The rejected crown (book 1)

In her grace's name

Ezra

The forest was dense, shadows weaving between the trees as dusk fell. Ezra guided his horse carefully along the narrow path, the chill of evening settling into his bones. Around him, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of night creatures mingled with the low murmur of his scouts. They moved as one, a silent, watchful presence deep in enemy territory. They were used to the danger; it was the air they breathed.

The path ahead led to a cluster of villages that had sworn loyalty to the rebellion—or so they believed. Recent reports spoke of betrayals, of hidden traitors who had begun to whisper Richard's name again. It wasn't a surprise; fear was a powerful weapon. Ezra had seen it turn even the bravest men into shadows of themselves.

He dismounted, the ground crunching beneath his boots. The scouts followed suit, blending into the thick underbrush. He crouched, his eyes scanning the perimeter, every movement precise. The physical changes in him over the years—the added muscle, the hardened lines of his face—were more than just signs of battle. They were symbols of survival, of the grit that kept him moving forward. He felt the tension in his limbs as he crouched, a mixture of readiness and weariness. There had been too many nights like this one.

"Commander," came a whisper at his shoulder. It was Niko again, his eyes sharp and alert. "We're close. Their campfires are just beyond that ridge."

Ezra nodded, motioning for silence. He pressed forward, each step careful, each breath measured. The last time he'd been in a situation like this, they'd narrowly avoided disaster. One wrong move and their entire network of rebels could be exposed. He couldn't let that happen—not after everything they'd built, not when they were so close to something like hope.

As they reached the crest of the ridge, Ezra's gaze fell on the small encampment below. Dozens of figures moved about, some armed, others gathered around fires. He scanned their faces, searching for anything familiar, any sign of allegiance. But what struck him wasn't the numbers or their weapons. It was their expressions—tired, fearful, and desperate. These weren't soldiers. They were farmers and laborers, pushed to desperation. And they were trying to survive, just as his people were.

A pang of guilt shot through him. This rebellion had drawn so many into its wake—people with families, with lives they wanted to protect. Ezra clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of his decisions pressing down on him like never before.

"Ezra," Niko whispered, a hint of unease in his voice. "Look there."

Ezra followed his gaze and froze. Amidst the campfires, a banner fluttered—a stark white crescent on a field of blue. His heart sank. It was the mark of Giovanna's house, a symbol of defiance, of hope... and of her exile. He'd seen others fly it before, but something about this moment made his chest tighten. These people were fighting for a cause they barely understood, under the banner of a princess who had no idea she had become their rallying cry.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Giovanna. For five years, he had led this rebellion in her name, hoping to restore something of the kingdom they had both lost. And yet, she didn't even know. She couldn't know. She was out there, somewhere, alive or thats what the people hoped for, while people bled for her memory.

"Commander?" Niko's voice broke through his thoughts.

"We approach carefully," Ezra said, his voice low but firm. "I need to speak to whoever leads them."

They descended into the camp slowly, weapons sheathed but hands ready. The villagers, tense and weary, eyed them with suspicion. Ezra stepped forward, his presence commanding but not threatening. He could feel their eyes on him—the weight of expectation, of fear, of desperate hope. A man stepped out to meet him, older than most, with a weathered face and tired eyes. He held a sword, but it trembled in his grip.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice rough. "What do you want?"

Ezra met his gaze steadily. "I'm here to help. But I need to understand why you raise that banner."

The man's jaw tightened. "We fight for Princess Giovanna. For the kingdom she was meant to lead. Not this... tyranny."

"And who told you she was leading this?" Ezra pressed, his voice softening. "Have you seen her?"

The man faltered, uncertainty flashing across his face. "No. But the stories... they say she's out there. That she'll come. That she—"

"Enough with stories," Ezra interrupted, a hint of weariness in his voice. "You're fighting for something that may never come."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Why should we trust you?"

Ezra stepped closer, his voice low and rough. "Because I have fought in her name for years. Because I know what you're facing. And because I'm here, not spinning tales."

The silence stretched. Then, slowly, the man lowered his sword, his shoulders slumping. "We're losing hope," he admitted, his voice breaking. "If she won't come... if there's no one left..."

Ezra laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling the exhaustion in the man's frame. "We are here," he said quietly. "We won't abandon you."

As the villagers gathered around, Ezra felt the weight settle deeper. He had become their symbol, their strength. But inside, he felt the cracks—the longing for a past he couldn't return to, the ache for Andrea's touch, the crushing reality that this fight was far from over.

He would lead them, guide them. But at what cost? He pushed the thought aside, for now. There was no time for doubt, not when so much hung in the balance.