The rejected crown (book 1)

The gathering storm

The anticipation in the camp was a palpable thing, heavy and suffocating like the gathering storm clouds overhead. Ezra moved through the ranks, his presence both a balm and a spark of tension among the gathered villagers. Men who had never held a blade in true combat gripped their weapons with clammy hands. Women who had seen too much grief stood ready to defend what little they had left. They all watched Ezra with a mix of fear and grim determination, waiting for orders, waiting for Balaric's Horde to come crashing down on them like it had so many times before.

But the hours dragged on, and the expected attack never came.

Nightfall brought a creeping silence. The fires burned low as Ezra met with Garan and the hastily appointed scouts around a narrow table littered with crude maps and hastily carved markers. They spoke in hushed tones, the tension mounting with every word.

"It's not like them," one scout muttered, scratching nervously at his stubbled chin. "Balaric's raids are like clockwork. He doesn't wait. He strikes when we're weakest."

"He knows we're ready," another suggested, eyes darting about as if expecting the horde to materialize from the shadows. "Maybe he's regrouping, planning something worse."

Ezra's jaw clenched. He refused to let fear paralyze them, but he couldn't deny that something was amiss. "Where are they?" he asked, his voice hard. "What have you seen?"

One of the scouts, a young man with a nervous energy barely contained by his wiry frame, stepped forward. "We found them," he said, breathless with urgency. "Balaric's camp. It's deeper in the mountains, hidden well. They're not moving. No signs of preparing for a raid."

Ezra's eyes narrowed. Balaric, staying put? It wasn't like him. "How many did you see?"

"Too many for comfort," the scout admitted. "But... they're scattered. Relaxed. It's as if they don't expect a fight."

The tension around the table shifted, a dangerous edge taking hold. Ezra's mind raced, weighing the risks and opportunities. They had a chance—a real chance—to strike first, to disrupt Balaric's iron grip before he struck again. It would be a gamble, but then, he'd always been willing to risk everything for freedom, whether for himself or others.

"We take the fight to them," Ezra said, his voice low but commanding. "Gather everyone who can wield a weapon. We move at dawn."

The sun rose pale and cold, streaking the sky with the promise of bloodshed. Ezra led the group through narrow, winding paths, his muscles tensed beneath his weathered armor. Years of gladiatorial combat had hardened him, added muscle and roughness to a form that once carried only wiry strength. But he wasn't just a fighter anymore—he was a leader, whether he wanted to be or not. He glanced back, meeting the determined eyes of the men and women who followed him. No turning back now.

As they approached Balaric's camp, the air grew thick with tension. The trees loomed like sentinels, casting long shadows. Ezra signaled for silence, and they crept forward, every breath muffled by the forest around them.

In the heart of the camp, Giovanna sat rigidly in a makeshift throne carved from stone and bone. The chill of morning bit through her thin dress, but she didn't shiver. She'd trained herself not to show fear, not in front of Balaric or his men. Her husband's heavy footsteps echoed as he barked orders, unaware of the danger that crept closer. Giovanna watched him with careful eyes, her mind always calculating. She had learned how to survive—how to soothe him with sweet words, how to wield her beauty like a blade. Manipulation was her only armor here, but it did nothing to dull the anxiety gnawing at her as she sensed something was wrong.

A sudden, muffled cry shattered the morning's quiet. Chaos erupted as Ezra and his fighters struck. The villagers moved with surprising coordination, driven by desperation and guided by Ezra's training. They fell upon Balaric's scattered men like a storm, catching many unarmed and off-guard. Steel clashed with steel, and the air filled with the screams of battle.

Giovanna's heart leapt into her throat as the camp descended into madness. She stumbled back, her fingers digging into the cold stone behind her. Fear coursed through her veins—fear of Balaric's wrath, fear of the attackers. She had no idea who led this sudden strike, but she understood one thing: the illusion of safety she'd built here was crumbling.

Balaric's roar cut through the chaos, a beast's bellow that sent chills down her spine. He surged forward, rallying his men with brute strength and blind fury. He fought like an animal, wild and merciless. Giovanna watched, paralyzed, as he cut down one of the attackers—a young man with desperate eyes. Blood sprayed across the dirt.

Ezra saw Balaric then, and the two men locked eyes across the battlefield. Recognition flared, and a surge of hatred welled up within Ezra. This was the monster who tormented innocents, who took what he wanted by force. Ezra pressed forward, cutting down anyone who stood in his way. He could feel the weight of every step, the heat of every strike. But he never lost sight of his target.

Giovanna's eyes met Ezra's for the briefest moment as he approached. a jolt of recognition hit her hard. She knew him. She remembered the gladiator, the one who had looked so out of place in the arena all those years ago. Ezra. The man who had dared to tell her that he was from the future, that her end would be tragic. She had dismissed his words as nonsense at the time—mockery, perhaps. She had sent him into the festival matches, eager to show him that she could control the fates of those around her, even those who thought themselves above the games.

But then, after her trial, just before her exile, he had come to her again. He had promised to help her. She remembered his words—his eyes, full of something that she had thought was desperation, but now she wondered. Now, in this moment, as the battle raged on, she understood his intensity better than she ever had.

Ezra had been there in her darkest hours. He had been the one to warn her, to offer her something more than the doomed path she had been walking. And now, here he was, a changed man. Stronger, rougher, his body hardened by years of battle, but still, unmistakably the same person. The same man who had once been her only ally in the darkness of that trial.

Their gazes met again, across the bloodied chaos, and this time, Giovanna's heart skipped. It wasn't just recognition she felt—it was something deeper, something she had buried for so long, beneath all the years of bitterness and survival.

But there was no time to think on it now.

Balaric's growl snapped her back to reality, the sound of her husband's rage cutting through the fog of fear that had clouded her mind. His massive form was charging toward her, a wild animal in the throes of battle, unaware of the real threat that now loomed before him.

Giovanna turned quickly, fear spiking in her chest, and began to run. Her mind screamed for her to escape, to find cover, but her feet moved instinctively toward the chaos of the battlefield, where the battle between Ezra and Balaric was coming to a head. She didn't know what would happen next. She only knew that she had to survive. The ground beneath her feet felt slippery, the sound of metal clashing, cries of men falling, too loud in her ears.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was what Ezra had seen—the tragedy he had warned her about. Had he truly come from the future, as he'd said? Or had his words, as she'd once thought, been a desperate attempt to connect with someone who had power over nothing?

But there was no time to contemplate. As Balaric's roar filled her ears again, she pushed those thoughts aside, focused instead on escape. She had learned to survive, to survive him, and she wouldn't stop now.