THE RISING OF THE COMMONER
CHAPTER ONE : ZERO
Part I : The Fall
The Vournia Kingdom was a jewel of the continent, shining with wealth, power, and history. Its castles rose like mountains of stone, guarded by banners of gold and crimson, while its cities bustled with merchants, nobles, and knights. But beneath that glittering surface lay another truth—one of hungry mouths, broken backs, and powerless commoners. For in this kingdom, birth decided everything: nobles were born to rule, and commoners were born to serve.
The Reqmore family lived somewhere in between those two extremes. They were not nobles, nor rich merchants, but neither were they beggars scraping the streets. They were servants of the royal family—trusted hands who worked in the palace itself.
To the boy named Zuren Reqmore, that life was more than enough.
At seven years old, Zuren did not care for crowns or politics. He only cared that his parents returned home each day with smiles on their faces, carrying baskets of leftover food or coins of silver. Their small wooden house in the servant's quarter might have been humble, but for Zuren, it was the whole world.
"Mother, will you tell me the story again?" he asked one evening, tugging on the hem of her dress. His dark brown eyes sparkled with curiosity as the fire crackled in their hearth.
His mother, Elira, laughed softly. "The story of the first king again? You never get tired of it, do you?"
Zuren shook his head eagerly. "No! I like the part where he defeats the enemy king with just his sword and his courage!"
His father, Garron, chuckled from across the room as he polished a set of silver goblets for the palace. "Careful, boy. Stories are brighter than real battles. In the real world, swords are heavier than courage, and kings don't always fight fair."
Elira gave her husband a look, then brushed Zuren's hair gently. "Don't listen to him. Dreams are important. Someday, you'll understand the world better. For now… let your heart stay light."
It was an ordinary evening, an ordinary moment of happiness. And perhaps, if fate had been kinder, the Reqmore family might have continued living that ordinary life for many years.
But fate, like the kingdom itself, was ruled by power.
The very next morning, Elira was called to clean the Queen's chamber. It was not unusual—she had served the royal family faithfully for years. Zuren followed her partway to the palace gates, clutching her hand tightly.
"Will you come home early today?" he asked, his voice hopeful.
Elira smiled and kissed his forehead. "Of course. Be a good boy until then. Help your father."
Zuren nodded, though his eyes lingered on her retreating figure longer than usual, as if some hidden part of him already feared letting go.
Inside the palace, the Queen of Vournia awaited. Her name was Queen Selendra, a woman of cold beauty. To commoners, she was a figure of awe and fear. To Elira, she was simply another master to serve.
"Servant," Selendra's voice was sharp as glass. "This chamber must be spotless before sunset. I will return to inspect it myself. Fail, and you will regret it."
Elira bowed her head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The chamber was grander than anything an ordinary servant might imagine—filled with velvet curtains, polished mirrors, and ornaments of gold. Among them was a necklace resting inside a carved wooden case: a locket of deep silver, with a gem that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. This was the Locket of Divinity, the most treasured heirloom of Vournia's queens.
Elira did not dare touch it. She cleaned around it with careful hands, dusting the curtains, polishing the floors, wiping the mirrors until they gleamed like water. By sunset, her work was finished. She bowed once more to the empty chamber, as she often did when no one was there, and left.
She never knew that this day would change everything.
Zuren woke early the next morning, the smell of baked bread filling their little home. He smiled sleepily as he stretched. His mother was already humming a tune, preparing their breakfast. His father was sitting by the window, mending an old cloak.
It seemed like any other morning.
Until the pounding of boots shattered the peace.
The door was thrown open, and armored guards of the Queen stormed inside. Their leader, a tall man with a scar across his cheek, pointed a gauntleted hand at Elira.
"By order of the Queen, you are under arrest!"
Zuren froze, staring in shock. "W-What?!"
Elira dropped the loaf of bread in her hands. "Under arrest? For what crime?!"
The leader's voice was cold. "The theft of the Locket of Divinity. It was last seen in your chamber yesterday, and now it is gone."
Elira's eyes widened in horror. "That's impossible! I never—"
The guards pushed past her protests, overturning chairs, searching every corner of the house. Zuren's heart pounded as he clung to his father's arm.
"They're lying, aren't they, Father?" he whispered.
Garron's jaw tightened. "Of course they are. But lies from a throne weigh heavier than truth from a servant."
They found nothing, but it didn't matter. The guards bound Elira's hands in iron chains.
"No! Please!" she cried. "At least—at least spare my son! He has nothing to do with this!"
One of the guards grabbed Zuren's arm roughly, but the leader raised his hand. "Leave the boy. He is nothing."
Elira sobbed with relief and despair all at once, reaching for her son as they dragged her away. "Zuren! Remember, we love you! No matter what happens, never forget that!"
Zuren screamed, struggling against his father's grip. "Mother! Don't go! Please, don't go!"
But his voice was drowned beneath the sound of boots and chains.
