The Price of the Crown
The wind howled like a feral beast outside the castle walls, tearing at the ancient stones of the Arinthian royal keep. Within, the throne room was silent, its cold, oppressive atmosphere undisturbed by the storm outside. The flicker of torches cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, but the air remained frigid, untouched by any warmth.
Kane stood near the throne, his hand gripping the pommel of the sword that now defined his rule. The steel was as cold as the blood running through his veins, its weight a familiar one. But tonight, it felt heavier, like an extension of the burden that came with the crown now resting on his brow.
His gaze fell on Absalom Locke, the man kneeling in the center of the room, wrists bound behind his back. Absalom, once his closest friend, once the man who had stood by his side through the darkest of nights. Now a prisoner, awaiting his execution. Absalom’s usual cocky smirk was gone, replaced by a hard, defiant stare. Even now, bound and at Kane’s mercy, he dared to meet the king’s gaze without fear.
“Kane...” The name rolled off Absalom’s tongue like a challenge, the refusal to address him as “Majesty” hanging in the air like a slap. “You don’t have to do this.”
Kane stood in silence, his expression unreadable, though his grip on the sword tightened. He could feel the tension in the room, the anticipation of the guards who flanked Absalom, waiting for the king’s word. His heart pounded in his chest, the echoes of the past crowding in on him, as if every mistake, every decision, was pressing down on him all at once.
“You think I have a choice?” Kane’s voice was low, the weight of the question heavy with meaning.
A gust of wind slammed against the windows, rattling the glass in its frames. The storm had been raging for hours, its fury as wild as the unrest that now consumed the kingdom Kane had inherited. Outside, the people still whispered of the rebellion, of the civil war that had claimed so many lives—including the life of Kane’s father, the previous king. Inside, the ghosts of those decisions haunted him.
“You always have a choice,” Absalom replied, his voice steady despite the noose tightening around him. “You don’t have to become your father.”
Kane’s eyes narrowed, the pain of the accusation hitting harder than he expected. Absalom knew exactly where to strike, as he always had.
The room fell into a cold, oppressive silence, and for a moment, it felt like the walls themselves were closing in on Kane. He could almost hear the voices from the past, whispering in the shadows, reminding him of the cost of the crown he now wore. The crown that had come not through peace, but through bloodshed.
The memory surged, pulling Kane back to the night that had set this chain of events into motion.
The castle of Virelund had been a ruin, ancient and foreboding, much like the decaying halls they stood in now. Kane remembered the feel of the damp stone under his boots, the oppressive weight of the air, thick with the scent of mildew and rot. The halls had been silent but alive with the pulse of something deeper—something Kane couldn’t explain, but felt in his bones.
He and Absalom had come alone, risking everything to steal the artifact that had fueled the decades-long tension between Virelund and Arinthia. It was the key to the war, the reason Virelund’s king, Cedric, believed he had a right to invade Arinthian lands. Destroying it meant peace. Destroying it meant no one would ever have claim to its power again.
Absalom had crouched beside him in the shadows as they navigated the maze of corridors, sniffing the ground, his fingers feeling the earth for some unseen clue. Kane had always trusted Absalom’s instincts—he had a sixth sense for things that couldn’t be explained.
“There’s something more to this place,” Absalom had whispered that night. “I can feel it in the air. It’s not just the artifact. Cedric’s men... they know we’re here.”
Kane had nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He, too, had felt the heavy presence in the air. It weighed on his chest, each breath a little harder than the last. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding the artifact and stopping the war.
When they had finally reached the chamber, it was smaller than expected, the air inside stifling. The artifact—an orb of polished black stone—rested on a pedestal at the center of the room, its surface etched with glowing runes. The air had pulsed with its energy, the room thrumming with a force Kane could feel vibrating through his bones.
“Destroy it,” Kane had said, his voice tight with urgency. He could feel the pull of the artifact, the temptation of its power. But he had known better than to trust it.
Absalom, however, had hesitated. His eyes lingered on the orb, a gleam of something darker flickering in his gaze. “We could use this, Kane,” he had said quietly. “This could change everything. Not just the war. We could control it. You could control it.”
Kane had felt it, too—the power thrumming in the air, promising more than just victory. But he had made his decision. He had raised his sword, ready to destroy the artifact and end the threat to their kingdom.
