. It was—”

The words ended in a choked gasp.

An arrow hissed through the dungeon bars, striking the boy clean through the throat. He collapsed into the straw, eyes wide in shock. Blood pooled beneath him.

Elias whirled, torch flaring against the walls. Footsteps echoed above, retreating fast.

“Guards!” he shouted, but when they arrived, the corridor was empty. Whoever fired the arrow was gone, leaving only silence and a corpse.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. “Your Highness… this is treason. The dungeons are sealed. How could anyone—”

“Because the walls have ears,” Elias muttered, fury boiling in his chest.

The next morning, the council chamber was alive with whispers. Nobles sat in their carved seats, faces pale with unease. The attempted poisoning had shaken them, and the servant’s sudden death—though officially called “cowardly suicide”—spread fear like wildfire.

Elias stood at the edge of the chamber, watching Alaric as the vizier moved gracefully among the lords, soothing fears with soft words and promises. His calm was calculated, his every gesture a performance for an audience too blind to see the strings.

Then, the chamber doors opened, and a messenger stumbled in, pale and breathless. “Your Majesty! Riders from the south—there’s unrest at the border! Villages burned, soldiers slain!”

The council erupted into chaos. Some shouted for war, others for negotiation. The king’s voice boomed above them: “Silence!”

But Alaric was already stepping forward, bowing with perfect grace. “If I may, Your Majesty, this crisis requires swift action. Let me ride south with a contingent of men. I will restore peace before it festers into rebellion.”

Elias’s heart lurched. It was too convenient. Too sudden. Alaric was creating chaos, then offering himself as savior.

“No,” Elias said sharply, stepping into the circle. “If men are sent south, I will lead them. Not Alaric.”

Gasps echoed across the chamber. Alaric’s eyes flickered, a glint of amusement dancing in their depths.

“Prince Elias,” he said smoothly, “the border is dangerous. You’ve yet to lead a campaign. Why risk the heir of the throne when a loyal servant stands ready?”

“Because the throne has no loyal servants,” Elias shot back. “Only wolves dressed in silk.”

The words struck like a blade. The chamber froze. Even the king stiffened, his face darkening.

“Enough!” the king thundered. “Alaric will ride south. My son will remain here, where he belongs.”

Elias clenched his fists. He wanted to scream, to draw his sword in the middle of the council, but the memory of Kael’s warning held him back. Rage without discipline was a noose around his neck.

Still, as Alaric bowed and accepted his charge, Elias knew he couldn’t sit idle. If Alaric was leaving the capital, then this was his chance.

That night, Elias met Kael in the training yard.

“You want to follow him,” Kael said flatly, reading the fire in Elias’s eyes.

“Yes,” Elias replied. “If he’s staging this unrest, I’ll find proof. And if he’s not—then at least I’ll learn where his claws are hidden.”

Kael studied him, then nodded slowly. “Very well. But understand this, boy. Once you walk this path, there is no turning back. The crown is not just iron and jewels. It is blood. And blood demands sacrifice.”

Elias’s hand went to the dagger hidden beneath his cloak. He thought of the servant’s lifeless eyes, the poisoned goblet, his father’s blind faith.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m ready.”

Kael’s lips curved into a grim smile. “Then may the gods favor your blade.”

At dawn, Alaric departed with his men, banners fluttering against the rising sun. The gates of the capital groaned open, the procession vanishing into the mist.

Unseen among the shadows of the crowd, Elias pulled his cloak tighter and mounted his horse.

He would follow. Not as a prince bound by council decrees, but as a hunter in the dark.

The first strike was coming. And this time, it would not miss.

---