A kingdom of Ash and Echoes

Chapter 20 - The Loved King

The bells tolled at dawn. Slow, heavy, unrelenting. Each strike echoed through the castle walls like a hammer against stone, and with it, Lyriana felt the world she knew shatter.
King Aelric was dead.

He had been sixty years old, though to Lyriana he had always seemed eternal. She remembered him not as the frail, sickly man of these last months, but as the towering figure who had steadied their kingdom through famine, rebellion, and storm. He had been the heart of Avaranth, his voice strong enough to quiet quarrels in the council chamber, his presence commanding enough to hold enemies at bay. But illness had worn him thin. By the end, his once-dark hair had turned to snow, his skin pale and sunken, his breaths shallow.
And now, at sixty, the steady flame of his reign had guttered out.

Lyriana had sat at his bedside through the night, holding his hand until it grew cold. Her mother had whispered prayers until her voice broke, her tears falling freely. Callum, pale and trembling, had been carried into the chamber, his jaw tight with stubborn pride even as pain left him breathless. Together, they had watched Aelric slip away quietly, as though the weight of the crown had finally grown too heavy to bear.

Now, the air was thick with mourning. Servants wept in corners, and nobles whispered in the halls, their faces pale not only from grief but from fear.
For the death of a king meant more than sorrow. It meant uncertainty. And in Avaranth, uncertainty meant blood.
Already, word had reached the castle: rebel banners had been sighted along the northern border, their numbers swelling like a tide. The kingdom was leaderless, and their enemies emboldened.
And their heir—their warrior prince—lay crippled in his chamber.

Lyriana stood in the great hall, staring up at the empty throne. It seemed impossibly large now, the carved stone looming like a monument to everything they were losing. She remembered her father seated there, the weight of the crown never bending his shoulders, his gaze sharp and unyielding. The thought of that throne standing empty—or worse, claimed by the wrong hands—made her chest ache.

"Lyriana."
Her mother's voice broke her thoughts. Queen Elowen stood beside her, dressed in mourning black, her face pale but her back straight. Though grief shadowed her eyes, her bearing was regal, unbroken. She had always been the pillar of their family, but now even she looked fragile, her strength worn thin.
"The council will meet by nightfall," Elowen said quietly. "They will want answers. They will want a king."
Lyriana swallowed hard. "And they will look to Callum."

Elowen's gaze faltered. "Yes. But you know as well as I do..." She trailed off, pain flickering in her eyes. "He cannot ride to war. He cannot even walk to the council chambers."
The words struck like a blade, though Lyriana had already known them. She thought of her brother's fury in the weeks since his injury—the way he raged against his crutches, the way he turned his face to the wall when healers entered. Once, he had been the steadying force of their family, the warrior who carried the hopes of Avaranth into every battle. Now, he was a prisoner in his own body.
"How will the lords follow a crippled prince?" Lyriana whispered, voicing the fear that haunted her.

Elowen's lips pressed into a thin line. "Some will not. Some will seek Cedric instead."
At the name, Lyriana's blood ran cold. Prince Cedric. The man Seraphina had nearly been forced to marry. A man known for his charm, his rebellion, his disregard for duty. If the council turned to him, Avaranth would trade one crown for a noose.

"We cannot let that happen," Lyriana said fiercely, her fists clenching at her sides. "Callum is the heir. Crippled or not, he is the rightful prince."
Elowen studied her daughter's face, and for a moment, sorrow gave way to something harder—resolve. "Then we must be clever. Stronger than the lords who doubt us. If Callum cannot lead from the battlefield, then you must stand beside him, Lyriana. You must become the voice he cannot be."
The words stunned her. "Me?"
"You," Elowen said firmly. "The people trust you. The court listens when you speak. If we falter now, the kingdom will be lost."
Lyriana's throat tightened. She thought of the weight already pressing on her—Seraphina gone, Callum broken, her father dead. And now, war at their gates. But as she looked at her mother's tired, determined eyes, she knew there was no choice.

The crown had fractured. And if no one picked up the pieces, Avaranth would fall into ruin.
Elowen's hand brushed her cheek, weary but firm. "Then perhaps there is hope yet. But you must be cautious—this war will demand more than words."
Lyriana held her mother's gaze, and for the first time since the bells had tolled, a spark lit within her chest. "Then I will give it more than words," she said quietly. "I have trained for this since I was a child. Father thought it unbecoming of a princess, but Callum... Callum taught me how to hold a blade."
Elowen's breath caught, surprise flashing across her grief-stricken face.
"I won't let our enemies see us as weak," Lyriana continued, her voice steady now, steel beneath the sorrow. "If Callum cannot ride, then I will. If he cannot wield a sword, then I will raise mine. I will not let Avaranth fall."

For a moment, Elowen simply stared, torn between fear and pride. And then, with trembling hands, she drew her daughter close, pressing their foreheads together. They didn't need to say anything thing to each other  and that is all the broken girl needed.
The bells tolled again, echoing through the stone halls. This time, Lyriana did not flinch. She lifted her chin, her heart burning with grief and fury. The storm had come for Avaranth, and she would meet it blade in hand.