Eternity of the Shattered Crown

The night air was thick with anticipation.

The forest around Eldermere had turned into a hunting ground, and Aric was its predator. The moon hung low, pale and watchful, its light flickering through the canopy as he crouched among the thick underbrush, eyes fixed on the distant glow of Garrick's campfires.

They were too many. Too exposed. Too certain of their victory.

That would be their downfall.

Behind Aric, forty men waited in silence. Hunters. Fighters. Survivors. They had been nothing but villagers weeks ago, but now, they were his army.

And tonight, they would become something else.

A blade in the dark.

A reminder that Eldermere was no longer a place of weakness.

"Hold," he whispered, voice barely above the rustle of leaves.

A tense stillness followed.

Aric could hear everything.

The distant crackle of burning wood. The soft murmur of men laughing, talking, unbothered by the night. They didn't expect an attack. They thought they had days before they needed to march.

They were wrong.

Lira appeared beside him, her silhouette barely visible in the moonlight. She was a shadow in her element, bow already nocked, eyes glinting.

"They're sloppy," she muttered. "They're barely guarding the perimeter."

"That makes this easier," Kael added from the other side, crouched low, daggers gleaming. "If we do this right, half of them will be dead before they even know they're under attack."

Aric's grip on his sword tightened. He nodded.

"Move."

And like phantoms, they descended upon the unsuspecting camp.

----

The first kill was silent.

A rebel sentry barely had time to register movement before Kael's dagger slid under his jaw. His body hit the ground with nothing more than a rustle.

Then—the first arrow flew.

Lira's shot found a man warming his hands by the fire. His body slumped forward, the flames licking hungrily at his clothes before he even had time to scream.

Then—chaos.

Aric was already moving, sword flashing as he cut through the first wave of rebels. A throat, a chest, a stomach—every strike was precise, efficient, deadly.

Cries of alarm pierced the night.

Men stumbled from their tents, some grabbing weapons, others dying before they even reached them.

Aric saw nothing but the path ahead.

A man lunged toward him, axe raised—he sidestepped, severing the tendons in the man's wrist before driving his blade through his ribs.

Another tried to rally a defense—Kael's dagger found his heart before he could shout the command.

The battle was not a battle.

It was a massacre.

Garrick's men fought, but they had already lost before they even woke up.

Aric's forces moved with trained precision, cutting through them like wolves among sheep.

And in the heart of it all, Aric moved like something more than human.

He didn't tire.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't stop.

Because this wasn't just a fight.

This was a warning.

And by dawn, no one would mistake him for anything less than a ruler.

----

By the time the fires had begun to die down, the battle was already over.

The rebels lay broken across the clearing, some still twitching as life bled out of them. The stench of death thickened the air.

But Garrick was still alive.

Kael had found him trying to flee, dragging him before Aric like a prize hound delivering its kill.

His face was bloodied, one eye swollen shut, yet his defiance burned as fiercely as ever.

Aric stood over him, sword dripping with the blood of his fallen men.

"You should have run farther," Aric said.

Garrick spat blood onto the dirt. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Aric tilted his head. "You did try."

Garrick grinned, teeth stained red. "Not hard enough, I suppose."

Lira sighed. "Just cut his throat, Aric."

But Aric wasn't finished.

"Tell me, Garrick," he said, sheathing his blade. "Did you really think you could win?"

Garrick scoffed. "It was never about winning."

That made Aric pause. "Then what was it about?"

Garrick laughed. A dry, bitter sound.

"It was about proving that you're no different," he muttered. "That no matter how much you claim to be better than the nobles, you'll become exactly like them."

Silence.

Aric held his gaze, but he said nothing.

Because Garrick wasn't wrong.

----

The sun had begun to rise, painting the sky in gray and gold.

The rebels were dead. Their leader knelt before him.

And now, all eyes were on Aric.

"You can kill me," Garrick said, voice steady. "But that won't change anything. There will always be another rebellion. Another war. Another man who stands where I stand now."

Aric stared down at him.

He could let him live.

He could send a message.

Or he could end it now.

Aric made his choice.

His sword sang through the air.

One clean stroke.

Garrick's head hit the ground before his body.

Blood pooled at Aric's feet.

He turned to his men.

"Burn the bodies," he ordered.

There would be no graves.

No martyrs.

No legends.

Only ash.

----

As the fires devoured the dead, a soldier approached, face pale.

"Sir," he rasped, voice shaking.

Aric turned. "What?"

The man swallowed hard.

"The bodies… some of them… they won't burn."

A cold wave of silence swept through the clearing.

"What do you mean?" Lira asked sharply.

The soldier hesitated, then pointed.

And Aric saw it.

Among the charred corpses, some of the bodies had not burned.

They twitched.

And their eyes…

Their eyes glowed faintly blue.

A slow, heavy breath filled the air—not from the living.

And then—

One of the dead men moved.

His head snapped up, his ruined mouth twisting into a grotesque, unnatural grin.

"The Rift remem