Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shadows Beneath the Banner
The banners of the Free Bastion hung still in the wind, tattered but proud. After the battle against the Eastern Reach, the fortress had become more than stone and mortar. It was now a symbol—of resistance, of memory, of a future wrenched away from the jaws of kingship.
Its outer walls still bore the scorch-marks of war. Blackened stone, hastily patched battlements, shattered statues once meant to glorify forgotten lords. The people who walked its halls now did so with weariness in their steps and purpose in their eyes. Farmers had become sentinels, orphans had learned to read the stars and guard the gates. There were no lords here, only voices. Voices that argued, voices that remembered. It was not perfect. But it was theirs.
But even symbols can rot from within.
In the lower chambers, beneath the mess halls and war rooms, Neris walked in silence. Her boots echoed through torch-lit tunnels, where secrets were whispered louder than orders. The air was damp, thick with the scent of oil and old blood. These were the places the Bastion kept locked—not from enemies, but from itself.
She held a letter in her hand—sealed not with wax, but a thread of silver. A relic of the hidden ones. A sign older than the Oath, older than even Ivan's rebellion. It bore no name. Only a mark: a crown split down the middle. One half jagged, like it had been broken by fire.
She passed soldiers who gave her tight nods, unsure of her rank but respectful of her presence. Neris had never asked for titles. She did what others feared to: she listened in dark places, and brought truth back to the light, even when it stung.
She found Caedren seated at a long table, poring over old records—maps of ancient cities swallowed by time, diagrams of siege engines no longer in use, and scrolls marked in Ivan's hand, retrieved from the ruins of the Sanctuary Lorien once guarded. The table was a chaos of parchment and ink, a battlefield of ideas and history.
His face was drawn. The weight of leadership sat awkwardly on his shoulders, like armor not made for him. And yet he bore it. Because no one else could.
Neris dropped the letter before him.
"They're stirring," she said. "The Crownless aren't all friends."
Caedren looked up, his eyes sharp. Not surprised. Just tired. "You're certain?"
"This seal hasn't been seen in a hundred years. Not since the night Ivan's sanctuary was burned. The eastern fire. The hidden purge. The survivors whispered about the silver thread, but no one ever confirmed it."
He opened the letter.
Inside were six words:
The wheel is turning again. Beware.
The script was familiar, ancient. Sharp strokes made by a practiced hand. It carried no signature, no date, no hint of origin. But it spoke with authority.
Caedren stared at the words for a long time. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.
"How many know?"
"Just me. For now. I burned the other correspondence. But we should assume there's more."
"You said Crownless. What do you mean?"
Neris hesitated. "Not everyone who stands against thrones wants freedom. Some just want a different crown. One they make themselves. Or steal from the ashes of others."
He nodded slowly. "Then it begins again."
Later that night, in the Hall of Voices where each fallen comrade's name was carved, Caedren stood before the newest additions. The stone wall stretched far now, dozens of names etched by trembling hands and grieving friends. Names of those who had stood at his side, died for ideals too old to explain, too fragile to protect.
He ran his fingers over the fresh cuts in stone, and felt the weight of every choice.
He thought of Lorien. Of the quiet strength behind every lesson. Of the long silences that had taught more than words.
He thought of Ivan. Of the sanctuary reduced to ash. Of the man who had walked away from crowns and begged others to do the same.
And he thought of the nameless forces who had once tried to silence them all. The ones who hunted keepers instead of kings. The ones who worked not to rule openly, but to ensure no one else ever could.
He whispered a name into the stillness. Not his own. Not Ivan's. But one that had not been spoken aloud in a generation.
"Ashmir."
A curse. A memory. A warning.
Elsewhere, in a quiet forest cloaked in moonlight, a figure in black knelt before an old altar. The trees around them were gnarled, ancient, older than the first empire. Moss covered everything, and the wind carried the scent of cold earth and decay.
The altar was cracked and crumbling. Its carvings worn smooth by centuries. But the shape remained: a broken crown encircled by flame.
Around the kneeling figure, five others stood in silence, their faces hidden by veils of black silk, their hands marked with the same broken-crown seal.
They bore no flags. No names. Only intent.
The leader spoke softly, like the wind through bones.
"The kingless child grows bold. He bears the sword of our enemy. He carries the blood of rebellion."
Another voice answered, cold and distant. "Then we remind him: not all kings wear crowns. And not all crowns are made of gold."
They drew their blades in unison and touched them to the earth, as if swearing something older than loyalty.
The leader stepped back. "Begin the turning. Let the wheel crush him."
And they vanished into the dark, as silent as smoke.
Back in the Bastion, Caedren stood alone before the wall of names, the silver-threaded letter now folded in his coat.
He did not pray. He did not cry.
But when he turned from the stone, something in his gaze had changed.
Resolve sharpened.
A storm gathering.
Because he knew now: the real battle had never ended. It had only gone underground.
And the shadow that threatened them was not the return of kings...
It was the return of something worse.
Something that wore the face of freedom while planting seeds of empire in the dark.
And Caedren, heir to no throne, child of ruin and fire, would face it.
Not as a king.
But as a keeper.
As the last light in a world learning again how to forget.