[Several months after the coronation]
The courtyard was wet with last night's rain. Mud clung to the boots of the guards as they dragged the man forward. His clothes clung to him, heavy with water. In his arms he still clutched the ledger, though the cover sagged from the water. His fingers clamped it tight against his chest.
On the page that had been shown to the council that morning, the mark stood clear even through the smudge of damp ink: three ripples, one stroke. White chalk across the parchment. A small sign, but enough. It was a message not meant for the crown, not meant for loyal eyes.
The crowd pressed close against the edges of the yard. their mouths sharp with anger.
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
The word carried through the air, bouncing against the stone walls, turning the space into an echo chamber of fury.
From the balcony above, Aethelar sat still. he leaned forward, looking down. His crown felt heavy today, though it was not on his head now but laid on the table behind him. His eyes were tired. He had slept little in recent nights, his head full of voices and papers.
He watched the man below. He could not believe it still. Not because the evidence was unclear—he himself had noticed it first. He was the one who pointed it out. He had named it before the council.
And yet watching it unfold, he felt no satisfaction. Only a strange hollowness.
The guards pulled the ledger from the man's arms. He did not fight them. His head stayed bowed. The Chancellor spoke, his voice carrying across the courtyard, naming the crime, naming the punishment. The crowd goes louder, the same word filling the air.
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
The Chancellor, Lord Edric, stood at the edge of the platform. "This man has conspired with our enemies. He has traded trust for coin. He has betrayed the crown, and through the crown, betrayed all of you."
The crowd shouted again,
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
"Traitor!"
Aethelar studied the man's shoulders. Once, those shoulders had carried letters for the court, had bent low in respect when delivering news. Once, that face had seemed trustworthy. And now, in the eyes of all, it was only the face of a liar.
He remembered how steady the man's hand had been when writing. He remembered how polite his bow had always looked.
The sword rose.
The crowd leaned forward as one. The air seemed to hold its breath.
The sword fell.
The shout that followed was not a single voice but a thousand, rough and harsh and final.
Aethel did not move. His eyes stayed fix on the execution. His chest rose and fell, slow and tight. He felt the weight of what had been done pressing into him, heavier than the crown ever was.
He thought of the mark in the ledger—three ripples and one stroke. So small, so easy to miss. And yet it had led to this.
He closed his eyes for a moment, not in prayer, not in relief, but in something closer to exhaustion.
When he opened them again, the crowd was still shouting. The limp bloodied body was still there. He had watched as it happened.
---
[Several months earlier]
After the ceremony thingy, Aethelar sat alone in his chamber. The chamber was quiet except for the faint crackle of a torch in the hall. He sat at a small wooden table, a book open in front of him. His eyes moved across the lines slowly, the words dragged at him, slow and heavy, but he still read them anyway.
Two guards stood outside the chamber door. Their steps shifted now and then, but they said nothing as they stayed silent.
On the wall across from him hung a photorealistic drawing of his father. The lines captured him so well. it was not a perfect likeness, but it carried enough of his father's weight that Aethelar often found his eyes drifting toward it. Tonight was no different. He looked up from the page and studied the face, trying to remember the sound of his voice as clearly as the lines of the drawing.
The crown sat on the table to his right. It caught his eye whenever he shifted in his chair. He could see his own reflection bent across its curve when he looked too long. He had worn it only hours before, when the Archbishop's oil had touched his brow and the bells had thundered outside.
On the bed lay the robe. Rich fabric, lined with fur at the collar, stitched with gold thread. It looked too big for him. It lay half-folded, spilling crimson across the blankets. He had tugged it off the moment he was alone.
He tried to return to the book. The words about justice and punishment felt distant. His mind kept circling back to the crowd in the cathedral, the cold touch of oil on his forehead.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and forced himself to read the next line. A ruler must be seen to listen, but must not be ruled by the noise of the crowd.
He paused on the words, repeating them silently. Then he looked again at the drawing of his father. The eyes seemed to look back at him, steady and stern.
The room was quiet. Aethelar read, then stopped, his eyes resting on the page though his thoughts had already moved elsewhere.
---
[Somewhere, in a Tavern]
The tavern was packed, thick with the smell of ale, smoke, and roast meat. The floor was sticky in places where drink had spilled and not been cleaned. A fire burned in the hearth. The air buzzed with voices, louder as the night pressed on. Wooden cups knocked against tables, dice clattered, voices rising and falling in uneven waves, laughter too loud, and the hum of talk that rose and dipped like the tide.
At one table near the fire, men leaned close, their words thick with drink.
"I tell ya," said a broad man in a patched cloak, voice slurred but certain, "the boy doesn't speak at council. Not a word. Just sits there like a doll while the others shout over him."
"That's because the Chancellor speaks for him," muttered the woman beside him, rolling her eyes. She was younger, hair tied back. "Everyone knows it. The Chancellor and that Archbishop—what's his name, Theobald?—they're the ones ruling. The boy's just there to look pretty."
A man with a thin scar along his cheek leaned forward, smirking. "Pretty? You've never seen 'em lady. Too small for that throne, they say. Feet ain't even touchin' the ground." He lifted his cup, taking a slow drink. "Look more like a child dressed for a feast than a king."
"Careful," muttered the first man, glancing toward the door. "Walls have ears in days like these yaknow" He lowered his voice. "Still, I'll say it plain that crown on a boy's head don't make him a man."
"Aye, you bow," said another, older, his voice rough from years of shouting over mills or markets maybe. He sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "tell me—who's really giving orders? The boy? Or those graybeards whispering behind him? ya can't have five men pulling the reins and expect the horse to walk straight."
The younger woman snorted. "Straight? The kingdom is walking in circles and one day it's the Steward talking about coin, then the next it's the Archbishop with his oil and prayers. Meanwhile the lords out in the country do as they please."
The tavern filled with a mix of laughter and mutters, the kind that turned quick to silence when strangers drew near. Tankards knocked against tables, dice rolled across wood, and the fire snapped loud against the hum of voices. Yet the talk always circled back. More cups raised, voices weaving into the general roar of the tavern. Each had their own take, half rumor, half guess, all fed by drink. None of them had seen the council chamber. None of them had heard the boy's voice. But the noise of their doubt filled the room just the same, rolling like smoke through the rafters.
---
[Back in the Keep]
Back in the chamber, Aethelar bent over a book, candlelight trembling against the page. He had been staring too long at the numbers, eyes tracing columns again and again. suddenly, sneezed so hard the candle flickered.
"Uhh—" He blinked, startled, and saw one of his notes slide to the floor. "Was someone talking about me?" Indeeed Aethelar, people were talking about you.