The rejected crown (book 1)

The cruel

ezra

The elder who had spoken before stepped forward again. He moved slowly, as if every step carried the weight of decades of hardship. His thin frame belied a will that had clearly kept him alive through countless trials. He stopped in front of Ezra, his eyes gleaming with a mix of hope and desperation as the light of the fire flickered across his face.

"My name is Garan," he said, his voice low but clear. It carried the timbre of authority earned through hard years. "I speak for these people, as much as any of us can still claim to lead anything." He paused, glancing back at the villagers who watched him anxiously. "You say you're here to help. But I have seen men make that promise before, only to take what little we have and leave us worse off than they found us."

Ezra met his gaze evenly, recognizing the distrust. He understood it. "I'm not here to make empty promises, Garan," he replied. "I know what it means to be betrayed."

Garan studied him for a moment, as if weighing the truth of those words. Finally, he nodded slowly, and his shoulders seemed to sag under an invisible burden. "Then you should know," he said, his voice dropping to a grave tone, "that we are being bled dry by a tribe that calls itself Balaric's Horde. They come down from the mountains like wolves. Take what they want. Burn our fields. Steal our food stores. And worse..."

His voice cracked, and he looked away, his jaw clenched tightly. Ezra saw the pain there, the helpless rage of a man who had been pushed too far. He waited, giving Garan the space to collect himself.

"They take our women," Garan continued, his words thick with grief and shame. "Those who resist are... brutalized. Sometimes killed. They want us weak and afraid, and every raid makes it harder to stand against them. We try to fight back, but we have no warriors. Only farmers, and too many of them are already gone."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathering. Ezra felt the heat rise in his chest—a mix of anger and something darker, a burning disgust for the cruelty of men like Balaric. He forced himself to stay calm, to keep his voice level.

"Tell me about Balaric," Ezra said, crossing his arms as he leaned closer. "How many does he command? How often do they strike?"

Garan's hands trembled as he drew them close to his chest. "Balaric is... a brute, but he is cunning. He controls a tribe of raiders, easily over a hundred strong, and they move quickly. It's hard to predict when they'll come—sometimes weeks pass, and other times, it's days between their raids. He knows how to keep us on edge, starving and afraid."

"Over a hundred," Ezra muttered, calculating. He had fought worse odds, but not with farmers armed with pitchforks and desperation. His mind raced through strategies—fortification, evacuation routes, surprise counterattacks. But first, they needed time to prepare.

Garan took a hesitant step forward. "If you truly intend to help us, we will follow your lead. But we have no illusions. Balaric is strong, and he fears nothing—especially not us."

Ezra's jaw tightened, a familiar fire igniting within him. "That's where he's wrong," he said, his voice hardening. "Fear is his weapon, but it can be turned against him. You don't have warriors, Garan—but you have courage, and you have me."

The elder's eyes flickered with cautious hope. "What would you have us do?"

"First, we fortify," Ezra said, his voice gaining strength. "Gather every able-bodied person. We'll build barriers, traps—anything to slow them down. And I'll train anyone willing to fight. We'll make Balaric bleed for every step he takes."

Garan nodded, but his expression remained haunted. "We'll do what we can. But know this, Commander—Balaric is not like other men. He takes pleasure in breaking those who defy him. If we stand against him, we must be prepared for what comes."

Ezra's eyes were cold, a flicker of his old life as a gladiator shining through. "I know men like him," he said quietly. "He's used to being feared. Let's see what happens when he becomes the hunted."

The fire crackled between them, and for the first time in weeks, a spark of hope seemed to ignite in the weary eyes of the villagers. Ezra felt its warmth, but he knew hope alone wouldn't save them. This was just the beginning, and the battle to come would be brutal. But he was ready to face it, for these people, for the rebellion—and for the future he still hoped to reclaim.