The battlefield was silent but for the ragged breaths of survivors and the distant crackle of dying fires.
Two days after the battle with the bastard who dares to call himself a king. He was unworthy and never cared about his people and the realm. I stood atop the shattered ramparts of Eldenmere, the shattered crown cold and heavy in my palm.
The soldiers—scarred, bloodied, and broken—looked up at me with eyes full of exhaustion and questions.
No cheers. No cries of victory. Just the raw weight of what we'd lost.
I raised the crown.
Not as a prize. Not as a symbol of conquest.
But as a reminder.
"Tonight," I said, voice low but cutting through the still air like a blade, "we end the tyranny of bloodlines."
The murmurs stirred.
I met every gaze.
"No more kings by birthright."
"No more lords by name alone."
"We build a new realm—one forged by fire and steel, but not only built by fire and steel but also by voices and choices."
The crown felt heavier than any sword I'd ever wielded.
"But the crown," I said, "will no longer be a throne of chains. It will be a circle. Every clan, every tribe, every soul will have a place. Together or not at all."
Silence stretched. Then a slow nod—then another.
Hope—fragile but fierce—flickered in their eyes.
But I knew, then, that the war wasn't over.
It was just the beginning.