But that night, the guards had come before the deed was done. A battle had erupted in the halls, their escape frantic. And when the artifact finally shattered beneath Kane’s blade, the power it unleashed had nearly consumed them both. The destruction had left a mark on them, something neither of them could erase.
But it wasn’t the artifact that had destroyed them—it was what came after.
The rebellion had been swift, brutal. Kane’s father, jealous of the young prince’s growing popularity, had turned against his own son. Absalom’s boasting about their mission, about the artifact’s destruction, had been the spark that ignited the flames of war. A civil war had torn through Arinthia, father and son locked in a bloody struggle for the crown.
Kane had won, but at the cost of his father’s life, at the cost of the kingdom’s unity. He had been forced to rise from the ashes, crowned king amid the wreckage of their civil war. And Absalom, the man who had once stood beside him, had become a symbol of betrayal.
“You don’t understand what you’ve done,” Kane said now, his voice cold as steel. “You cost me everything.”
Absalom raised his chin defiantly, though Kane could see the flicker of fear in his eyes. “I gave you everything,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I made you king. I ma—“
Kane’s gaze hardened. “A reality that time would have taken care of on its own without your reckless intervention! Your inability to stow your own pride and silence your own tongue cost hundreds of families. It cost the premature end of my father’s life. And he was not just my father! “ Kane said, his voice rising in barely controlled anger. “He was my king! He was your king! And you were supposed to have been my friend!”
“I’ve always been your friend, Kane!”
“It is MAJESTY,” Kane screamed as he slammed a signet-ringed backhand across the side of his old friend’s face. His ring left a gash and blood spilled immediately down Absolam’s face and onto his shirt.
Silence fell, the words lingering between them like a knife poised to strike. Outside, the storm raged on, battering the castle with relentless fury. The weight of the crown felt heavier on Kane’s head, the burden of rule pressing down on his shoulders. His father had feared his popularity and natural affinity with people would be a burden and might make him a king too soon. And now, standing here, Kane wondered if his father had been right.
Absalom had taken that choice from him, forcing him onto the throne through violence and betrayal.
“The kingdom still bleeds because of you,” Kane continued, his voice now low. “And you think I will let you live?”
Absalom’s breath caught, his bravado slipping for the first time. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he said quickly, desperation creeping into his tone. “You know I didn’t.”
“You wanted to be a hero,” Kane spat, stepping closer, the anger again breaking through the calm mask he tried to wear. “You wanted the glory. And now you’ll have it—regardless of what I do. But that does not excuse your betrayal.”
Absalom’s eyes widened as Kane drew his sword, the blade glinting in the dim light of the torches. There were no more words to be spoken. Kane had made his decision. He wouldn’t leave this to his guards. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with this burden.
Absalom opened his mouth to speak, but the sword came down in one clean stroke, silencing him forever.
Blood splattered the cold stone floor, pooling at Kane’s feet. The smell of it was thick in the air, metallic and sharp, mingling with the dampness of the castle walls. The storm outside seemed to grow louder, the wind howling like a chorus of the damned.
Kane stood over the body of the man who had once been his brother in all but blood, the weight of the moment pressing down on him with crushing force. The sword, still dripping with Absalom’s blood, felt like a leaden weight in his hand.
The war had been prevented, but at what cost? Kane had destroyed the artifact and saved the kingdom from Virelund’s invasion, but Absalom’s arrogance had sparked a civil war that had claimed his father’s life. Kane had been forced to kill his own father, forced to take the throne by blood and fire. And now, he had killed his closest friend.
He had won the kingdom, but he had lost everything else.
As the storm raged on outside, Kane felt the crushing weight of his choices, And he began to weep. The burden of the crown he had once coveted now felt like a shackle around his neck. He had prevented the war between Arinthia and Virelund, but his kingdom was still fractured, the scars of civil war fresh and deep.
His mother, who had quietly entered the room just before the guards had brought his prisoner, who had watched him make his peace in silence, placed a loving hand on his shoulder. “You’re ready, my son,” she whispered. “You’re ready, your Majesty.”
Kane turned and took his mother into his arms as the grief of all those who had lost loved ones on his behalf tore his soul apart and he swore to God his oath to serve wisely and merit the trust that was issued to him by not only fate but by that same god and all the country too.
He had fought to stop a war with an enemy kingdom, but the real battle—the one that had torn his heart apart—had been within Arinthia. Within himself.
And it was a war he had lost—and one Arinthia would now win.
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