Three days after the coup, Riverbend's square overflowed with people. A
wooden scaffold stood in the center, ringed with spears that glittered in the
sun. The air reeked of torch smoke, iron, and sweat. Children were carried in
their parents' arms, mouths stuffed with cloth so their cries wouldn't pierce
the silence. Merchants had shuttered their stalls; every soul had been ordered
to attend, every eye forced to witness.
On the stage, King Alden was led in chains. Silver threaded through his
hair, skin worn thin with age—yet his back remained unbowed. His gaze swept the
crowd without lowering.
To his right stood Duke Roderic, cloaked in black, golden embroidery
catching light like shackles. To his left, Countess Selene unrolled a
parchment. Her voice was not loud, but it carried clear, cutting through the
murmurs.
"King Alden of Riverbend," she read, "you stand accused of grievous sins
against your people. First, for pawning Riverbend's honor to Valoria with a
shameful treaty. Second, for letting your people starve while gold flowed to
foreign halls. Third, for betraying Riverbend's noble blood by bowing instead
of fighting. Fourth, for showing weakness before Arthur of Valoria."
Whispers spread like dry wind. Some bowed their heads, others stared blank,
others forced nods with soldiers' eyes burning into their necks. An old man in
the front clutched his cap with shaking hands. A mother drew her child closer.
None dared raise their voice.
Roderic stepped forward, surveying the people like a judge who already knew
the verdict. "Before the law is carried out," he said, "we grant the condemned
one last word."
Alden lifted his face. Not to Roderic, not to Selene, but to his people. His
voice was roughened with age, yet steady.
"I will not defend myself," he said. "Your lives are burdened enough without
listening to the excuses of an old man. I ask only this: do not forget the
river. It is Riverbend's lifeblood. As long as it flows, the city endures.
Guard one another as you guard its banks. Even without a king, you remain the
river."
A silence fell—tense, held. Some wept quietly, brushing tears away before
soldiers saw. A mouth trembled as if to cry "long live!", but the words died
under the press of steel. Roderic raised his hand. The executioner stepped
forward.
The sword rose, flashed against the sun, and fell in a single practiced
stroke. Alden's body knelt, then toppled, chains clattering against the boards.
No drumbeat. No curtain. Only the long exhale of thousands, fear and grief
mingled in the air like smoke that would not clear.
Selene stepped forward, wasting no pause. Her voice rang cold, as if this
were only the second act of the same performance.
"And the people must know: Princess Elara, heir of Riverbend, drowned in the
river while fleeing. The royal line is ended."
A few voices burst—"Lies!"—but were beaten to the ground with spear-butts
before the cry could spread. The rest lowered their heads. Hope was ripped away
just as they swallowed their first grief. Two blows of loss in one breath,
slammed like a door locked from within.
Soldiers drove the crowd apart. Posters were pasted on stone walls and
market pillars: ALDEN EXECUTED. ELARA LOST TO THE RIVER. Wax seals dripped red.
People walked home in silence. No one dared doubt aloud. There was no place for
it.
The next day the news spread beyond Riverbend, carried like ash on the wind.
Merchants, messengers, even courier birds bore the same tale: Alden was dead,
Elara gone to the river.
In Valoria, a thin report lay on Arthur's desk. He read it once, twice,
disbelieving. Then he set it aside, staring at the wall. His left fist clenched
until his knuckles whitened.
Hadrick stood at the door, waiting. "Your orders, sire?"
Arthur drew a long breath. "None yet. We do not move on words our enemies
can shape. Verify everything. From the watchtowers at the delta, from merchant
boats on the river, from every post along the valley. I want witnesses, not
parchment."
"At once," Hadrick bowed. "Shall I ready the shadow troops at the border?"
"Not yet," Arthur said. "Prepare supplies—quietly. No panic. If this is
bait, they want us to step too soon."
Hadrick hesitated. "And about Elara…"
Arthur laced his fingers, gaze unflinching. "Without a body, the claim is
propaganda. Accelerate the search for witnesses. And Hadrick—keep silent. Not a
whisper leaves this palace."
"Yes, sire." Hadrick withdrew.
The chamber emptied, silence pressing close. Memory stirred—of a woman from
another world, long gone. Loss always struck the same: sudden, merciless,
refusing to bargain. Arthur closed his eyes a heartbeat, forcing it down. When
he opened them, his face was still again. "If the river swallows a name," he
murmured, "we dig its banks until the name is returned."
While news galloped abroad proclaiming her death, Elara still fought to
live. She stumbled along forest paths leading toward Valoria. Mud caked her
legs, bruises mottled her shoulders, her palms wrapped in ragged cloth. The
gown once gleaming at a banquet now hung in torn strips at her knees. Only one
thing remained whole: the ring hidden in her secret pocket. Now and again her
hand brushed it, a reminder—As long as I keep you, I am not lost.
A shout split the woods. Three bandits burst from the trees with blades and
sneers, hungry for easy coin.
"What've we here?" sneered the bearded one. "A little bird, strayed from the
nest?"
Elara stepped back, weighing her escape: a slick slope on the right, thorns
on the left. "I have nothing," she said quietly.
