News of Rivermount's fall traveled faster than any horse. By the time
Valoria's banners appeared at the last bend toward the lowlands, the gates of
Rivendale were already open. The capital stood by the Azure River—its rooftops
glinting, its towers rising like sentinels watching the eternal current. Along
the main road, the people gathered in layers. Some held their breath, some
clutched their children, others prayed in whispers—as if the river itself were
listening.
Valoria's columns poured into the city like a stream of steel and cloth.
Thirty thousand soldiers did not shout; only the rhythm of boots and the jingle
of gear filled the air. At the front rode Arthur on a black horse, his cloak
sweeping the wind. Beside him, Elara—the daughter of the river—lifted her hand
slowly.
The cheer began tentatively, like a flower unsure of the sun. Then a single
voice rang out, "Princess Elara!" Hundreds followed, swelling into a tide.
People bowed, some knelt, others wept openly—not in fear, but because something
long buried in their hearts had finally come home.
Elara blinked back tears. "I am home," she whispered, more to herself than
to the crowd. Arthur glanced sideways at her; his cold gaze always kept a
corner of warmth for that one name.
They rode toward the palace—a pale stone fortress linked to the city by an
arched bridge that mirrored the morning light. In the inner court, Lionel
Drest, Hadrick, and the generals dismounted one by one. The grand doors opened,
and the air that spilled out was colder than stone.
Inside, Roderick knelt, his hands bound. To either side knelt his
allies—Lord Veymar, Lady Serene, Baron Kalden—faces pale yet stiff with pride.
Behind them stood the nobles once loyal to King Alden—Lord Gareth, Lord Eamon,
Lady Miriel—their weariness carved deep into their eyes.
Arthur said little. He stopped a few steps before Roderick. Before the
usurper could raise his head in defiance, Elara stepped forward.
Her steps were small, but each one felt like it shifted the river's course.
"Rivendale," her voice rang clear, "returns to the house of Riverbend."
Roderick's mouth opened, but no words escaped. Elara stood tall, no longer
the fugitive hunted through forests, but a woman who had chosen to come home
though the path was thorned.
"Roderick," she said, the name striking like a hammer, "you stole the throne
with blood. You broke cities apart, enslaved the granaries, forced children to
bear spears. You are no king—you are a wound left to rot."
Lady Serene drew a sharp breath, ready to speak, but Elara's eyes cut to her
with unshaken steel. "And you who swore to treachery—you know the price of the
choice you made."
Silence stretched. The only sound was the river trickling beyond the lattice
windows.
"Riverbend will stand again," Elara said at last, "but never divided. It
will stand with Valoria."
She stepped aside. Arthur moved forward.
"The decision is made," he said flatly. "The traitors will be executed for
their coup and the blood they demanded of the people. From this day, Riverbend
is one with Valoria."
At the back, Lord Gareth closed his eyes, as if years of burden had finally
touched the ground. Lady Miriel clasped her hands tight, trembling not from
fear but from release.
Hadrick stepped forward, awaiting command. Arthur turned to him. "Do it."
The square of Rivendale became a stage of history. The people filled every
step, every rooftop, every window. Their eyes watched—not with black hatred,
but with the simple longing for wounds to find closure.
Roderick stood beneath the scaffold, still bound. The face that once bore
arrogance now fit like a mask too loose. He searched the crowd for a familiar
gaze—perhaps for sympathy, perhaps just to hear one last voice call him "king."
None came.
Beside him, Lord Veymar stared straight ahead, Lady Serene held her chin
high though her lips trembled, and Baron Kalden drew in a long breath, as if
only now realizing the sea was wider than his ship.
Arthur did not gloat. He stood with Elara, Lionel, and Hadrick at his side.
His command was plain, precise, without performance. There was no cruelty
shown, no insults hurled—only justice carried out beneath the sun.
When the executions were done, the crowd did not cheer. Many lowered their
heads. A mother held her child close, covering the boy's eyes. The river flowed
on, unbroken, teaching the city that the holiest part of life is to continue.
As quiet returned, Arthur stepped onto the wooden platform. Both swords
rested in their sheaths; only his voice cut through the air.
"People of Rivendale," he called, his words strengthened by runes yet still
warm, "today tyranny ends. Those who dragged you into hunger, into wars not
your own, into coffins too small—have met their fate."
