Rain fell in steady sheets as Prince Alric walked alone under the weight of his cloak. His boots sank into the muddy path lined with worn statues, their shapes faded by time and weather. Thunder rumbled quietly in the distance, and the chapel's bells had been silent for hours.
At the far edge of the royal graveyard, where an old iron tree stood, Alric stopped. Beneath its black branches rested a single stone—a grave he visited every year, without fail.
He lowered his hood and looked down at the carving:
Seraya of Delmourn
Beloved. Brave. Flame-born. Fallen.
There was no crown engraved, no royal crest. Just words. Words that mattered more to him than any title.
Alric sat on the cold steps and pulled a small wooden token from his pocket—a flame inside a circle. He had carved it as a child. He ran his thumb over it, then closed his eyes.
And remembered.
Years Ago – The Palace Courtyard
It had been a bright summer day. Little Alric ran barefoot through the inner gardens, chasing an imaginary dragon. He held a stick like a sword, laughing, his voice high and fearless.
Then arms scooped him up from behind.
"Did the dragon fall, my brave knight?" his mother asked, her voice filled with joy.
"I beat him!" he shouted. "He had gold eyes, but I stabbed him in the chest!"
She kissed his forehead and laughed. "Of course you did."
Later, sitting with him beneath the silver trees, she brushed the hair from his face and whispered gently,
"You may never have your brother's way with words. You may not be the heir. But you are fire, Alric. And fire does not seek permission to burn."
Her words stayed with him, long after the courtyard had returned to silence.
The Night She Fell
Alric jolted from sleep to the blare of horns and the sharp, shuddering thud of doors slammed open. Smoke stung his nose before his feet even touched the cold floor. Outside, flames crackled against the stone walls. The heavy boom of war drums echoed up the palace halls, followed by shouts—guards barking orders, steel clashing with steel.
He ran to the window, heart pounding, and saw the night outside alive with fear. Shadows flickered—armored shapes storming the courtyards, arrows skimming the torchlit rain. Fire touching the garden hedges.
The door to his room was yanked open by a panicked guard. "Stay here, Your Highness!" But Alric broke free before the man could close it, sprinting barefoot through the hall as chaos unfurled. He darted around servants fleeing and soldiers bleeding—a world he barely recognized. All he wanted was to find her.
He spotted her at the front steps, red hair wild in the wind, cloak snared by a broken pillar. Seraya of Delmourn his mother stood with sword drawn, holding ground . An enemy leapt at her—she drove him down with a cry that soared over the battle, sweeping her blade and shield in furious arcs.
She fought at the center of a tight knot of defenders, each swing buying a moment for trembling pages and wounded guards to scramble to shelter. Alric saw three attackers fall at her feet, their blades finding only the shield she would not lower. Even as the invaders pressed in, she refused to take a single step back.
A barrage of arrows whistled through the rain—one struck her in the arm and another grazed her brow. She staggered but surged on, rallying the few who remained. Her eyes—when they flashed his way in the firelight—were clear and full of fire. She spotted him hidden beyond the doorway. "Go!" she mouthed, voice lost beneath the thunder and battle. But love and sorrow said the rest.
He never saw her turn away. Only how she stood—fierce, battered, bright as a banner—at the breaking point. Axe and sword met her, and she met them all, never yielding, not for herself, not for him.
When the fighting ended, there was silence where horns had screamed.
Hours later, when soldiers finally led Alric down to the steps, the bodies of their enemies lay scattered, felled by her hand. His mother rested among them, her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her broken sword, head bowed in peace she had won for everyone but herself.
Alric's knees buckled beside her. He watched servants cry, and soldiers kneel, and the city held its breath. But the king—his father—did not come. He did not see the shield left behind or the courage that had saved his crown. No footsteps sounded at the gate. No arm closed around Alric's shoulders.
Now – Beneath the Iron Tree
Rain ran down Alric's face, but he didn't wipe it away.
He pressed the small wooden flame to his heart.
"They never made you queen," he whispered. "But no one else ever held this kingdom together like you did."
His voice cracked, barely louder than the wind.
"Father gave the crown to Garron. Because of bloodlines. Because of rules."
"But I remember who you were. And I won't let them forget."
He stood slowly, eyes hard despite the tears behind them.
"I'm not here to wear the crown. But I will make sure no one has to die like you did—while they sit safe behind their gold."
He placed the token at the base of the stone.
Then walked back through the rain, the storm at his back, and something older than grief rising in his chest.