The grand dining hall of Ashenhold bore the scars of time and war. Cracks snaked across the stone walls, and patches of the once-lavish tapestries hung in tatters. Yet, amidst the decay, there was still an air of quiet strength. At the head of the table sat King Marko, though to many—including the men and women who once stood beside him on the battlefield—he would always be General Marko. His presence filled the room, a testament to the man who had led Ashenhold through its darkest days.
The crown on Marko's brow seemed less significant than the scars that lined his face and hands—marks of countless battles fought in defense of his kingdom. His comrades often said he was the General who was more than worthy of the title of King, a warrior who had earned the throne through blood and valor. To the people, he was a leader they trusted not for his lineage but for his unshakable resolve.
King Marko:
"So, Cassius," he began, his voice steady yet tinged with exhaustion, "have you given thought to what we discussed earlier?"
Cassius, seated at the opposite end of the long table, paused. His fork hovered over his plate, the weight of his father's question pressing down on him. Marko's sharp eyes, dulled slightly by age and fatigue, bore into his son's as if trying to gauge the young man's readiness.
Cassius:
"About the throne, Father?"
Marko nodded, his gaze unflinching. He leaned forward slightly, his hand resting on the table, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying the toll of the years. The firelight caught the deep grooves of the scar that ran from his temple to his jawline—a reminder of the battles that had claimed so much of him.
King Marko:
"Yes, about the throne. You know my health is failing. These old wounds from the Darkest Light... they take more of me every day. I've given everything I have to this kingdom, Cassius, but Ashenhold needs more than a dying king. It needs a ruler—now."
Cassius looked away, his gaze falling to the modest meal before him. He was no stranger to his father's legacy, but stepping into his shoes felt like an impossible task. The silence in the hall grew heavy, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire.
Cassius:
"I... I still have much to learn, Father. Master Elric says my swordsmanship is improving, but I've yet to complete my training. How can I lead a kingdom when I'm not yet prepared to defend it?"
King Marko:
"Leadership is not about being ready, my son. It is about rising to the occasion when duty calls. I had no time to prepare when the wars began, yet I fought. You can do the same."
His tone softened, though the urgency remained.
"The crown will only make you stronger, Cassius. But it cannot wait. My body fails me faster with each passing day. I can no longer protect this kingdom the way it needs."
The words hung in the air. Cassius felt their weight settle over him, as heavy as the crown he was being asked to wear. He met his father's gaze, searching for any sign of doubt but finding none. Marko had always been unwavering, even in his weakest moments.
Lady Aelina:
Breaking the tension, Lady Aelina reached across the table and gently placed her hand over her son's. Her voice was soft, but her words carried the same conviction as her husband's.
"My dear, the people believe in you. They see the future in you, a chance for hope in these broken times. They look to you not as Marko's son, but as a leader in your own right. Do not let fear cloud your destiny."
Cassius turned to his mother, her kind eyes filled with faith and reassurance. But even her words couldn't quiet the storm of doubt within him. He forced a faint nod, though the conflict in his heart was clear.
Cassius:
"I'll think about it, Mother... Father. May I be excused?"
King Marko:
"Go, my son," Marko said, leaning back in his chair with a weary sigh. "But remember this—greatness is rarely a choice. It is a responsibility."
Cassius pushed his chair back, the sound of its legs scraping against the stone floor echoing in the room. Without another word, he left the hall, his parents watching in silence as the door closed behind him.
In the dim corridors of the estate, Cassius's steps were slow and deliberate. He felt the cool stone underfoot, the air heavy with the scent of ash and decay. Once in his room, he approached the cracked window and gazed out at the ruins of Ashenhold. The city stretched before him, a crumbling relic of a bygone era. Shadows danced in the firelight, flickering like ghosts of the past.
Cassius (internal monologue):
How can they be so sure? How can I rebuild what even my father couldn't save?
He turned away from the window and collapsed onto his bed, the weight of the conversation pressing him down. The fire in his heart burned low, casting faint shadows across the walls as his thoughts swirled. The voices of his parents echoed in his mind, mingling with the cries of a kingdom waiting for salvation.
As the night deepened, Ashenhold rested uneasily, and within its broken walls, the first seeds of a young king's resolve began to take root.
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