Journey of the Betrayed

Prologue

Eldora, The Grand Hall of the King's Court

The marble pillars of the Grand Hall stretched high into the vaulted ceiling, their intricate carvings depicting the gods of Eldora’s pantheon. Aaric had stood here countless times before, dressed in his silver armor, flanked by fellow knights as they pledged their loyalty to the realm. Now, stripped of his rank and title, the once-honored knight knelt on the cold marble floor, his wrists and ankles bound in chains.

The faces of the nobles in the gallery were a blend of disdain, pity, and satisfaction. These were the same lords and ladies who had cheered his victories, who had drunk toasts in his honor after battles won. Yet now, they watched him as if he were no better than the scum he had spent his life fighting.

King Cedric Altharion, ruler of Eldora, sat atop the gilded throne at the far end of the hall. His golden crown caught the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, casting flickering prisms onto the walls. His voice rang out, calm and authoritative, the way only a king could manage.

“Sir Aaric Valen,” he began, his tone heavy with feigned disappointment, “you stand accused of high treason against the Crown. Do you deny the charges brought before you?”

Aaric lifted his head. Though his body ached from days in the dungeons, his steel-blue eyes burned with defiance. “I deny them, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice steady. “I have served this kingdom faithfully for over a decade. I would never betray it.”

The court erupted in murmurs, a sea of whispered speculation. Aaric caught snippets of conversation:
“Bold, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps too bold. Guilt hides behind such confidence.”
“Or innocence.”

Cedric raised a hand, silencing the crowd. “And yet, the evidence is undeniable,” the king continued. “A cache of weapons bearing the seal of the Eastern Rebellion was discovered in your quarters. Documents detailing our troop movements were found among your belongings. These are not the actions of a loyal knight.”

“They were planted,” Aaric retorted, his voice rising. “I swear on my honor, I am innocent.”

His words echoed through the hall, but they were met with scoffs and muttered disbelief.

The king leaned forward, his emerald-green eyes narrowing. “You speak of honor,” he said, his voice icy. “Yet here you stand, accused of conspiring with the very rebels who seek to tear this kingdom apart. Tell me, Sir Aaric, are you calling the Crown’s investigation a lie?”

Aaric’s fists clenched, the chains biting into his skin. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The room was a lion’s den, every noble waiting to pounce on his words.

Finally, he spoke. “I am saying that I have been framed.”

Gasps filled the hall, followed by an uproar. Nobles stood from their seats, pointing and shouting accusations. Aaric remained kneeling, his jaw set, his gaze unwavering.

The king slammed his scepter against the armrest of his throne, the sharp sound cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” he bellowed.

Silence fell, but the tension was suffocating.

Cedric gestured toward the advisors standing to his right. Among them was Damon Varros, Aaric’s closest friend and comrade. Damon had fought beside him on the battlefield, shared countless nights around the campfire, and stood with him through triumphs and losses. Now, Damon’s face was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on Aaric.

“You know me, Damon,” Aaric said, his voice breaking the stillness. “Tell them. Tell them I would never do this.”

Damon stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and measured. “The evidence speaks for itself, Aaric,” he said. “Weapons, documents… these are not the tools of a loyal knight.”

Aaric’s heart sank. “You know me,” he repeated, his voice trembling. “We’ve bled together, fought together. I trusted you.”

Damon’s expression softened, just for a moment. But then he turned back to the king. “Trust does not absolve guilt,” he said.

The words hit Aaric like a physical blow.

King Cedric rose from his throne, his presence commanding. “Sir Aaric Valen,” he said, his voice resonating through the hall, “you are hereby stripped of your rank and titles. You will be executed at dawn for your crimes against the Crown.”

The finality of the words hung in the air, a death knell. Aaric’s vision blurred, his mind reeling. This couldn’t be happening.

Two guards stepped forward, gripping his arms and hauling him to his feet. As they dragged him from the hall, Aaric twisted to look at Damon one last time.

“Why?” he mouthed.

Damon’s eyes flickered with something—guilt, perhaps. But he said nothing. He simply turned away.

---

The Dungeon, Midnight

The cell was small and damp, its walls slick with mildew. Aaric sat against the far wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. The chains on his wrists clinked softly as he shifted.

He had been in battles that left him bloodied and broken, but this was different. This wasn’t a physical wound—it was a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, pulling Aaric from his thoughts. A figure appeared, cloaked in shadows.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Aaric said, his voice low.

The figure stepped closer, revealing Damon.

“I came to talk,” Damon said.

“To justify your betrayal?” Aaric spat, his eyes blazing.

Damon sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want this, Aaric.”

“Then why did you do it?” Aaric demanded, his voice rising. “Why turn against me?”

Damon hesitated, then knelt in front of the cell. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You were getting too close to the truth.”

“The truth?” Aaric frowned. “What truth?”

“The Eastern Rebellion isn’t what you think,” Damon said. “They’re not trying to overthrow the kingdom. They’re trying to survive. Eldora has been bleeding them dry for years, taxing their lands into ruin. The rebellion is their only hope.”

Aaric stared at him, his mind racing. “And you knew this?”

“I did,” Damon admitted. “But the king… he won’t allow dissent. Anyone who questions him is silenced.”

Aaric’s chest tightened. “So you sold me out to save yourself.”

Damon flinched but didn’t deny it. He pulled a small key from his cloak. “I’m here to make it right,” he said, unlocking the cell door.

---

The Forest of Exiles

By the time Aaric emerged from the tunnel beneath the city, the sun was just beginning to rise. The forest was dense and quiet, the air heavy with the scent of pine and earth.

Aaric leaned against a tree, his breath ragged. He didn’t know where to go or who to trust. The kingdom he had sworn to protect had turned against him.

A rustle in the underbrush made him spin, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon he didn’t have. A woman stepped into view, her fiery red hair catching the light.

“You’re the knight,” she said, her voice calm but sharp.

“And who are you?” Aaric demanded.

“Elira,” she said. “And if you want to live, you’ll come with me.”