The weight of the crown still felt foreign to Nigel, though the days following his father's death had forced him to adapt. His duties grew heavier by the day, yet something about his father's passing felt unfinished, as though his legacy held secrets Nigel had yet to uncover. In the quiet of the ancient castle, there was a growing sense that he had only begun to scratch the surface.
One afternoon, while wandering the castle halls, Nigel found himself in the neglected east wing, a place rarely visited by anyone anymore. The air was cool, and dust covered the stone floors like a forgotten relic of the past. As he walked along the narrow corridor, a sudden breeze touched his skin, though the windows were tightly shut.
Curious, Nigel pressed his hand against the wall where the draft originated. His fingers grazed something unusual—an uneven stone. With a soft click, the stone shifted, and the wall slid open, revealing a hidden passageway. His heart raced. What could this be?
Without hesitation, Nigel ventured into the passage, the dim light guiding him down a narrow tunnel that seemed to stretch forever. At the end, a small circular room lay hidden from the world, and in its center, a single pedestal stood. On it rested a sword—gleaming, untouched by time, its hilt etched with symbols of power.
Nigel approached the sword slowly, his breath catching in his throat. He recognized it immediately—the Sword of Kings, the legendary weapon his father had spoken of only in whispers. A weapon wielded by the greatest kings of the realm, passed down from generation to generation. But his father had never shown it to him. Why now?
As Nigel reached for the hilt, an odd sensation filled him. The sword seemed to call out to him, beckoning him to take it. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and instantly, a surge of energy coursed through his veins. It was as though the sword was alive, humming with power, connecting him to a deep, ancient force.
Suddenly, the voice of someone familiar echoed from the doorway.
Master Elrik: "So... you've found it."
Nigel spun around, startled, to see Elrik standing in the shadows, his eyes fixated on the sword in Nigel's hand. There was something cold, almost menacing, in his gaze—a hunger Nigel had never seen before.
Nigel: "Elrik... What are you doing here?"
Elrik stepped forward, his voice calm but filled with an unsettling intent. "That sword, Nigel... it does not belong to you. It belongs to the king."
Nigel raised the sword slightly, a sense of unease settling over him. "I am the king now. This sword is mine, by right."
Elrik's eyes darkened, and his lips curled into a thin smile. "Your father never intended for you to wield it. You are not ready, Nigel. That sword is a weapon of immense power—far beyond your understanding."
Nigel's grip tightened on the hilt. He could feel the sword's energy coursing through him, filling him with strength he had never known. But something about Elrik's tone unsettled him. "Why are you saying this? My father left me this sword. It was his wish."
Elrik's expression shifted, and his voice grew sharper. "Your father's wish was to protect the kingdom. And that sword... is not something a boy like you can control. It requires wisdom, restraint—qualities you do not yet possess."
Nigel stepped back, the weight of the sword in his hand suddenly feeling heavier. "I am the king now. You cannot take it from me."
Elrik's face twisted into a sneer. "Oh, but I can. You see, Nigel, your father kept many secrets from you—secrets about the sword, about the true nature of power. He knew you were too weak to wield it, so he entrusted me with its protection."
Nigel's heart pounded. He had trusted Elrik for years—his father's most loyal advisor. But now, as Elrik stepped closer, his intentions were clear. "You're lying," Nigel hissed. "You were supposed to serve my father. You were supposed to serve me!"
Elrik's eyes glinted with malice. "I serve the kingdom, boy. And if that means taking this sword from your foolish hands, so be it."
Without warning, Elrik lunged toward Nigel, his hand outstretched to seize the sword. Instinctively, Nigel raised the blade in defense. For a moment, time seemed to freeze—the weight of the decision, the force of his father's legacy bearing down on him.
But Elrik did not stop. His eyes burned with greed, with hunger for the power that the sword held. And Nigel, feeling the surge of energy from the blade, acted without thinking.
The sword flashed in the dim light, and in one swift motion, it cut through the air. Elrik staggered back, his eyes wide with shock. Blood blossomed from his chest, staining his robes as he fell to his knees.
For a moment, the room was deathly silent, the only sound Elrik's ragged, shallow breaths. He looked up at Nigel, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, as if he hadn't truly expected the young king to strike him down.
Elrik: "You... fool." His voice was weak now, fading with each word. "You think... you can control it. But the sword... will destroy you... just as it destroyed them..."
Nigel stood frozen, the sword still clutched in his trembling hand. He watched as the light faded from Elrik's eyes, the old man collapsing into a lifeless heap on the floor. The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of what he had done pressing down on his shoulders.
For a long moment, Nigel couldn't move. He had never killed a man before, let alone someone he had once trusted. But as he looked down at Elrik's body, the truth became clear—this had been inevitable. Elrik had wanted the sword, and he would have taken it by force if Nigel hadn't defended himself.
The sword hummed softly in his hand, as though approving of his actions. But Nigel felt no satisfaction—only a deep, gnawing guilt. He had killed to protect the legacy of his father, but in doing so, he had crossed a line he could never uncross.
As he turned to leave the hidden room, Nigel looked back one last time at Elrik's lifeless form. The old man had been right about one thing—the sword was powerful, far more than he could yet comprehend. And now, it was his to wield.
But at what cost?
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