Blood on the throne

Chapter 2: Shadows of the Crown

7 years later on.

The grand library of Zathrea was an imposing structure, its arched windows spilling golden light into the chilly evening air. Inside, rows of towering bookshelves stretched to the domed ceiling, each one packed with centuries of knowledge and forgotten secrets. The smell of aged parchment mingled with the faint scent of burning incense from a nearby brazier, creating an air of reverence.

Prince Darius sat hunched at a heavy oak table, his fingers idly tracing the leather binding of an ancient text. Shadows danced across his face, emphasizing the hollows beneath his eyes. Though the room was warm, a chill settled over him, a heaviness he couldn’t shake.

Behind him, the heavy door creaked open. Shakur stepped inside, his presence a stark contrast to the grandeur of the library. With his plain tunic and calloused hands, the farmer seemed out of place, yet his sharp gaze gave him an undeniable authority. He paused, observing Darius’s rigid posture before speaking.

“You’ve been hiding in here all day,” Shakur said, setting down a basket of goods from the village. “What’s eating at you this time?”

Darius didn’t look up. Instead, he stared at the table, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm. “I’m tired of life,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Shakur frowned, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “Tired?” He leaned forward. “Of what, Darius?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, Darius exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. “Ever since Father died,” he began, his voice shaking, “I haven’t slept a single night without dreaming of the throne. I see myself sitting there, the crown on my head. I hear the cheers.” His eyes darkened, and his fingers clenched into fists. “And then I wake up.”

Shakur studied him carefully, his expression unreadable. “Dreams are just that—dreams. Lucian is the rightful heir. His coronation is only six months away.”

At the mention of his elder brother, Darius’s lip curled in disdain. “Lucian,” he spat, the name bitter on his tongue. “The golden child. Father’s perfect son. He was handed everything on a silver platter while I was shut away in libraries and courts.”

“He’s earned his place,” Shakur said evenly. “Lucian’s victories on the battlefield are legendary. The people love him. Even the council admires his leadership.”

Darius’s hands tightened further, his knuckles whitening. “The people love him because they don’t know him. He’s not a leader; he’s a brute with a sword.”

Shakur tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And you? What are you, Darius?”

Darius rose abruptly, pacing the room. “I am the son of Zathrea’s king, just as he is. My blood is just as royal, my claim just as valid. Yet I’m treated like an afterthought, a spare.”

Shakur’s gaze followed him, thoughtful. “What do you want, Darius?”

Darius stopped pacing, turning to face his friend. “I want the throne,” he admitted, his voice raw with desperation. “I deserve it.”

Shakur leaned back in his chair, considering him. “Do you have a plan?”

Darius hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Not yet. But I won’t stand by and let Lucian take what could be mine.”

Shakur’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Come closer.”

Darius hesitated, then stepped forward. Shakur motioned for him to lean in, whispering something that made Darius’s eyes widen. As the words sank in, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

“This will do,” Darius said softly. “This is why I keep you close.”

A Memory of Division

Years earlier, the royal palace had been just as divided as it was now, though the divisions were more subtle then. In a sunlit courtyard, the children of King Alden had gathered for one of their rare joint lessons.

Lucian, tall and broad for his age, was sparring with a practice sword under the watchful eye of their father. His strikes were precise, his movements fluid. Each swing of his blade drew an approving nod from the king.

Nearby, Darius sat with a tutor, poring over ancient laws and treaties. His sharp mind absorbed the information quickly, but his gaze kept drifting to the courtyard, where Lucian’s laughter echoed.

“You’re distracted, my prince,” the tutor observed, following Darius’s gaze.

“I could fight like that if they’d let me,” Darius muttered, bitterness creeping into his tone.

“Your mother has different plans for you,” the tutor said carefully. “And the king agrees. Every kingdom needs a wise judge as much as it needs a strong warrior.”

“But the crown doesn’t go to judges,” Darius replied, his voice low but filled with resentment.

Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp clang. Lucian had disarmed his sparring partner, and King Alden clapped him on the shoulder, pride shining in his eyes. Darius looked away, his stomach twisting.

From the palace balcony, the queens watched the scene unfold. Elyra, Lucian’s mother, smiled with satisfaction, while Calla, Darius’s mother, sipped her wine, her expression unreadable.

“They’ll never be brothers,” Calla said softly.

“That’s for the best,” Elyra replied, her voice cold. “The throne can only belong to one of them.”

Doubt and Resolve

In the present, Darius sat in his chambers, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. Shakur had left hours ago, but his whispered suggestion echoed in Darius’s mind.

He drained his goblet of wine and set it down with a sharp clink. “What if it doesn’t work?” he murmured.

Lucian’s face appeared in his mind—calm, confident, untouchable. Darius had heard the stories of his brother’s exploits: the rebellion crushed in Valderith, the duel with General Kael. Lucian had walked away unscathed every time.

Darius’s hand tightened around the goblet until his knuckles ached. “It has to work,” he said aloud, as though trying to convince himself.

A Mother’s Whisper

The faint rustle of silk announced Queen Calla’s arrival before she spoke. Darius didn’t turn as she stepped into his chambers, her perfume—a blend of jasmine and myrrh—filling the air. She moved gracefully, a woman who had learned to command attention without raising her voice.

“You sit here alone,” she murmured, her voice smooth as the wine she poured herself from the decanter. “Brooding.”

Darius exhaled sharply. “I was thinking.”

Calla took a slow sip, studying him. “Thinking,” she repeated. “And yet, your expression reminds me of your father’s when he was forced to accept something he did not want.”

Darius finally looked at her, brow furrowing. “What are you saying?”

She set her goblet down and walked toward him, her delicate fingers brushing the back of his chair. “Your father was a great man, but he had one weakness—he believed too much in fate. He thought the gods chose Lucian, that his strength made him worthy.” Her lips pressed together, disdain flickering in her gaze. “But strength alone does not make a king.”

Darius clenched his jaw. “And what does?”

Calla leaned down, her voice barely above a whisper. “Cunning. Timing. The ability to see not what is, but what could be.” She straightened, her eyes sharp. “Do not make your father’s mistake, my son. The gods do not choose kings. Men do.”

Darius felt his pulse quicken, the weight of her words settling in his chest. Calla turned toward the door but paused before leaving. “When the time comes,” she said softly, “be ready.”

The door closed behind her, leaving Darius alone with his thoughts.

Outside, the city of Zathrea glimmered under the moonlight, its streets alive with the hum of distant revelry. Somewhere in the barracks, Lucian prepared for another day of training, unaware of the shadows gathering around him.

Darius stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the kingdom. His kingdom. “Dreams,” he whispered, his voice trembling with ambition and fear, “are worth dying for.”