King Meriel dragged his horse across the drawbridge of Izzadar. A filthy cloak covered him, its hem trailing through the mud. His head was lowered, his chin nearly touching his chest. The horse followed behind, its head hanging low, its steps slow. There was no procession. No banners. Only a man. A horse. And a road.
He entered through the gate and walked through the alleys of the King's City. The sounds of labour melted into the air: the hammering of smiths, the creaking of wheels, the calls of vendors. The sounds intertwined, as if coming from beneath water.
He passed by the beggars. They lay sleeping on the ground—on every corner, on every doorstep. Bodies wrapped in rags. Faces covered. The smell of mould rose from the walls.
With each step, a beggar appeared. An outstretched hand. Hollow eyes. "Silver. Just enough to buy food for the day."
Meriel tossed coins without stopping, without looking. His hand moved from his pocket to the outstretched palms, from his pocket to the hands, like a machine. His fingers did not pause. His eyes did not rise.
He looked upon his kingdom drowning in chaos. A kingdom he had not given his full attention. He forgot he was a king. He forgot his people.
He walked. He felt he had betrayed everyone. A single tear gathered in his right eye. It fell. He wiped it with his filthy sleeve, the fabric scraping against his skin.
He felt he had destroyed everything through his stubbornness. He felt responsible for everything happening. He passed through a dark alley. On a wall, there was a phrase drawn in black charcoal:
"The king's sons did not die. Thousands of the kingdom's sons died. And still more to offer."
Meriel stopped. He read it. Twice. Three times. His hand rose and pressed against the wall beside the words, his fingers spread against the cold stone. The letters wavered before him. Or perhaps it was his eyes.
He knew he was trapped. The crown was never a symbol of power. It was a symbol of responsibility. Something he had failed at.
Inside Izzadar's palace, the day was noisy. Noisy with preparations. The palace was being readied. They knew the king would come with his men soon, after the Thornholl round ended. Servants ran. Doors opened and closed. Orders rang out.
Sereine ran, an armful of wood in her hands. She ran to the hearth, placed the wood, took a torch from the palace's torches, and lit the fire. The flame danced. It rose. She stepped back, her hand shielding her face from the heat.
As she walked back out, she heard the great gate open. She stopped. She was curious. What did this king called Meriel look like?
She approached the door and peered through the crack. Her fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe.
She saw a man in a filthy robe. He seemed broken, lost. His beard was thick. His eyes were weary, sunken. They stared at the ground.
Sereine watched as Meriel stood before his sister Layla.
He could not look her in the eye—just as he could not look his people in the eye.
Layla stood. She fidgeted with her fingers, quick and nervous—twisting them, releasing them, twisting again. Her back was rigid. Her neck was stiff.
"What is wrong? Why can you not raise your head?" said Layla. Her voice was sharp, but it trembled at the edges. She stepped closer, her chin lifting. "Look at me, Meriel. Look at me."
Meriel did not lift his head. He merely stared at the floor. His shoulders were bowed, as though something invisible pressed down on them.
"Gerald... your brother. My brother," he said. His voice was hoarse, cracked, as if the words had to be dragged out of him. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching. "Forgive me. I have failed again."
Layla looked at him. Her fingers moved faster, stopped, then resumed. She wrung them together until the knuckles paled.
"What are you saying? Gerald is not with you? He must be in Ironfield. Surely." She said it quickly, her head tilting as if trying to catch a lie. Her eyes searched his face, darting from his brow to his lips to his hands.
"No. He is dead. Gerald is dead."
Layla slapped Meriel. Hard. Her arm swung wide, her palm connecting with his cheek. The sound was sharp. It echoed down the corridor. The slap shattered that heavy silence.
Layla did not move afterward. She stood in place, her arm still raised, as if she could not believe she had done it. Her fingers were still spread. Her breath came fast.
"How dare you speak of Gerald that way? Have you lost your mind? He is your brother! How dare you?" Her voice broke, rising and falling like a wounded animal. Her hand dropped to her side, then rose to her mouth.
