Chapter 2: Cracks Under the Crown
The Iron Keep was quiet during those early morning hours before dawn, save for the slight clinking of armored boots off the stone halls. Cael paced his chambers as his mind was fixed on the block. The Block—and that accursed glow danced before his eye. One artifact to rule them all? It seemed almost an insult to his years of training.
His mother's words echoed in his mind: A crown is not given, Cael; it's taken. Yet here he was, forced to play his father's twisted game. He turned to his trusted advisor, Garros, a grizzled war veteran whose loyalty was absolute.
"The old man has finally lost it," Cael growled, tightening the leather straps on his gauntlet. "Elara will plunge the kingdom into ruin if she wins.
Garros shrugged, his scarred face indifferent. "She's ambitious, but no fool. Watch for Maren."
Cael frowned. His younger brother, Prince Maren, had always been the soft one, content to fade into the background. But there was something different about him during the council—a glint in his eye that hadn't been there before.
"I'll keep an eye on him," Cael said. "And the others."
Across the Keep, in a hidden garden, Princess Elara leaned against a cold marble statue, a glass of dark wine in her hand. She wasn't alone.
"Your loyalty will be rewarded," she whispered, voice a purr. She had before her Commander Reval, head of the city's elite guard, his armor gleaming with light, but his eyes gave in to unease.
"I serve the kingdom, not individuals," he replied cautiously.
Elara's laughter was soft and dangerous. "Oh, Reval, don't insult my intelligence. Loyalty to the kingdom means loyalty to its future queen." She stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek bringing her lips near his ears. "Imagine the power you'll wield when I sit on that throne."
Reval hesitated, then bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace."
Elara smiled, satisfied. The Block was only part of the game; alliances would determine who wielded it.
Meanwhile, in the castle's lower levels, Maren paced the musty archives. His fingers traced faded maps and forgotten histories, searching for answers. The Block was no ordinary artifact, and he was determined to understand its origins.
"Looking for something, little brother?"
He spun, startled. His youngest sibling, Princess Lysandra, stood in the doorway, her blonde hair falling in loose waves. She was dressed in simple attire, but a knife at her hip was hardly discreet.
"You shouldn't be here," Maren said, raising an eyebrow.
"And you shouldn't be sneaking around here too you know," Lysandra shot back. "But here you are. Do you think you'll find a way to win Father's game in these dusty old books?"
Maren didn't say anything. He folded the map he'd been studying and tucked it into his tunic.
"Suit yourself," Lysandra said with a smirk. "Just remember, knowledge is only useful if you survive long enough to use it."
As she walked away, Maren clenched his fists. His siblings were already maneuvering, positioning themselves for the days ahead. He couldn't afford to fall behind.
The sun rose, casting a pale light over Lycaris. The game had begun, and the heirs scattered like pieces on a chessboard. Each had their strategy, their allies, and their secrets.
All unseen, the Block sat in the King's chamber, pulsing with faint light. Far from a passive thing it was, for it, too had a will. As soon as the city grew, it began whispering--calling to the seeking; promising power to him of victory and despair to the conquered one.
The cracks of the kingdom grew, and then it would be blood.