The bells tolled, heavy with grief, their deep voices rolling through the capital like the slow heartbeat of a dying god. Every chime rang against the stone streets, echoed in the merchant halls and carried into the hills beyond. The city of Harta wept.
For the king was dead.
King Jameson the Just, who had ruled with strength tempered by mercy, who had known his people by name as much as by census, lay wrapped in his burial sheets. His bier sat in the grand cathedral, guarded by knights who had sworn oaths to him and his house.
Sir Darian Duskbane stood among them, his gauntleted hands clenched at his sides. The iron weight of his armor was nothing compared to the weight pressing on his chest. The late King Jameson had been more than his sovereign. He had been a friend, a guide, a light in his darkest times. Darian had fought wars at his command, had bled to keep the borders safe, had seen the old king's laughter warm a hall like fire on winter's eve.
And now all of that was gone.
The air inside the cathedral was thick with incense, heavy with the murmurs of the faithful and the grief of the court. The two young princes knelt near the bier, pale-faced and trembling, their boyish features carved by sorrow. The eldest, Prince Narion, no more than thirteen, stared at his father's shrouded form with eyes too old for his years. His brother, little Prince Calen, wept openly, clutching his brother's sleeve for comfort.
Too young, Darian thought, his jaw tightening. Too young to bear crowns. Too young to face the wolves.
And already the wolf had come.
At the far end of the cathedral, cloaked in sable, Prince Mansis stood before the gathered lords and clergy. His voice, smooth as silk, yet cold as steel, carried through the vaulted hall.
"By right of blood and by the laws of this realm, the throne passes to me, your king. Until my noble nephews are of age, I will bear the crown and the burden of rule."
Some murmured assent, others bowed their heads. But Darian's teeth ground together. He knew Mansis' words for what they were: honey poured over poison.
Darian could still see her — the memory as sharp as a blade. His wife, Eleyna, her hair glowing in the firelight, her smile soft. The day she had walked into the wrong corridor of the castle. The scream that had torn from her lips when she had seen Mansis for what he truly was. The silence that had followed, enforced with a dagger's edge.
Her blood had stained the stones of the royal halls, and no justice had ever been served. Mansis had made certain of that.
And now he was king.
Darian's hand drifted unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. He felt the leather-wrapped grip beneath his fingers, familiar as breath. One stroke, he thought. One stroke and the usurper bleeds where he stands.
But he forced the thought down, burying it under years of discipline. There were too many eyes, too many guards. Justice, if it was to come, could not come so rashly.
The ceremony dragged on, words of coronation and mourning intertwining like twisted vines. Darian barely heard them. His gaze lingered on Mansis, drinking in every cruel line of the man's smirk, every hollow echo in his false vows to protect the realm.
When it was done, the court dispersed. Some to weep, others to whisper, others still to scheme. Darian remained, standing sentinel by Jameson's bier long after the others had gone.
It was there, in the silence of fading candles, that a soft voice called his name.
"Sir Darian."
He turned, startled. From the shadows at the side of the hall, a tall, regal figure emerged. Her gown was black as raven's wings, her silver hair veiled but not hidden. Her eyes clear, sharp and commanding, belonged to a woman who had once been the power behind the throne.
The Queen-Mother, Dowager-Queen Serena.
Darian dropped to one knee, bowing his head. "My lady."
"Rise," she said, her tone brisk, though sorrow weighed heavy in her voice. "I have need of you."
He stood, studying her carefully. She had always been shrewd, wise in the ways of courts and crowns. Yet grief lined her face as much as determination now.
"Walk with me," she said.
They moved through the side corridors of the cathedral, away from listening ears. At last, beneath the vaulted crypts where kings of old slept in stone, she stopped. Her hands, delicate but firm, clasped before her.
"You know what he is," she said without preamble.
The words hung heavy in the cold air. Darian swallowed. "Aye. I know."
Her eyes flashed. "Do not hide the truth from me. I am his mother. I know what my son has become. I knew before your Eleyna bled for his silence. Do not think me blind."
Darian's breath caught. The pain of his wife's name spoken aloud burned in him like a fresh wound. "If you knew, why —"
"Because there was Jameson," she cut in, her voice trembling. "Jameson was the shield against his brother's rot. He kept the realm safe, he kept me silent, believing that when Mansis' time came, fate would intervene."
Her gaze hardened, like steel tempered in fire. "But fate is a coward, and now my grandsons are prey in their own palace."
Darian said nothing. Words failed him, choked by rage and grief alike.
"I summoned you," Serena continued, stepping closer, "because you are the one man who has seen him unmasked. The one who has suffered his crimes and lived. You swore your sword to my husband. Will you now swear it to me?"
He stared at her. "Swear it… for what purpose?"
"To topple him," she said, her voice a whisper of iron. "To cut the rot from the throne before it poisons the kingdom beyond healing."
The crypts seemed to close in around them, the weight of stone and history pressing down.
Darian's heart thundered. Here was the moment he had dreamed of, cursed for, begged the gods for in the silence of sleepless nights. Justice. Vengeance. A chance to strike back at the man who had stolen everything.
And yet —
"My lady," he said hoarsely, "if I raise my sword against a crowned king, I become an outlaw. A traitor."
Her lips curved, not into a smile but into something colder, sharper. "No, Sir Darian. You become a hero whispered of in shadows. You become the hope of a broken people. Let them call you outlaw. Legends are born in such names."
Her hand brushed against his, the gesture light but fierce. "Do this not for me, nor even for Jameson. Do it for the boys who will otherwise never see manhood. Do it for the realm."
Darian closed his eyes. He saw Eleyna's face, her blood upon the stones. He saw the frightened eyes of the young princes. He saw Mansis' smirk, dripping with cruelty.
When he opened his eyes again, the knight's oath in his heart burned anew.
"I will do it," he said, his voice a low growl. "I will see him fall."
Serena's shoulders eased, a fraction of her grief lifting. "Then may the gods walk with you, Sir Darian Duskbane. For from this day forth, your path will be hunted. But if you succeed, it will be sung of until the stars burn out."
And in the shadows of the crypt, Darian bowed his head — not to a queen, but to a cause.
The cause of a kingdom's salvation.
The bells tolled again above them, echoing through stone and bone alike. But to Darian, they no longer rang of mourning. They rang of war.