The rejected crown (book 1)

Ashes of Defiance

Jane

Five years had passed, yet each day had only sharpened Jane's rage and honed her resolve. She had endured countless indignities, suffering through the grime and darkness of the dungeons as a prisoner and servant, her wrists bound in iron that kept her magic locked away. They paraded her through the castle like a trophy of Richard's tyranny, forcing her to scrub floors, serve meals, and tend to the very people who had condemned her.

But today, things were different. Today was her trial—the culmination of five years of silent endurance and smoldering hatred. The courtroom was held in the heart of the castle, a grand yet oppressive hall with high stone walls that seemed to close in, as though to remind her and everyone else of the power they wielded over her. The air was thick with anticipation, and every face in the room was eager, almost ravenous, waiting to watch the witch meet her fate.

The guards dragged her forward, chains clinking with every step. Her wrists, bound in cold iron, had grown raw and bruised over the years, a constant reminder of her captivity. Her hair hung in unkempt tangles around her face, and her body was gaunt from years of meager rations and hard labor. But her eyes—her eyes burned with defiance, a spark of unyielding strength that no prison walls, no iron cuffs, could extinguish.

Richard sat at the head of the courtroom, his expression as smug and impassive as ever. He wore his power like a crown, a man who had thrived on fear and control, and who had reveled in watching her suffer. To his side stood the royal magistrate, a stern figure who would oversee the proceedings, though everyone knew this was merely a formality. The verdict had been decided long ago. Jane's guilt was a foregone conclusion; they had only to dress it in the appearance of justice.

The crowd muttered and murmured, the words "witch" and "murderer" hissing through the air. Jane felt their eyes on her, felt their judgment seep into her skin, but she refused to lower her gaze. She would not grant them the satisfaction of her fear. She was beyond that now.

The magistrate cleared his throat and addressed the room. "Jane, daughter of the executed witch mary, accused of witchcraft, murder, and treason against the crown," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "You stand here today to answer for your crimes. Do you deny the charges?"

Jane's voice, though hoarse from years of silence, cut through the hall like a knife. "I deny nothing," she replied, her tone unyielding. "But I am not the murderer you claim me to be. The real murderer sits before you, draped in false authority and cruelty."

A gasp rippled through the crowd, and Richard's face contorted with barely concealed rage. He signaled to one of the guards, who struck her across the cheek, the force of it making her stagger. But she caught herself, straightening once more, meeting Richard's glare with the same unrelenting fire.

"Silence, witch!" the magistrate snapped, though there was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. Jane's resilience, even after all these years, unsettled him. She was supposed to be broken, defeated. But here she stood, unbending.

"You killed a soldier in cold blood," the magistrate continued, his voice hardening. "A man who was only doing his duty when he attempted to bring you to justice. And you deny this?"

Jane lifted her chin, defiance radiating from her bruised and battered form. "I killed him," she said, her voice steady. "But not in cold blood. He came for me like a beast hunting prey, ready to drag me to a pyre as you dragged my mother. And my mother... she was no witch. She was innocent, a healer, loved by the very people who turned on her under Richard's lies."

The crowd murmured again, but this time, there was a hint of uncertainty in their whispers. The doubt she planted twisted and grew, even if only in the faintest of ways.

"Enough of these accusations," the magistrate said, attempting to regain control. "The question is not of your mother but of your crimes, Jane. You are accused of spreading wicked magic, of defying the crown, and of the murder of a loyal soldier. Have you any defense, or will you beg for mercy?"

Jane laughed bitterly, a sound that echoed hollowly in the grand hall. "Mercy?" she spat. "What mercy was shown to my mother, a woman who had done no wrong? What mercy was shown to me as I was paraded like a trophy, shackled and bound, robbed of my freedom and my life? No, I will not beg for mercy. If you fear my magic, know this: it was fear that drove you all to this. Fear of the power you cannot control, fear of anyone who refuses to bow to Richard's tyranny."

The magistrate hesitated, his composure slipping under the weight of her words. For a moment, he glanced toward Richard, as though seeking his approval, but Richard's face was a mask of stone, unwilling to betray any weakness before the crowd. He motioned for the magistrate to continue, but the hesitation had already seeped into the courtroom.

"Your defiance only proves your guilt," the magistrate declared, but his voice lacked its former conviction. "You are a danger to all, a blight upon the kingdom. This court finds you guilty of all charges. You shall be burned at dawn as a reminder of what becomes of those who defy the crown."

A triumphant cheer rose from some in the crowd, but it was thinner than before, tinged with a trace of doubt. Jane looked at them, memorizing each face, each expression. She saw villagers she had once known, people her mother had healed, people who had accepted her kindness until the day they turned on her family out of fear.

As they dragged her from the courtroom, her chains rattling with every step, Jane felt a strange sense of peace settle over her. She was condemned, yes, but she was not defeated. Her voice, her defiance, had sown seeds of doubt in their hearts, and those seeds would grow. Richard's grip on the kingdom was slipping, whether he realized it or not.

And as they threw her back into the cell, she looked out through the small window, at the dark sky above, and whispered to the wind, "Mother, I will not falter. Love may be stronger than fear, but vengeance is stronger still."

The door clanged shut, and Jane was once more swallowed by darkness. But this time, she welcomed it, for she knew that in the shadows lay power, the kind that even iron and stone could not contain. And as dawn approached, she prepared herself for the fire, knowing that her legacy would burn far beyond the flames.