That was the last morning Zuren's family ever sat together.
THE RISING OF THE COMMONER
CHAPTER ONE : ZERO
Part II : The Night of Chains
The world should have been asleep. The moon hung over Vournia like a pale eye, silver light washing the cobblestones. But in the servant's quarter, the night was alive with whispers. Everyone had heard the news: a servant had stolen the Queen's most sacred treasure.
The name "Reqmore" spread from mouth to mouth like poison.
Some whispered in pity. Most whispered in scorn. "I always knew they were too proud for commoners." "Imagine, thinking they could get away with stealing from the Queen!" "They'll hang for this, you'll see."
Inside the little wooden house, Zuren sat frozen by the dying fire. His small hands clutched his knees. His heart refused to accept the truth.
"They'll find the mistake, won't they?" he asked quietly. His voice cracked like dry wood. "Mother didn't do it… she would never."
His father, Garron, sat opposite him in silence. The man's broad shoulders, once the steady pillar of their family, now shook with the weight of helplessness. He stared at the floor for so long that Zuren almost thought he hadn't heard.
Finally, Garron spoke. "The Queen has made her claim. To her, that is truth. And in this kingdom, the Queen's truth is sharper than any sword."
Zuren's chest tightened. "Then… what will happen to Mother?"
Garron closed his eyes. He did not answer. And the silence was heavier than any words could have been.
The knock came again—no, not a knock, but the heavy pounding of fists.
Zuren jolted upright, terror flooding his body. Not again. Please, not again.
The door burst open. Torches flared. It was the same group of Queen's guards, led by the scarred man with steel in his eyes.
"You," he said, pointing at Garron. "The Queen summons you."
Garron stood slowly, jaw clenched. "For what reason?"
The man smirked. "Accomplice to theft. Who else could your wife conspire with but her own husband?"
"That's a lie!" Zuren shouted, voice trembling with rage. "My father never—"
A guard shoved him aside roughly, sending him sprawling against the floor. Garron's eyes burned with fury, but he raised his hands calmly.
"If it's me you want, then take me," he said, his voice steady for his son's sake. "But leave the boy. He has no part in this."
The leader gave a cruel smile. "We already decided. He stays. Alone. If he survives the winter, that's his problem."
Two guards seized Garron by the arms. As they dragged him away, Zuren scrambled forward, tears blurring his sight.
"Father! Don't go! Don't leave me too!"
Garron twisted against the guards for just a moment—just long enough to kneel down and grip his son's shoulders. His calloused hands were warm, trembling, desperate to leave something behind.
"Zuren," he said firmly, locking eyes with the boy. "Listen to me. You must not break. You must endure. Do you understand?"
Zuren's lip quivered. "But I—I can't without you and Mother…"
"You can," Garron said, though his voice cracked now. "You must. Live, Zuren. Live, and never bow to their lies. One day, the truth will be your weapon."
The guards tore him away before he could say more. His figure disappeared into the dark streets, swallowed by torches and iron.
And just like that, Zuren was alone.
The next day, the square was crowded. Every street, every window, every rooftop overflowed with curious eyes. Public executions were more than punishment—they were entertainment.
Zuren pushed through the crowd, his small frame unnoticed among the sea of bodies. He didn't even know why he came. Part of him still believed he could stop it, that the guards would see reason. That someone—anyone—would defend his parents.
But when he saw them, his blood turned to ice.
His mother and father stood bound at the platform, ropes around their necks, guards at either side. Their faces were pale but calm.
The Queen herself sat upon a raised seat, her golden dress shining like sunlight. She looked down at the prisoners not with anger, not with sorrow, but with bored disdain. To her, this was already over.
"By order of Queen Selendra," the herald announced, voice booming across the square, "Elira and Garron Reqmore are found guilty of theft and treason. Their punishment is death."
The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers. Some threw rotten fruit, others spat curses.
"Thieves!"
"Traitors!"
"Let them hang!"
Zuren's heart pounded. He wanted to scream, to claw at every face that mocked his parents. He wanted to tear down the Queen's throne and shatter it into pieces. But he was only a child. His voice was too small, his arms too weak.
On the platform, Elira searched the crowd with frantic eyes—until they found him. For a brief moment, her face softened with love. She mouthed the words: Be strong.
Beside her, Garron raised his chin proudly. He did not look at the Queen. He did not look at the jeering crowd. His eyes never left his son.
And then the ropes tightened.
The bodies dropped.
The crowd roared.
And Zuren Reqmore's world shattered.
He did not cry at first. His body was frozen, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes had seen. But then the noise of the crowd hit him, the laughter, the mocking, the cheers. The sound burned into him like fire.
Tears finally spilled down his face—not of grief, but of something deeper, darker.
Hatred.
That night, as the square emptied and the torches burned low, Zuren sat alone on the cold stone. His voice was hoarse, his fists clenched until his nails cut his palms.
