The Fallen Heir,

Edric couldn't recall the exact moment the battle ended—only the ringing in his ears, the thick stench of blood, and the sight of Gareth's lifeless body sprawled in the crimson sand.

"Victory," they called it.

But to him, victory felt like loss. Like a brother stolen. Like a debt he would never be able to repay.

The guilt settled deep in his bones, hollowing him from the inside out. He carried it with him as they rode back toward the kingdom, a trail of ragged, wounded soldiers following in his wake. Each man bore the same hollow stare—the look of those who had seen too much and survived too little.

The road leading to the castle gates was lined with people—wives, mothers, children—all scanning the approaching riders with desperate, searching eyes. Faces of hope.

Faces that would soon crumble.

Edric dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The moment he stepped forward, a hush rippled through the crowd. Women clutched their shawls tighter. Children peered around trembling legs.

Waiting. Watching. Praying.

Then, his gaze landed on Sara.

She stood at the gate, her child squirming in her arms, too young to understand that his father was never coming home. For a fleeting second, hope flickered in her eyes.

And then, she saw that Edric rode alone.

He never rode alone.

Her lips parted, but no words came. She didn't need to ask.

The sword strapped to Edric's back—Gareth's sword—spoke for him.

Sara staggered as if struck, her knees giving way. The child let out a startled cry as she clutched him tighter, holding on to the last piece of Gareth she had left.

"Why?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Edric's throat tightened.

"Because of my father's greed. Because we were sent to die for nothing. Because war is never fair."

But none of those words would bring Gareth back. None of them would ease Sara's torment.

Instead, Edric knelt beside her, removing the sword from his back. Slowly, reverently, he placed it into her trembling hands.

"He fought until the end," he said softly. He spoke of you. Of his coming child. Of home."

Her breath hitched, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She clutched the hilt as if holding a part of Gareth himself, her fingers brushing over the leather grip worn from his touch.

Edric wanted to promise that he would protect them—that he would keep his brother's family safe.

But his tongue felt heavy, his voice swallowed by the misery in her eyes.

She understood.

The only sound that followed was the wailing of widows and the broken cries of children who would never see their fathers cross the threshold again.

Edric rose, his heart a lead weight in his chest.

This is the price of war. The price of Theobald's war.

By the time they reached the castle gates, the sky had darkened to a dusky gray, mirroring the weight pressing down on Edric's chest.

The guards stood at attention, their expressions unreadable. No celebration. No hero's welcome.

Inside, the castle felt colder than when he had left. The walls, once merely stone, seemed to loom taller, pressing inward. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows over tapestries of past kings, each immortalized in gold thread as if they had never spilled a drop of blood.

He was summoned to the great hall almost immediately.

Exhaustion gnawed at him, but he forced himself forward. His boots echoed over the polished marble floor as he strode in—head held high, spine straight—but the moment he laid eyes on Theobald, the air thickened with something rancid.

There he sat, perched upon the golden throne like a vulture over a feast. A king in name, but a tyrant in truth.

Theobald's courtiers flanked him, their silk-clad forms shifting uncomfortably as Edric approached. They were afraid of him.

Or perhaps, they were afraid of what he had survived.

"I see you've returned," Theobald drawled, his voice void of warmth. He leaned forward, fingers steepled. A mockery of concern. "So the rumours of your victory were true."

Edric's pulse pounded in his ears. His father had sent them to die, yet here he was—feigning interest in their survival.

"At too great a cost," Edric said, his throat tight. "Too many men lie dead for a cause that served no one but you."

A murmur rippled through the room. For the first time, the courtiers seemed unsure whether to side with their king or the blood-streaked prince who had returned from the battlefield.

Theobald's expression remained smooth, but his gaze sharpened—cold steel beneath a velvet glove.

"We must all make sacrifices for the realm," he said evenly, voice dripping in feigned wisdom. "Even if that sacrifice is steep."

Edric's fists clenched. Gareth's blood was still fresh on his hands, and this man—his own father—spoke of sacrifice as if it were a mere inconvenience.

He wanted to scream, to demand that Theobald walk through the streets, look into the faces of every grieving widow, every orphaned child, and tell them their suffering had meaning.

But another, heavier thought settled in his chest.

Where is Eleanor?

His eyes flickered around the great hall, searching for the face that had once been his anchor in this place. The only warmth in the cold marble halls.

She was not here.

His stomach twisted. She should have been the first to greet him. Had something happened to her? Was she sick? Had Theobald kept her from him?

The thought ignited something raw in his gut.

"Where is Eleanor?" he demanded, taking a step closer.

A shadow of something passed over Theobald's face—something Edric didn't like.

Then, as though bored of the conversation, the king lifted a hand and dismissed the courtiers. "We will continue this discussion later. You look tired, my son. Rest."

The throne room doors slammed shut before Edric could utter another word.

The walls around him seemed to close in.

His hands trembled with rage. Not just at Theobald, not just at the war that had stolen so much—but at the unshakable certainty settling deep in his bones.

Something was wrong. Something far darker than war awaited him within these walls.