The rejected crown (book 1)

In five years

Edweyn

Five years later...
1570 AD

The dimly lit room hummed with laughter, distant music, and the soft murmurs of secrets traded in the dark. Edweyn sat in the corner of the brothel now twenty and five years old, the smell of spiced wine and incense hanging thickly in the air, mingling with the smoke from guttering candles. He'd removed his armor and worn leathers, but the weight of his years in battle still clung to him, heavier than any armor he'd ever worn. Five years of war had left their marks—deep lines etched into his face, a hardness to his jaw, and eyes that had grown colder, like steel dulled by relentless use.

He leaned back, his frame broader and more muscular now, though his movements were slower, bearing the fatigue of countless campaigns. The shadow of a beard lined his jaw, rough and unkempt, a sign of a man who had long since abandoned the polish of courtly life for the grim reality of the front. As a commander, his men looked up to him, respected him—even feared him, though he hadn't intended it. But here, in the company of strangers and candlelight, he felt a brief sense of anonymity, of relief, as though he could shed the weight of his command, if only for a little while.

A woman with dark, curling hair and eyes that glinted with a spark of mischief approached, her soft steps barely audible on the floorboards. She settled beside him, her hand tracing over the scar along his forearm, an old wound from a skirmish with eastern rebels. She tilted her head, studying him, a curious smile playing on her lips.

"You don't look like a man who's here for pleasure," she said, her voice low and teasing. "More like a man who's come to outrun his ghosts."

Edweyn chuckled, a rough sound that came from deep in his chest. "Ghosts and I are old friends," he replied, his tone half-amused, half-sardonic. "But I suppose I could use a night of pretending they aren't following me."

She grinned, a flash of teeth, as her fingers traced along the collar of his shirt, brushing over the scar at the side of his neck. "You've seen a lot of battle, haven't you?" Her voice softened, and her gaze lingered over his weathered face, the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the slight slump to his shoulders.

"More than I'd care to remember," he replied, his voice softening as he glanced away. He caught sight of himself in a tarnished mirror across the room, and the image struck him—the man who stared back looked like a stranger, his eyes shadowed, his mouth set in a permanent grim line. He'd come a long way from the knight who'd once dreamed of loyalty, honor, and a bright future for the kingdom. War had stripped away those ideals, leaving behind a man who knew little but command and battle.

She noticed his silence and took his hand, guiding it to her waist, leaning closer until her face was inches from his. "You're not the first soldier to sit here and brood, Commander," she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek. "But I doubt there are many as stubborn as you. Even the ghosts seem afraid to follow you here."

Edweyn managed a small, wry smile at that, though he knew she was only half-right. The ghosts he carried—of battles fought and comrades lost, of loyalty questioned and duty betrayed—never left him, not even here. But for this moment, with her hand on his, her touch soft, he could almost believe otherwise.

"You must see all kinds here," he said, his fingers brushing her waist, letting himself sink into the moment, the touch, the warmth that felt foreign yet welcome after so many cold nights in the field. "But don't mistake my roughness for weakness."

She laughed, the sound warm and inviting. "Oh, I wouldn't dare, Commander." Her hand traced over his forearm again, feeling the strength there, the tension of a man who had spent years wielding both sword and command. "But maybe tonight, you can leave that roughness at the door."