"I'll remember this," he whispered to the shadows. His eyes glistened with a fury far too old for a child's face. "Every laugh. Every cheer. Every lie."
"I'll destroy you all."
And thus, the seed of vengeance was planted in the heart of the boy who had nothing left to lose.
THE RISING OF THE COMMONER
CHAPTER ONE : ZERO
Part III : Ashes of Tomorrow
The night after the execution was colder than any winter Zuren had ever known.
His house — their house — stood quiet and hollow, stripped of warmth the moment his parents' breath was stolen from them. The fire had gone out, the bread was gone, and the silence was deafening.
Zuren sat on the floorboards, staring at the shadows on the wall. His chest felt like it was caving in. Every time he blinked, he saw it again: the rope tightening, the drop, the stillness.
And the sound.
The sound of a kingdom laughing at their death.
He pressed his palms over his ears, but he couldn't shut it out. It wasn't just noise anymore. It was inside him.
(Zuren's perspective)
Why them? Why us? Why me?
I was just a boy. They were just servants. Loyal. Honest. My mother worked until her hands bled. My father bent his back until he could hardly stand.
And still… they killed them.
I wanted to cry again, but the tears wouldn't come. It was like my body was finished grieving. What remained was something else. Something sharp.
I hated the Queen. I hated her guards. I hated the crowd that jeered while my parents swung lifeless above them.
But more than that… I hated myself.
Because I did nothing. Because I was powerless.
I remember Father's words. "Live, and never bow to their lies."
I remember Mother's face. "Be strong."
How can I live when they are gone? How can I be strong when I'm only twelve?
I wanted to scream until the stars cracked. Instead, I whispered to the shadows:
"I'll make them pay. All of them."
The next morning, he discovered just how merciless the world could be to the son of "traitors."
The village that once smiled at him now turned their backs. The shopkeepers who once slipped him sweets slammed their doors shut. Children threw stones, shouting, "Thief's son! Hang like your mother!"
Even the servants who had worked alongside his parents crossed the street to avoid him. None wanted to be associated with a Reqmore.
Zuren understood. No—he felt. Every gesture, every sneer, every whisper carved into him like a knife. His parents had been mocked before they died, and now the same ridicule had been passed to him.
That night, he dug through the ashes of their hearth for crumbs of bread. His stomach groaned, but the hunger was nothing compared to the storm inside his mind.
(Narrator's perspective)
The world had shown its true face to Zuren Reqmore. Not kindness. Not justice. But cruelty.
And something strange began to stir in the boy.
Most children would have broken, their spirit shattered by grief and hunger. But in Zuren's heart, pain was forging something new.
It was not the warmth of hope.
It was not the comfort of forgiveness.
It was fire.
A quiet, smoldering fire that whispered to him in the dark: Survive. Learn. Grow. Destroy.
Weeks passed. Zuren survived on scraps, on the pity of strangers too far from the Queen's eye to care, on stealing when desperation clawed at him too hard. He grew thin, but his eyes only sharpened.
He listened. He remembered. He pieced together the whispers of the adults around him: how the Queen had been growing more paranoid with each passing year, how nobles schemed in shadows, how guards accepted bribes.
And then one night, when the moon was swollen and red, Zuren dreamed.
(Zuren's dream)
He stood again in the square, alone beneath the gallows. But this time, the ropes were empty. Instead, from the beams hung silver chains, glowing faintly with light.
A voice spoke—not from outside, but from inside. It was deep, cold, and endless, echoing in his very bones.
"Do you see it, child?"
Zuren turned, but there was no one.
"Do you understand now? The world does not punish evil. The world punishes weakness."
The chains rattled, their glow growing stronger.
"Your mother was weak. Your father was weak. That is why they died."
"Shut up!" Zuren screamed into the void. "They weren't weak! They were good! They were kind!"
"Goodness is not strength," the voice hissed. "Kindness is not survival. If you cling to them, you will follow them into the noose."
Zuren's chest tightened. The voice was cruel, but… was it wrong?
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
"To live," the voice said. "To rise. To take back what was stolen. And to crush those who laughed as your world burned."
The chains lowered themselves until they coiled around his wrists like bracelets. They were heavy, but they pulsed with strange warmth.
"Take them," the voice whispered. "Forge yourself in fire. Become the vengeance that this kingdom has never seen. Only then will you become more than a commoner. Only then will you become… inevitable."
Zuren woke with sweat running down his face. His hands were empty, but he swore he still felt the weight of those chains.
He stared into the darkness, his breath trembling.
"I'll do it," he whispered. "I'll rise. No matter how long it takes. No matter what I must sacrifice. I'll destroy this kingdom. Brick by brick. Blood by blood."
For the first time since the gallows, a spark lit in his eyes—not of a boy who mourned, but of a boy who had chosen his path.
And so, on that cold night in the slums of Vournia, Zuren Reqmore ceased to be a servant's child.
He became the seed of something far greater.
Not hero.
Not villain.
But a storm waiting to be unleashed.