Meriel touched his cheek. Felt the sting of the slap. He said nothing. His hand fell back to his side.
Layla was leaving. She turned, her robes swirling around her ankles. She was saying, "I want to go to Ironfield now."
"Forgive me," said Meriel. This time he looked directly at her. His eyes, red-rimmed and sunken, found hers and held them. "Your brother is dead."
Layla looked at him from the side. She did not believe him. But Meriel's gaze was real. She stepped closer—one step, then another. Her eyes were sunken, searching. Then she said:
"Get out now."
"Alright. I will leave if that is what you wish." Meriel's voice was low, empty. He turned and began to walk. His boots scraped against the stone.
"Stop," said Layla. Her voice cut through the air. She did not turn to face him fully—she spoke to his back. "You are running again. You are not what I thought you were. You always love to run. That is what you do best." Her voice rose, cracking. "Your wife. Your sons. Your brother. Your people. Me. You have betrayed everyone. You should know that now. Run and hide. That is what you are good at."
She paused. Her eyes were full of tears, but they did not fall. Her hands were clenched at her sides.
"Gerald... should have stayed alive. You are the one who deserves to die."
Meriel could no longer look. He walked out of the palace. He looked at the sky. The clouds were gathering. The sound of thunder struck—loud, as if slapping the sky, or as if slapping something inside Meriel.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Meriel looked at one of the palace guards.
"Follow me," he said, his voice flat.
"Yes, my lord." The guard straightened, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
Meriel hid himself again in the filthy cloak. He walked through the corridors of Izzadar, out of the King's City. They walked through the towns of the Long Plain until they reached the Deep South Forest.
Rain poured heavily. The drops were thick and struck the ground with force. The river below raged. Its voice was loud, roaring.
Meriel stood on a hill. He looked at the river, at the black water, at the current. His cloak was soaked, clinging to his shoulders.
"It is a strange day, is it not?" he said, without turning. His voice was calm, but there was something final in it.
"Yes, my lord. It has not rained for days." The guard shifted his weight, his boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. His hand rested on his sword belt.
"What is your name, warrior? You look very young." Meriel's eyes were still on the river.
"My name is Brad, my lord. Brad of Geth." The boy's voice was eager, but his hands were restless on his sword belt, adjusting and readjusting the buckle.
"Have you ever fought? Or killed anyone?"
"I stand all day guarding the palace. But my lord, I carry a sword to use it, not to stand with it all day. It is heavier that way." Brad gave a small, uncertain smile, his shoulders lifting slightly.
"Do you complain about your duty?"
"No, my lord, I do not." Brad shook his head quickly, his hand rising from the belt. "I only say that I might be better as a fighter than a stander. My little sister is all I have. She said so. She said I am a good and honourable knight." His chest puffed slightly, his chin lifting a fraction.
Meriel smiled. "Have you tested your honour and loyalty before?"
"No, my lord. But I wait every day. I am ready to make your enemies bow in fear." The boy's grip tightened on his belt, his knuckles paling.
Meriel smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes. "To what did you swear, boy?"
"I swore to defend Izzadar, its people, and its king." Brad spoke the words as though reciting them from memory, his back straightening.
Meriel walked to the edge of the hill. He looked at the river below.
"Good, boy. It seems you know your oath. This is the day you have waited for, boy. This day your sword will become useful. And as you swore, you will protect your kingdom and your people with it... from me."
Brad looked at Meriel. His brow furrowed, his mouth opening slightly. "I do not understand, my lord."
"Use your sword on me. Kill me. Then throw my body into the river. No one will find me. No one knows you accompanied me. I made sure of that the whole way here. Come, boy. Prove your loyalty to your kingdom." Meriel spread his arms slightly, as if welcoming the blow. The rain ran down his face like tears.
"But, my lord, I swore to protect you. Even you." Brad's voice cracked. He took a step back, his boots sliding on the wet grass.
"What if the safety of the people is threatened because of the king? Would you protect the king at the expense of thousands of innocent people, including your sister?" Meriel's voice hardened. "Go ahead and do as I told you. Do you refuse an order from me? If you do not do it now, I will throw you off this hill."
