Eternity of the Shattered Crown

The night was thick with silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that carried tension, waiting. It pressed against the walls of Eldermere, seeping into its streets, into its homes, into the breath of every man and woman within.

Aric lay on his cot, eyes open, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. He hadn't slept. He couldn't.

Lira's words from earlier still lingered in his mind.

"There's talk of killing you."

It wasn't fear that kept him awake. It was the anticipation. The certainty that it was only a matter of time before someone made their move.

And then—

The door creaked.

So quiet. So careful.

But not careful enough.

His hand was on his sword before the breath of movement crossed the threshold.

The blade whispered from its sheath as he rolled off the cot, just as the first shadow lunged.

A glint of steel flashed through the dark. A dagger meant for his throat.

Aric's blade met it in a clash of metal, the impact rattling his bones. The attacker—a hooded figure, face masked in black cloth—staggered back, stunned for only a second before recovering.

But a second was all Aric needed.

He drove forward, slamming the pommel of his sword into the assassin's ribs. A sharp exhale of pain. The figure stumbled, but another was already behind him.

Two of them. Maybe more.

He had been waiting for them. But they had been waiting for him too.

----

The second assassin moved fast, a flicker of shadow in the dim moonlight. Aric barely had time to parry before a third figure emerged from the doorway.

Three.

He twisted, deflecting one blade, stepping back just in time to avoid another. No armor. No warning. Just death, quick and silent.

A faint whisper filled the air, so soft it almost wasn't there.

"The Rift must not rise."

A dagger slashed at his ribs. Too close. He felt the sting, the warmth of blood soaking into his shirt. But he ignored it, focusing only on the movement, on the kill.

Aric sidestepped, blade cutting up. He felt the resistance of flesh, then the wet gasp of breath as the first assassin collapsed, clutching at the wound.

One down.

But the other two pressed forward, and Aric knew—this wasn't just a simple act of rebellion.

This was an execution.

And he was the target.

----

The fight spilled into the hall. Footsteps pounded against wood as the assassins adjusted, moving fast, pressing the attack before he could turn the tide.

But they weren't fast enough.

Aric dodged, pivoting at the last second, twisting around one attacker and driving his blade into their back. A choked cry. Blood sprayed against the floorboards.

Two down.

The last assassin hesitated. A mistake.

Aric lunged, knocking the dagger from the man's grip and slamming him into the wall. The assassin struggled, but Aric's grip tightened around his throat, pressing him back.

"Who sent you?"

No answer.

Aric drove his knee into the man's ribs, hard enough to feel something crack. The assassin gasped in pain.

"Who sent you?" he repeated, voice low, controlled.

Still, nothing.

Aric pulled back his blade, pressing the tip just under the man's chin. "I don't ask a third time."

The assassin shuddered. Then, softly, bitterly—he laughed.

"You think you matter?" he rasped. "You think you're anything but a shadow of a dead king?"

Aric's pulse slowed.

A cold, crawling sensation moved down his spine.

This man knew something.

"Who are you?" Aric asked again.

The assassin only smiled, his lips splitting into a bloody grin.

"You should have stayed dead."

And then, before Aric could react, the assassin bit down on something.

A sickening crunch. A violent shudder.

Poison.

His body went limp in Aric's grasp.

And just like that—his only lead was gone.

----

The village was awake now. The commotion had drawn people from their homes, torches flickering in the cold night air. The bodies of the dead assassins lay in the dirt, blood pooling beneath them.

Kael arrived first, bare-chested, daggers still in hand. He took one look at the scene, then exhaled.

"Well. That was fast."

Lira followed, her expression unreadable. But Aric caught the way her gaze flickered toward the villagers. Toward the ones who looked too nervous. Too tense.

They weren't all surprised.

Some of them had expected this.

Kael crouched, inspecting the corpse of the last assassin. He reached inside the man's cloak, pulling something free. A metal crest, tarnished, but unmistakable.

A noble insignia.

Aric took it, his fingers tightening around the cold metal.

So, this wasn't just the work of Eldermere's discontent. This was bigger.

Someone outside wanted him dead.

And now, he had proof.

----

The villagers gathered in silence, watching. Some with fear. Some with uncertainty.

And some—a few—with something else.

Regret.

Aric stepped forward, still gripping the noble crest in one hand. His sword was still bloodied in the other. He turned, letting his gaze sweep over the gathered crowd.

One of the dead assassins had come from outside.

But the other two?

Villagers.

His people.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Calm.

"Who else?"

No one answered.

But the tension thickened.

Lira stepped beside him, arms folded. "There's more of them," she murmured. "Maybe not all are willing to kill you. But they're here."

Aric already knew.

He could feel it.

There were still snakes in the village. And if he let them live, if he let this attempt pass, it would only happen again.

Kael exhaled beside him. "Well? What now, Lord Aric?"

The title was mocking. But the weight of it wasn't.

What now?

That was the question, wasn't it?

The village was waiting. Watching.

Would he let the traitors live? Would he punish them?

Would he make an example of them?

His fingers tightened around his sword.

And he made his decision.