He lifted his gaze, letting silence sink into stone.
"From this day forward, Riverbend is no longer a kingdom apart. Riverbend is
Valoria, and Valoria is Riverbend. I did not come to steal; I came to unite.
With Elara, daughter of this river, I swear: your cities will be rebuilt, your
harbors rekindled, your fields paid in fairness, and your children will grow
without fear of the night."
A cheer rose, hesitant at first, then swelling—not born of frenzy, but of
hope finding ground.
Arthur lowered his hand, but his voice only grew stronger. "And to the world
that hears through merchants and messengers: Valoria is no longer a small
kingdom. We have united Ethereal, Draxenhold, and Riverbend beneath one banner.
Three crowns no longer accuse each other—they uphold one another. From this
day, this realm shall be called the Empire of Valoria."
The word "empire" lingered longer than any other, as though searching for a
home in every chest. When it landed, the cheer erupted. Soldiers lifted swords,
citizens waved cloth from windows, children echoed the cry without
understanding, yet felt its thunder.
Elara looked at Arthur—pride, relief, and an honest edge of fear glimmering
in her eyes. Arthur dipped his head slightly, as if to admit that without her
name, even the largest banner was only cloth.
Night lowered its veil. Small fires flickered along the Azure River,
mirroring stars eager to show themselves. On the palace balcony, Elara gazed
out over the city—Rivendale looked new, though its stones had not changed.
"I used to stand here often," she said softly when Arthur joined her,
"counting ships, memorizing the names of traders my father knew. I thought if I
remembered enough, the city would never forget me."
Arthur shook his head gently. "The city never forgot you. It was only forced
to pretend."
A faint smile touched her lips. Then she asked, "What now?"
"Now," Arthur drew a long breath, "we make sure unity is more than a word.
Tomorrow I will leave garrisons and advisors here, then return to Kaelenspire."
"You mean to move the seat of power?" she guessed.
"Yes." Arthur looked eastward, to where the river met the horizon.
"Kaelenspire lies at the crossroads of our world—the river's mouth, the eastern
gate, once an enemy's throne, now a home for all. An empire needs a capital
that symbolizes union, not only Valoria's past."
Elara nodded. "And me?"
"You will stay in Rivendale for a time," Arthur said gently. "Walk its
squares, greet its markets, sit with weavers and sailors. Let the people
remember their queen before they are ever asked to march."
She studied him long, knowing he was right. "Be careful on the road," she
whispered at last.
Arthur gave a faint smile. "You too."
At dawn, the horses stood ready. Hadrick held a bundle of sealed letters,
his face like stone that knew when to stand and when to fall.
"Your orders, Majesty?" he asked.
Arthur took them one by one. "Send word to the Council and the city lords:
the seat of power moves to Kaelenspire. In three weeks, a grand assembly.
Nobles, governors, and guild leaders are required to attend. Write also to
architects and engineers: prepare plans for harbors, stone roads, and granaries
for Rivendale. We begin with the river—for what is well built follows its
flow."
"Yes, sire," Hadrick replied. "And Solaris, Veritas, the others?"
Arthur's eyes turned east, as if already seeing towers that had not yet
risen. "They will send ears before they send swords. Let them hear: we are busy
building."
Lionel stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "Emperor," he said,
using the new title without falter, "the march is ready."
Arthur turned once toward Elara—standing on the palace steps, wrapped in the
morning light. Their eyes met; no words were needed. Then Arthur mounted his
horse.
The gates of Rivendale opened. The army moved, not with loud triumph, but
with steady certainty. Along the road, people stood waving—some held bread,
some lifted infants, some simply pressed a hand to their chest.
As Arthur crossed the bridge, the Azure River gleamed. He looked back once
at the city he had given a new future. "Guard her," he murmured, whether to
Elara, the river, or something unseen.
In the distance, Kaelenspire awaited—not as a trophy of war, but as the
capital that would weave their world anew. And behind him, Rivendale stood—not
fearing the night, but waiting for mornings yet to come.
From the rooftops, birds took flight, carrying news to every horizon: that a
kingdom had outgrown its name, and a king had laid down his swords to wear the
crown of an empire—not for himself, but for rivers, for stones, and for names
that begged never to be forgotten.