Brad hesitated. He raised his sword slowly. His hands trembled. He looked at Meriel, at the sword, at the river. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"Please forgive me," he whispered.
"Just do it. You are the one who should forgive me, because I made you do this. Come now. Approach. I want you to aim your sword precisely and swiftly. I cannot wait." Meriel closed his eyes for a moment.
Brad approached, panting, trembling. When he drew near, he readied himself to cut Meriel's neck.
"Here I go."
He swung his sword.
Meriel closed his eyes. He was smiling.
But when he opened them, he found Brad had not finished. His sword stopped directly beside his neck. Brad's eyes were wide, shocked.
"What is happening? I cannot move my sword! I cannot move anything!" Brad's voice rose in panic. He stepped back against his will—one foot dragging, then the other—as if someone were pulling him. He tried to resist, his feet slipping on the mud, his free hand clawing at the air.
"Help me! I cannot move!"
"What is wrong with you, boy?" Meriel's voice was sharp now, his eyes narrowing. He stepped forward, one hand reaching out.
Suddenly the boy stopped. His head tilted back toward the sky. A strange sound came from his throat—a strangled, choking noise. His sword fell, landing point-first in the mud.
Then his head returned. He looked at Meriel with terrifying speed.
"...Do not die. Please." The voice was not Brad's. It was higher, younger, strained. The boy's mouth moved stiffly, as if the words were being forced through him.
Meriel was stunned in his place. He was processing. His hand, which had been reaching out, froze in the air.
"What are you doing?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"I see much death. But I do not wish to see yours, father." The boy's lips moved unnaturally, his eyes unfocused.
Brad stepped back. He picked up his sword. Turned it. Pointed it at his own chest.
Then he stabbed himself. The sword pierced through and came out the other side.
"No! Don't jump!" Meriel lunged forward, his hand outstretched, his fingers grasping at nothing.
But it was too late.
Brad fell into the river. The waters swept him away.
Meriel screamed. His scream mingled with the thunder.
Valkryn
King Sam entered through its living, shining walls. The people loved Sam. They saw him as a lucky charm for his kingdom. The boy who raised Valkryn from the depths of drought to abundance and prosperity.
Sam smiled. He rode his horse. One of Valkryn's children sat before him. Sam placed his hand on the child's head, patting it, while greeting his people with the other hand. His arm swept wide, waving to the left, then the right.
The people showed their gratitude by shouting his name. "Long live King Sam! Long live King Sam!"
When Sam reached the first gate of the palace, he dismounted. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud. He was entering when a woman stopped him. She wore a robe that hid her face.
"May I have a word with you, Your Grace?" Her voice was low, cautious. Her hands were hidden in her sleeves.
Sam leaned down to see her face, his head tilting. "It is you, lady of Whores. Why do you hide your face? have you become ashamed of what you are? that's an improvement." He stroked his horse's neck, his fingers moving through the coarse hair. "What are you doing outside? I have already found you a name: Council whore." He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
"Stop with the insults. Perhaps you will hear something useful." Her posture was tense, her shoulders drawn up.
"What do you have?"
"Not everyone left the palace as I did. I did not want to leave it either. But one of them was wearing a mask, I thought it was hiding his ugliness, but it was much bigger than that, You have a problem, young king, a big one." She spoke quickly, her words tumbling over each other.
"I think the bad thing about the new members is that they don't know me well. I don't have a problem; I'm the problem. The old members realized that.?" Sam's hand stopped moving on the horse's neck.
"Whatever you say, young king, we shall see. now I know you're looking for a bride and I know where she is. But that is your last concern now. Once things return to their normal, come find me." She turned slightly, ready to leave.
"Where?" Sam's voice sharpened. He took a step toward her.
She said: "The snake sheds its skin, but not its truth."
Sam said angrily, his hand snapping out to grab her arm: " I mean, where is she? Tell me. I am not asking. I am commanding you."
"Only the king has the right to do so, are you the king? go and see for yourself." She pulled her arm free and walked away.
