The rejected crown (book 1)

The Changed

Ezra

The wind cut through the valley, chilling even beneath layers of armor and wool. Ezra pulled his cloak tighter around his broader shoulders, the fabric stretching slightly across muscle that hadn't been there five years ago. Life as a gladiator had carved his body into something lean and resilient, but the years leading the rebellion had reshaped him. He was stronger now—hard, but not brutish. He could feel the weight of that change in every motion, the slight roughness of his calloused hands, the tension in muscles that never seemed to rest.

He crouched low on the ridge, his movements fluid yet deliberate. There was a precision to him now, a sharpness honed by battle after battle. The rebels knew to keep their distance, sensing the weight of their leader's intensity. Ezra didn't have to bark orders or flaunt strength; his presence alone was enough to command respect.

The wind tugged at strands of his hair, and he took in the sprawling camp below where fires flickered against the dark. The rebellion had grown under his watch—men and women from all corners of the fractured kingdom. They looked to him, the man who'd emerged from the blood-soaked sands of the arena to defy a tyrant. To many, he was a symbol of hope, a living legend. But to himself, he was just a man out of place, fighting a battle that had become his burden.

Ezra's jaw clenched as memories of his past flickered—of Andrea's laugh, her soft touch, and the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. He missed her with a deep ache that never truly left. He'd been taken from that life, hurled into a war he hadn't asked for. He tightened his hands around the hilt of his sword, the metal familiar but cold.

The crunch of footsteps behind him stirred him from his thoughts. "Brooding again?" came the voice of Niko, his second-in-command and one of the few people Ezra trusted implicitly. Niko's gaze dropped to Ezra's clenched hands, then back up. "You're going to crush that thing one day, you know."

Ezra forced himself to relax his grip, exhaling slowly. "Not today." His voice was rougher than it once had been, shaped by years of shouting orders and rallying troops. There were nights when he barely recognized himself—his own reflection a stranger, marked by new scars and the hardness etched into every line of his face.

Niko dropped to sit beside him, his gaze assessing. "You're pushing too hard again."

"I'm not pushing hard enough," Ezra replied, a hint of bitterness lacing his words. "Richard's army isn't slowing down."

Niko shook his head. "You've changed, Ezra. We all have. But there's only so much a man can take before he breaks. And you—" He gestured at Ezra's worn hands, the powerful tension coiled beneath the surface. "You're carrying too much."

Ezra didn't answer immediately, his eyes tracing the campfires below. The rebellion had become more than just resistance—it was his duty, his prison, his chance to right what had gone so terribly wrong. He could never go back home, not without seeing this fight through.

He glanced at Niko, feeling the weight of his own resolve. "I can take it."

Niko's smile was sad. "I'm not sure that's the point."

Another pause. Then came the hurried approach of a scout, breaking the fragile quiet. "Commander Ezra. Richard's men are on the move again."

Ezra stood, muscles tensing instinctively. "Where?"

"They're cutting off trade routes and rallying new conscripts. They're trying to isolate us."

Ezra nodded, his jaw tightening as he prepared to once again step into the fray. He had become harder, rougher, the kind of man the rebellion needed. But every decision, every battle, chipped away at who he had been. Somewhere out there, Giovanna lived, unaware of the rebellion fought in her name. He had built this movement for her, and he would see it through, even if it cost him everything.

As he descended the ridge, the wind tugged at his cloak again, revealing a glimpse of the man he'd become—muscles honed for battle, a face lined with both strength and weariness. Rough, but not broken. Strong, but not unfeeling. Beneath the layers of war and muscle, he was still Ezra, clinging to whatever pieces of himself he could find amid the chaos.