Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 26–The Crown Falls

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As the sun streamed past the summits of the Krador Mountains, Wolfbern rose on the horizon. Alric’s heart swelled with a familiar warmth. Despite decades of travel and countless journeys, the city never failed to stir something deep within him—a sense of belonging that transcended mere geography. It was simplistic, rustic, and ruggedly beautiful, embodying Cazidor as a people and a country.

He looked toward Larah, only to find her looking warily at the gates and walls of the city.

“My dear,” Alric said. “What troubles you? We’re almost home.”

“For you perhaps,” she replied, her words tight. “I cannot return to mine until my destiny quest ends.”

“Until then, you are welcome to stay in Wolfbern.”

A fleeting moment of appreciation crossed her features, quickly replaced by concern. “I appreciate the offer, but the last time I was at this gate, I was almost killed.”

“Yes, I remember that. But tonight, we sleep in the palace.”

Larah nodded.

“Any place rather than on the back of a horse would be fine with me,” Vig added to no one.

“Perhaps I should strap you to the back of a donkey.”

The dwarf twisted in his saddle. “As long as the jackass knows the location of all the taverns.”

The King laughed. Over the walls, the Royal pennants hovered at half-mast. Soon, they would fly high, telling the people their ruler was back in residence. Ulrich rode ahead and shouted to the guards, who moved quickly to open the gates. Within moments, the entourage entered, and doors swung closed with a loud thump.

Alric’s skin prickled. Something felt… off. The street stood empty, and window shutters of the surrounding buildings stayed shut. Cazidorans were reserved by nature and not prone to public displays, but still, this quietness was unusual, even for them. Why was no one in the streets? On a sunny day, window shutters would generally be wide open. They navigated the narrow streets before turning on the road leading to the palace. An overturned wagon blocked the way.

“What’s this?” Alric asked. The twang of bowstrings filled the air. Flaming arrows struck the wagon, causing it to erupt in flames. Horses reared. Guardsmen fell.. The King wheeled his mount around in time to see Larah tumble as her horse, riddled with missiles, sink to its knees. Reaching down, he caught hold of her arm and pulled her upright. She looked up at him, terrified. Shouts and curses rang out as forms with weapons darted into the street.

“Run,” Alric shouted, pointing to the way they had come. The young woman disappeared as pain exploded in his side. Looking down, the feather end of an arrow protruded from his ribs. He slid in the saddle and grabbed the pommel. His mount reared up, dumping him into the gutter. On his back, he looked at the sky. It glowed red and orange as the last rays of sunlight reflected off the autumnal clouds. Coldness crept through him. Darkness gathered. His voice scratched out, “Britta, my little poppy…”

* * *

Larah’s world had collapsed into a narrow corridor of survival. Barrels and wooden crates blurred past as she wove through the side street, her breath ragged, her instincts screaming escape. The chaos of the street behind her—the burning wagon, the fallen guardsmen, Alric’s desperate shout—mirrored her racing pulse.

Several shadowy figures crossed her path, ghostlike and indifferent. None moved to intercept her flight. For a heartbeat, she dared to hope escape might be possible—then a hand seized her arm with brutal precision.

Yanked sideways, she hurtled off her feet with such force that the world tilted. A stone wall rushed toward her, and she slammed against rough-hewn masonry. Pain exploded across her ribs, driving the breath from her lungs in a violent gasp. The impact rang through her bones.

Instinct warred with terror as she tugged against the iron grip. Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her gaze. Behind a gleaming metal hook, narrowed eyes burned into her with a predatory intensity that froze her blood.

A voice emerged—low, growling, dripping with malevolent recognition. “Hello, pretty thing. Remember me?”

* * *

By nightfall, the air in Wolfbern hung thick with portent, weighted by the news of Alric’s death. The Council of Elders convened hastily in the market hall—a weathered sanctuary of stone and timber located just off the town square. Rough-handed thugs with leather whips pressed back the surging crowds. Only the privileged—those with veins of power woven through the city’s intricate political fabric—found passage through the narrow doorways. Most were shoved against the wall while a cloaked individual sat alone in the first row of benches. Behind the raised dais, the Council of Elders gathered—a collection of gray-haired men whose collective years spoke of generations of governance. Rehnard, eldest among them, stood at the fore, his withered arm trembling slightly as he gripped the ceremonial gavel.

The wooden hammer struck once, sending a thunderclap of silence through the hall. Dust motes danced in the flickering lamplight, and the rough wooden floor creaked beneath shifting feet. Rehnard’s eyes—darted between the mysterious cloaked figure and the parchment in his trembling hands.

“The first order of business,” he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of tradition, “is to decide who shall succeed our late King Alric.”

Cheers erupted—”Long Live King Alric!” The sound swelled from within the hall and spilled into the streets beyond, a cry of loyalty and mourning. Council members twisted in their seats, casting furtive looks at each other and the crowd.

Another strike of the gavel. Silence.

“The Council has deliberated,” Rehnard continued, lips quivering around each carefully chosen word. “Since Alric bore no male heirs, the rules of succession declare the throne shall pass to his daughter, Britta.”

Cheers again—”Britta! Britta!”—a hopeful chorus that died as quickly as it began. The elder’s next words hung in the air like a blade.

“Yet, as her whereabouts remain unknown, the Council has resolved to offer the throne to her husband, Brecc, King of Bretagne.”

* * *

A collective gasp echoed, but the cloaked figures stepped out of the shadows and stood on either side of Rehnard.

Pulling back his hood, Brecc stared at the crowd, which looked questioningly at him. “I accept the offer from the Council of Elders and the throne of Cazidor. I will henceforth be known as King Brecc of Cazidor and Bretagne.” He extended an arm to the other cloaked individual beside him. He said, “As my first act, I appoint Brother Dathon of the Grand Council of Magis as my Viceroy.” The cloaked figure pulled back its hood, and Dathon’s narrow bearded face gazed dispassionately at the crowd. Heads turned, and whispers blew through the crowd, followed by a scattering of boos and hisses.

Dathon spoke sternly, “My first decree is to dismiss the Council of Elders. Martial law has been declared, and the streets will be clear by nightfall. As of now, everyone will be subject to search and seizure. All rights and privileges are suspended, and the courts are now closed. Proclamations will inform you in the next few days as King Brecc establishes his rule.” He leaned forward on the dais, pushing Rehnard to the side. “Lastly, I declare this meeting to be over. Everyone go home.”

For a moment, nobody moved, but Dathon nodded, and the thugs began shoving and whipping those who didn’t vacate the premises. As the last council member left, the cloaked figure in front stood and walked to the dais.

Viperious pulled back his hood. “You were correct. The Elders value their families’ lives more than loyalty to Britta.” He picked up the gavel and handed it to Dathon. “How does it feel to be the man behind the throne?” The Magus stared grimly but then smiled.

* * *

Brecc stood off to the side and looked at the two men. The moment had been both exhilarating and depressing. He was King of Cazidor, but only because of his arranged marriage to Britta. A figurehead maintained by the auspices of the Council of Magis. He was also King of Bretagne–a title that had no meaning or force since Edwyn was still their King. So what did he have? For an instant, he struggled to think of anything before realizing that he had access to Alric’s palace. That was something. Wasn’t it?