The night air was thick with the scent of rain, yet not a single drop had fallen. Aleron stood at the edge of the palace balcony, his back to the golden throne room, his eyes lost in the sprawling view of the city below. The Kingdom of Varyath stretched out beneath him, its lights dimming with the setting sun. The streets buzzed with the life of the city, unaware of the silent storm gathering above their heads.
For Aleron, the night felt oppressive. It wasn't just the weight of his crown, which he had not yet worn. It was the weight of the legacy that awaited him, one he never sought and never wanted. His mother, Queen Seraphine, had passed a week ago. Her death had left the palace in mourning, and the council in chaos. Now, the royal title belonged to him—by blood, by prophecy. Yet he felt as though the crown were not his, but someone else's burden, a relic of a life he had not chosen.
"Aleron."
The voice was calm, but firm. He turned to find Valeria, the commander of the royal guard and his closest confidante, standing in the doorway. Her eyes were filled with the usual resolve, but there was something else in them now—something that hinted at the gravity of the moment.
"The council is waiting," she said, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
Aleron remained still, his hand gripping the cold stone of the balcony railing. He had known this day would come, the day when he would be forced to face the throne that had been passed down to him by fate. But knowing it was inevitable did not make it easier.
"They can wait," he replied softly, though his voice lacked the conviction he wished he had.
Valeria stepped closer, her boots echoing against the stone floor. "You cannot avoid it forever. Your mother is gone. You are the king now, whether you claim it or not."
Aleron clenched his jaw, the weight of her words sinking in. For all the years he had spent hiding from his destiny, there was no escaping it now. The prophecy, the whispers of ancient magic, had all pointed to this moment. But none of that had made him ready.
"I never asked for this," he muttered, his voice carrying the bitterness of a lifetime of being second in line, of being forgotten by a kingdom that had looked to his older siblings. All of them were gone now—lost in wars or political intrigues. His mother had never expected him to inherit the throne. And now, here he stood, an unwilling heir to a kingdom on the brink of collapse.
Valeria's gaze softened, though her words remained firm. "No one ever asks for the crown, Aleron. But it is not about what you want. It is about what the kingdom needs."
He exhaled sharply, turning away from the balcony to face her. "The kingdom needs a king," he said, almost bitterly. "But how can I lead them when I can barely lead myself?"
Valeria's eyes narrowed, her usual sternness giving way to a flicker of sympathy. "You are not the boy you were when we first met. You have the strength within you, Aleron. The strength of your bloodline. But you must embrace it. Your mother believed in you. She saw something in you that you may not yet see in yourself."
Aleron paused, his gaze flickering to the golden amulet around Valeria's neck, a symbol of the royal family's blood and magic. It had been given to him by his mother, but he had left it untouched, buried in the vault of the royal chambers. The relic, the key to his inheritance, felt like a weight he wasn't ready to carry.
"How can I embrace something I don't understand?" he asked, his voice thick with frustration.
Valeria's hand fell on his shoulder, a grounding touch. "The magic runs through you, Aleron. It always has. Your mother's death has only awakened what was already there. You need only to claim it."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Aleron wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that he could rise to the challenge of ruling a kingdom teetering on the edge of war. But doubt gnawed at him, a constant companion in his life.
"The council is waiting," Valeria repeated, her voice unwavering. "The kingdom is waiting. The throne is yours to claim, if you choose to take it."
Aleron looked out over the city again, his eyes searching the horizon as though the answers were written in the sky. The sounds of the court below echoed up through the palace, and he could almost hear the whispers of his ancestors calling him to action. The weight of his bloodline, the magic that flowed through his veins, the prophecy that had been foretold—he couldn't escape it any longer.
With a deep breath, he turned toward the chamber doors. "Then let them wait no longer," he said, his voice low but resolute. "I will face them."