No crown rested on the throne.
Only shadows.
Only silence.
The Great Hall of Valenreach was filled with nobles, generals, priests, and envoys. Yet no one spoke above a whisper.
The king was gone.
Order had followed him.
Three princes stood before the council.
Rowan, calm and sharp-eyed.
Prince Edric, the eldest, broad and stern.
Prince Malric, thin and restless.
Each claimed loyalty.
Each hid ambition.
Duke Harland rose first.
"The realm cannot wait," he declared. "We must choose a ruler."
Archbishop Morn nodded. "God favors unity."
General Caelis frowned. "Armies favor strength."
Arguments erupted.
Tradition.
Bloodline.
Power.
Threats.
Nothing agreed.
Aren stood near a pillar.
Invisible.
Listening.
Learning.
Every word revealed fear.
Every glance revealed intent.
Rowan approached him quietly.
"They stall," he murmured. "Waiting for advantage."
"Let them," Aren replied. "Impatience makes mistakes."
Rowan studied him.
"You sound like a king already."
Aren did not smile.
Outside, crowds gathered.
Rumors spread.
Some shouted Rowan's name.
Others cursed all princes.
Food grew scarce.
Merchants hid goods.
Chaos whispered.
That night, fires broke out in the southern quarter.
Looters roamed.
Guards hesitated.
No one commanded.
Lysa returned late.
"Draven marches," she said.
"Ten thousand men."
Aren felt ice in his chest.
"They'll reach us in weeks."
"If we're still alive," she added.
In the council chamber, secret letters arrived.
All bore the same warning:
Choose a king.
Or be conquered.
Aren stared at the empty throne.
Once, he had begged for bread.
Now he stood beside power itself.
He understood something dangerous.
If the princes failed…
Someone else would rise.
And this time…
He was ready.