Trumpets bit the air like steel; the sound split along the vaulted ribs of the Hall.scattering into a thousand silver echoes. Rows of nobles leaned forward, jeweled collars shivering as the crown was raised above the hall.At the center of the hall, the dais smelled of heated metal and beeswax — smoke from the pyres where the oath-torches had been set still rose in a pale coil.
He knelt, not long, because elson favors the swift. The weight of the metal settled onto his head with a firmness that felt less like blessing and more like a brand. Cheers struck the pillars and rolled back, a martial rhythm echoing the drums he had marched to all his life.bring back memories
The herald laid a gauntleted hand on his shoulder, then withdrew a small velvet box. Inside, the Ring of Stewardship sat like a heart: a circlet of hammered iron, filigree channeling a single, blood-red crystal. The Warden did not speak the long speeches other courts preferred; he placed the ring against the duke's palm and let the crystal touch skin.
"By hearth and keep, by blade and law," intoned the Warden, voice steady as a keel. He brushed the duke's lips with oil steeped in salt from the shore — a blessing equal parts flavor and ward. The sword of office was slid across the knees, its edge dulled by ceremony but heavy enough to remind a man of blades. He took the sword, then took the ring; the motions were practiced, martial, clean. When the ring slid over his knuckle it sat warm, answering the choir's hum with a pulse that felt like a second heartbeat.
The herald stepped forward and shouted his name as if declaring a position on a map. The hall answered him in a single, almost military clap that rolled from marble to roof
He rose. His shoulders carried themselves with the swagger of campaigns won, his gaze scanning the hall not as a supplicant but as a commander measuring a battlefield. When he turned to the throne, his stride was quick, decisive; no soft ceremonial shuffle. He sat as though the chair had always been waiting for him.
Applause thundered, then ebbed. Courtiers melted into the aisles like a retreating tide. The chamber emptied in practiced order, voices trailing into corridors, until only the chandeliers kept vigil.
And at last — the new Duke sat alone.
The hall exhales as the last trumpet dies — a slow, satisfied sigh that slides between columns and lays itself across the marble. Velvet settles back into place where banners had been raised; steps thin to a distant rustle. For a moment the palace is a thing held together by breath and ornament, all gilt and echo. He sits at the center of it, crown still warm at the base of his skull, robes folding around knees like obedient men.
The new duke drums his fingers once on the throne's arm. Habit: a military rhythm, precise enough to march with. The courtiers have bowed and gone; only a few shadows hang back in doorways, like unpaid witnesses. He tastes dust and perfume and cold stone . Across the hall, a portrait watches with too-familiar contempt; its painted eyes have the economy of a judge.
On his hand the ring hums. Not a sound so much as a pressure under the skin: the crystal at its heart pulses.
Then his chest clenches.
It is not a dramatic collapse. It is a series of small betrayals: a single rib that will not sit still, a breath that catches and forgets how to be. His hand goes to the metal without thinking, fingers seeking the ring as if the stone could be a button to reset the body. His mouth opens. No sound leaves it. The silence is not emptiness but a thick, viscous thing that curls and refuses to be broken.
Pain knifes and then blunts. He tastes iron — for a flash — A boy at school, hand half-raised, shrinking as laughter found him.
A young man in a cheap suit, rehearsing power in the bathroom mirror, voice breaking on the word sir.
A middle manager, nameplate gleaming, practicing a smile that never reached anyone's eyes.
A husband who did not hear her when she said she was leaving.
A man at the podium, clapping echoing, knowing they clapped because someone told them to.
An old man staring at a brass ring on his finger, pretending it meant something.panic sets in as he doesn't recognize those alien vision
When the ache ebbs he expects relief. Instead his arms are a direction he did not choose to hold. My fingers twitch. At first I think it's the aftershock of ceremony — adrenaline leaving like steam — but the twitch is precise, deliberate: my hand curls into a fist and the fist rises as if to knock someone from a dais. The motion is not mine. I don't intend it. The muscles obey anyway
The hall leans in.
Words form in my throat. They begin polite confused then the air behind them thickens with panic, uttering words alein language coming out of his mouth in a historic flood As the dark shadows continue their silence witnessing completely unbothered
He blinks. His eyes — the world from inside them is thin as paper; the world of the eyes that look back at him from the mirror in the alcove is thick, layered with someone else's weather. In that glass his jaw is set at an angle he doesn't recognizes , carrying a weight that does not belong to him.
A voice of his own tries to form; his throat is a glove stuffed with straw. The mouth opens and shapes syllables the duke does not own. The sound that slips out is not a plea but a curse — not one he understands, It hangs in the air like a bad omen, and every shadow in the hall reaches for him.
Outside, beyond the tall windows, the city breathes on schedule: markets close, bells tidy themselves into evening. Inside the palace, the architecture shifts subtly, as if newly aware of its occupant. Stone seams that had been satisfied for centuries give and take a hair's breadth. A corner of gilding flakes like a starting smile; the floorboards whisper secrets as the hall makes room.
He watches — not from the front of his eyes but from somewhere deeper, like a messenger squinting through a keyhole — as his hand lifts the ring to its face. The crystal blinks, an answering eye. The motion is his; the intent is not. The palace answers, quietly delighted, and the crown at the back of his head tilts, ever so slightly, as if to seat itself more comfortably on someone else