"They all say that," another snorted, circling.
"I'm a maid," Elara said quickly, breath shallow. "With a caravan. We were
attacked on the northern road. None survived but me."
The bearded man narrowed his eyes. "Survive alone, did you? Then luck's on
loan. Time we collected." He reached as if to slap her cheek, casual,
threatening.
Elara slapped his hand aside on instinct. His expression hardened. "Grab
her!"
The other two lunged. Elara dove right, sliding down the slick slope. Pain
flared as her knee struck stone, but she scrambled up. One bandit leapt after
her; she kicked dirt into his eyes and plunged through the thornbrush. Branches
tore at her legs but she pressed on, leaping a ditch, ducking a fallen trunk,
veering into a narrow animal trail. The footsteps behind faded. She pressed
against a tree, holding her breath until her skull throbbed. Only when silence
returned did she creep out.
Her legs trembled. She staggered free of the treeline into a small wheat
field, stalks brushing her calves. A wooden hut stood at its edge, low fence
bound with twigs. On the porch, an old woman in grey worked bundles of grain.
Her hair was white, tied simple; her back thin but upright.
Elara nearly collapsed reaching the porch. The woman turned swiftly.
"Sit," she ordered. She pointed to a stool. "You're starving and parched."
Elara obeyed. The world tilted. The woman pressed a cup of water and a crust
of bread into her hands.
"Water first," she instructed. "Slow. Then dip the bread."
Elara drank in sips, then soaked the bread and chewed carefully. Warmth
spread; the shaking eased.
"Your name?" the woman asked once she was sure Elara could swallow.
Elara lifted her head. "Clara," she said. "I was a maid. Our caravan was
attacked. I ran, and lost my way."
The woman nodded as if such tales had grown common. "The northern road's
cursed these days. Many don't return."
"I don't know where to go," Elara admitted, staring at her dirt-caked hands.
"My name is Marta Evendor," the woman said. "Years ago, when Arthur burned
out the Demonic Cult, I went with the townsfolk to clear the ruins. I saw my
grandson among the dead. He was your age." She paused. Her eyes did not weep,
but her voice shortened. "Since then, I've been alone."
Elara kept silent, the ache in her chest strange—guilt and relief together,
that someone still offered kindness.
"This farm is small," Marta went on. "Half of it is too much for my hands.
Willowdale's a modest town. Quiet people. Stay here if you wish. Help me with
the field and the house. In town, folk will look at you once, then forget
you—if you keep your head down."
Elara looked at her, torn between doubt and gratitude. "You're not afraid
I'm lying?"
"Those with evil intent come holding knives, not stumbling ready to faint,"
Marta said simply. "You need a roof. I need hands. That's enough."
Relief broke from Elara's chest. "Then I'll do all I can."
"Good." Marta fetched clean cloth, washed the scratches on Elara's legs, and
bound them neat. "Not too tight. You'll still need to walk."
By late afternoon they set out for Willowdale. The dirt road passed gardens,
chicken coops, and hedges. The sun leaned west, its heat fading to a breeze
that smelled of flour and hide.
At the town's edge a crooked sign read: WILLOWDALE. Inside, life moved plain
and steady. Children hauled hay, a cobbler hammered soles, a monk swept the
cracked churchyard. Faces turned briefly to the newcomer, then away. As Marta
promised—noticed, then forgotten.
At the grocer's, Marta bought salt and bandages. The shopkeeper eyed Elara.
"New?"
"Our caravan was attacked," she said softly, eyes down. "I alone survived."
"Mm." He weighed the salt, asked no more. Bad news was no rarity here.
On the way back, Marta laid rules. "Morning: fetch water, sweep the porch,
check the fence. Noon: help in the field—slow, you're not healed yet. Evening:
rest. And if anyone pries about your past, answer short. Good folk don't need
long tales to lend a hand. Bad folk want them, to find holes."
"Yes," Elara said. She memorized every word. My name is Clara. A maid who
fled bandits. Remember the breath. Remember the walk. And never touch the ring
where eyes can see.
At home, Marta spread a clean blanket in a corner. "This is yours. Not a
palace bed," she said with a faint smile, "but dry."
Elara exhaled. "Thank you, Marta."
Night fell. Outside, Willowdale quieted—dogs stilled, chickens settled,
doors closed. Elara sat by the window, staring at the dark glass. She touched
her pocket once—just once—the ring's cold weight steadying her thoughts.
Clara for the world. Elara for myself.
She lay down, not yet asleep. Tomorrow's tasks lined in her mind: learn the
price of grain, remember the neighbors' names, note who talked much and who
listened. In Riverbend, she read the river from palace balconies. Here, she
must learn to read its currents from soil, from steps, from the knots on a
sack.
For the first time since the harvest feast, she drew a long breath without
fearing ears around her. Not peace, but enough. Tomorrow she would wake as
Clara, working Marta Evendor's small field, quietly gathering strength.
And far behind, the river still flowed. It did not call, it did not drive
her away. It only reminded, in the voice it had always kept: the road home
exists, so long as she endures to seek it.