Sam was processing what was happening while she disappeared into the crowd.
Sam entered the gate. He looked at his guards beside him. "What the hell is happening?"
"We do not know, my lord. We have been with you the whole time." The guard's face was pale.
Sam entered the palace and headed to the throne room alone.
When he entered, the hall was as usual—cold. The sound of wind echoed in it. Light streamed through its tall windows, casting shadows upon the historical statues.
But something was out of place.
Kormel stood beside the throne. While Holland, the burnt man, sat upon the throne.
"How did you used to sit on this throne?" said Holland, shifting as if the seat was made of stone. His hand pressed against the armrest, then withdrew. "It is not comfortable at all. It's irritating my burns."
Sam shouted: "Guards!"
The guards entered quickly.
" It seems you let our guests take more than they deserved. arrest that freak. He has forgotten his place. I will remind him later." Sam's voice was hard, but his eyes were fixed on his sister.
The guards did not move.
"Why should they obey your order?" said Holland, gesturing to the guards who had not moved from their places. "Days have passed since your journey. and days changes many things. Don't you see?" He leaned back in the throne, one finger tapping the armrest.
Sam looked at Kormel. "What the hell is happening? Explain this, sister. What is he doing in my place?"
Kormel looked at Sam. She descended the steps and approached him. Then she slapped him with all her might.
"Your place? you spoiled, hideous child. Someone should have come to put you back in your place. Stable boy." Her voice was cold, but her hand trembled as she lowered it.
She left the throne room.
Sam shouted behind her, his voice cracking: "The day will come when you will have to adapt to having only one hand. I promise you that, sister!"
Holland said: "Hey, hey. You are not in a position to do that now. You should come and lick my toes, because I did not tear off yours." He smiled beneath the mask, the burnt flesh stretching.
Sam looked at him. "By what right do you sit on that throne? What did you do to my guards that they no longer obey their king—magic?"
"I did nothing. In fact, your father did. Your father is the one who entrusted me with his succession to rule Valkryn. He did not trust you. A bastard son brought from a stable, full of horse shit. He did not see that you would be a good king. A boy who grew up among horse shit will have his brain rotted." Holland's voice was calm, almost pitying.
"Who are you?"
Holland said: "I am his brother. While you grew up in the stable, I chose the library. You can see that on my skin."
"I have never seen you."
"As I told you, I was in the library the whole time. But the man who seeks power over knowledge will never know."
Holland removed his mask. The face was disfigured. Melted skin. Scars.
"Do you know why I burned like this? Because I did everything I could to save him. And indeed, I got him out of the library. He was more alive than me and you. He refused. He refused to leave me. But I could not get out of that library because I was a coward." He paused, his ruined face unreadable.
"When I got him out, I looked through the door's crack. I saw him on the ground. And his crown was being carried by a bastard from his blood. He was only sixteen years old. When I looked into that boy's eyes, I saw something that the library fire could never show me." His voice was steady, but his one good eye gleamed.
"This is nonsense. Father never told me about you." Sam's fists clenched at his sides.
"I only told him to tell the trustworthy. Perhaps that is the reason. Now, will you not ask about your position?" Holland tilted his head, the mask back in place. "I do not want this prickly throne. Or this heavy crown. I do not want these high walls. I do not wish to be king. I only wish for two things: Kormel's safety, and the truth to be revealed." He paused, his chest rising and falling.
"If the charges against you are proven, you are a murderer of relatives, a king slayer. You will be executed by stoning. Stones thrown by the people who cheered when you entered these walls. And if you are innocent, I will leave the throne and disappear. Now, you will remain a king in the eyes of your people. But here, I have the final word." Holland's voice was calm, final.
"Have you gone mad? ? Do you think I will allow this?" Sam ran toward him, shouting, "Count your days, uncle. I will make you meet your friend one last time. I will burn you alive!"
But the guards stopped him. Even brought him to the ground.
"Escort the child to his chamber. And ensure he stays there until I command otherwise." Holland waved a hand.
The guards escorted Sam to his chamber against his will. He shouted: "I will cut all your throats, you vile traitors!"