Eternity of the Shattered Crown

The scent of burning bodies clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Even though the fires had long since died down, the stench of charred flesh refused to leave Eldermere. It seeped into the wooden walls of homes, into the dirt of the village square—a reminder that war had come, and war had stayed.

Aric stood at the eastern wall, his gaze fixed on the ruined tree line where Garrick's rebellion had been buried. A part of him still expected to see movement among the ashes—a shadow shifting, an eye opening, a mouth twisting into a silent scream.

Because he had seen it happen.

The bodies of the dead had not all stayed dead.

And even now, he felt them.

Watching. Waiting.

The Rift had not left him.

And it was hungry.

Behind him, the village whispered.

They feared him. They revered him.

And today, they demanded an answer.

At Eldermere's gates, the last remnants of Garrick's rebellion were kneeling in the dirt.

Twelve men.

Dirty. Wounded. Begging for their lives.

And the village wanted them dead.

----

Eldermere had not celebrated their victory.

The people had expected to feel relief when Garrick fell, but instead, they felt unease.

Because even in death, the war had not ended.

Rumors spread like disease.

"Did you hear what happened on the battlefield?"

"They say some of the dead didn't burn."

"The Rift… it touched them."

"Is it the gods punishing us?"

"Or is it him?"

They didn't say Aric's name.

But they didn't have to.

Some called him a savior. Others called him a curse.

And now, with broken rebels at their gates, the village demanded to know: Who was Aric truly?

A ruler?

A tyrant?

Or something far worse?

----

The iron gates of Eldermere groaned as they were unlatched. The wooden beams, reinforced after the battle, creaked under the strain, as if the village itself was protesting letting in the enemy.

Beyond the walls, a dozen figures knelt in the frozen dirt.

Most were boys. Barely men. Their faces were hollow with exhaustion, their clothes torn and stiff with dried blood. Some clutched wounds that had gone untreated, while others barely had the strength to lift their heads.

But they all shared the same look in their eyes.

Desperation.

Not for battle.

Not for another chance to fight.

But for life.

The moment Aric stepped forward, they bowed.

Foreheads pressed to the earth. Submissive.

Weak.

"Please," one of them rasped. A boy. No older than sixteen. His lips were cracked, his voice barely above a whisper. "We surrender. We were forced to fight. We don't want to die."

Behind Aric, the crowd stirred.

The village had gathered at the gates—not to offer forgiveness.

But to witness judgment.

And they wanted blood.

"You should kill them, Aric," a man shouted.

"They fought against us!" another voice added.

A woman stepped forward, her eyes red with grief. "My husband died in that battle. Do their lives mean more than his?"

The crowd rumbled in agreement.

The people of Eldermere had not been satisfied with victory.

They wanted vengeance.

Lira muttered under her breath, stepping closer to Aric. "You can't let them live."

Kael, standing on his other side, was silent.

Waiting.

Because this decision would define him.

Would he be a ruler or a tyrant?

Would he spill more blood… or show mercy?

----

Aric stepped toward the kneeling rebels, his boots crushing the blood-stained earth beneath him.

The boy—**the one who had begged first—**tensed as Aric stopped before him.

The sword at Aric's side felt heavier than usual.

Would it be so easy? To end this here?

To give the people what they wanted?

Aric's fingers curled around the hilt.

The boy shut his eyes.

And then—Aric let go.

He turned, facing the gathered villagers. "They will live."

Silence.

The rage in the crowd crackled like a fire.

"What?!" a man spat. "You can't be serious!"

"They fought against us!"

"They deserve to die!"

Aric's voice cut through them like steel.

"They will serve Eldermere," he said. "They will work. They will fight. And when the time comes, they will be given a choice—swear loyalty or leave."

Lira scoffed. "You're putting traitors inside our walls."

"I'm putting survivors inside our walls," Aric corrected.

"Slaves," Kael muttered.

Aric turned to him. "They lost their right to freedom when they raised swords against us. They will prove their worth—or they will be discarded."

The villagers did not look satisfied.

But none dared to argue further.

The judgment had been given.

The Warlord had spoken.

And his mercy had its price.

----

As the prisoners were dragged inside, Lira grabbed Aric's arm, pulling him away from the crowd.

"This was a mistake," she hissed. "If you wanted them dead, you should've killed them. If you wanted them alive, you should've welcomed them. This? This is worse than either."

Aric met her glare. "Why?"

"Because now they have nothing to lose."

Aric said nothing.

Because deep down—he knew she was right.

Kael exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And what happens when the nobles come? You think these men will fight for you? Or turn on you?"

"If they betray me, they die," Aric said simply.

Lira clicked her tongue, stepping back. "You're playing a dangerous game, Aric. Just make sure you don't lose."

For the first time, his closest allies were questioning him.

And that unsettled him more than any army.

----

That night, Aric stood at the walls of Eldermere, staring at the horizon.

A storm was coming.

But this was no ordinary storm.

The clouds above were twisted, pulsing with unnatural light.

The air hummed.

And then—a whisper.

Not in the wind.

Not in the village.

Inside him.

"You are not the first."

Aric tensed.

"You will not be the last."

Lightning split the sky.

The Rift was watching.

And something was coming.