Eternity of the Shattered Crown

The morning sun rose over Eldermere, weak and pale. The kind of light that gave no warmth, no comfort—only a reminder of what had been lost.

The battle was won. But the war was not over.

And today, justice would be given.

The village square was packed, more bodies than it had ever held, yet no one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

At the center of it all, five men knelt in the dirt, hands bound behind them.

The same dirt that had soaked up the blood of the villagers who had died defending Eldermere.

The same dirt that had been stained by the betrayal of these men.

Aric stood before them, his sword resting loosely at his side.

But there was no battle here. No shields, no swords clashing, no arrows flying through the sky.

This was not war.

This was a judgment.

And all of Eldermere was watching.

----

The scent of old blood and burnt wood still clung to the streets, remnants of the battle only days before.

But this was different.

This wasn't the aftermath of war.

This was punishment.

This was about trust.

A woman in the crowd wept softly. Somewhere, a child clung to its mother's skirt, too young to understand what was happening, only knowing that something was wrong.

And in the center of it all, five traitors knelt before their people.

Aric let his gaze pass over them slowly.

Two had been caught with knives in their hands, standing over his bed.

The others had helped them plan it. Had given them information. Had let them into his house.

They had all betrayed him.

One of them—a boy, barely twenty, trembling where he knelt—refused to look up. His shoulders shook with barely suppressed sobs.

Another, an older man with gray streaking his beard, stared ahead with an empty, resigned expression.

The last—Garrick's closest friend—met Aric's gaze without fear, his chin raised, his eyes full of quiet defiance.

Lira's hand twitched on her dagger, but she didn't speak.

Kael stood with his arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

But the message in his silence was clear: They were waiting for him to act.

The village was waiting.

Aric looked at them—at the faces of the people he had fought for, bled for.

Some looked to him with trust.

Some with fear.

And some with expectation.

Because whatever he did today would decide what kind of ruler he would become.

And they would remember.

----

The silence stretched.

Then, a harsh, choked breath.

The boy—the youngest traitor—broke first.

"I—I didn't want this," he gasped, voice cracking. "I swear—I didn't want this!"

The gray-haired man beside him sneered. "Then you shouldn't have done it."

The boy flinched but didn't argue.

Aric crouched in front of him, his voice quiet but sharp. "Who ordered it?"

The boy squeezed his eyes shut.

"I—I don't know—"

Aric grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up.

"Try again."

The boy's breath hitched. His lips trembled. And then, finally, the truth came spilling out.

"It was Garrick," he rasped. "It was always Garrick."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Some looked shocked.

Some… not so much.

Lira sighed. "Of course it was."

Kael exhaled slowly. "And where is Garrick now?"

The gray-haired man smirked. "Gone."

Aric's grip on his sword tightened.

Someone had helped him escape.

And that meant this wasn't over.

----

Kael let out a sharp breath. "You know what has to happen now."

Lira tilted her head, examining the five kneeling men with a detached curiosity. "Say the word, and I'll do it myself."

The boy choked on a sob.

The gray-haired man only stared at Aric.

Waiting.

Daring him.

The village was silent, waiting.

Aric turned to look at them. At the people who had fought, bled, and survived.

And he realized—they weren't just waiting for him to punish these men.

They were waiting to see what kind of man he would become.

Would he execute them all?

Would he exile them?

Or…

Would he use them?

Aric's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

He turned to the older man—the one who had accepted his fate.

"You," Aric said. "You die here."

The man didn't flinch. Didn't beg.

He only nodded.

The blade sang through the air.

One clean stroke.

Blood splattered across the ground.

The village stiffened, inhaled, waited.

Aric turned to the remaining four.

"The rest of you?" His voice was calm. Too calm. "You work. You serve this village. You fight for it when the time comes."

One of them choked on a breath. "Y-you're letting us live?"

"You will wish I hadn't," Aric said simply.

And that was that.

The village now knew the cost of betrayal.

But they also knew the cost of mercy.

----

The blood had barely dried when a rider appeared at the edge of the village.

Clad in noble armor.

Carrying a sealed letter.

Lira muttered. "Well. That didn't take long."

Aric stepped forward, taking the message. The wax bore an unfamiliar crest.

The rider's voice was smooth. "Lord Orlan of House Renar sends his greetings."

Aric broke the seal and read the message.

A warning.

A demand.

An invitation.

Submit to House Renar. Swear fealty.

Or be destroyed.

The message was clear.

The nobles weren't waiting anymore.

They were coming.

----

Before Aric could reply, a scout rushed into the square, breathless.

"Garrick," he gasped. "He's not just gone. He's not running."

Aric's blood ran cold.

"He's raising a force. In the woods. Right now."

The rebellion was not over.

It had just begun.