---
CHAPTER 41 — THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWNLESS
The storm over Vhalgrad had finally broken, but the wind still carried the sharp bite of yesterday's destruction. Smoke curled upward from collapsed buildings, drifting into the pale morning sky like the ghosts of the fallen. The whole city felt suspended—caught between the echo of war and the dread of what was coming next.
Aren stood at the edge of the shattered citadel, staring down at what used to be the royal courtyard. Stone tiles had been ripped up, scorched, and tossed like they were nothing more than loose chips of wood. The bodies had already been cleared, but the stains on the stones remained. No amount of scrubbing could wash away the truth of what was done here.
Behind him, Kira approached quietly. "You haven't moved from that spot since sunrise."
"I know," Aren replied, not looking back. "I'm trying to understand it."
Kira stopped beside him, her silver hair fluttering with the wind. "Understand what?"
"How people put their trust in me." His voice was low. "How they look at me as if I'm anything more than a boy trying not to die."
"You didn't ask for their trust," she reminded him gently. "You earned it."
Aren gave a humorless laugh. "I earned it by surviving. Not leading."
Silence stretched between them. Kira didn't argue; she never tried to dress the truth with false comfort. That was something he appreciated about her—pain was acknowledged, not avoided.
Down below, workers were rebuilding makeshift barricades. Soldiers patched armor, sharpened weapons, and loaded carts with supplies. The city had survived the attack from the Shades, but only barely. And the whispers spreading through the camp were growing darker: the next wave would be worse.
Kira folded her arms. "The council meets in an hour. You should be there."
"I know."
"But you're not going."
Aren sighed. "What do they want me to say? That I have a plan? I don't."
"You will." She touched his shoulder lightly. "You always figure something out. Aren… the people need you to stand in the room. Even if you don't talk."
He closed his eyes. "I'm tired of pretending to be strong."
"You're not pretending," she said. "You're terrified. That's not the same thing."
Aren opened his eyes again and inhaled deeply. "Where's Rykon?"
"Training the new recruits. And shouting."
"So… normal."
"Very."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. It disappeared when footsteps echoed behind them.
"Aren." The deep voice belonged to Master Hagan, his mentor and one of the survivors from the ancient order. His face was stern, but the lines etched across his forehead were deeper today—like even he was shaken.
"We need to talk," Hagan said.
Kira nodded once to Aren and stepped aside.
The old warrior approached Aren with something wrapped in black cloth. It was long, narrow, and strangely heavy-looking. Aren frowned.
"What is that?"
"A responsibility," Hagan answered. "And a promise."
He unwrapped the cloth.
A sword gleamed beneath it—dark as midnight metal, carved with ancient runes. It pulsed faintly, as if it breathed.
Aren stepped back. "No. Hagan, we talked about this—"
"This is not about what you want," Hagan interrupted. "This is about what the world needs."
Aren's jaw tightened. "It needs someone stronger. Someone who understands this power."
"But the power chose you." Hagan placed the sword across his palms and held it out. "You cannot run from destiny forever."
Aren stared at the blade. He could feel it—like a heartbeat tugging at his own, calling to him. It made his skin prickle.
"I'm not a hero," he whispered.
"I am not asking you to be one," Hagan said softly. "I am asking you to be yourself. A boy who refuses to give up on people. That is more valuable than any hero."
Aren looked away. "What if I fail?"
"You will," Hagan replied simply. "We all do. The question is what you do after."
The simplicity of the words cut deeper than any sword.
Aren reached out slowly. His fingers touched the weapon—and a surge of cold energy rushed through his veins. His knees nearly buckled.
Hagan steadied him. "Easy."
Images flashed across Aren's mind: ruins, shadows, screams, a figure cloaked in darkness reaching toward him. A crown of broken obsidian. Eyes of fire.
Then it vanished.
Aren gasped for air.
"What… what was that?"
"A glimpse," Hagan replied grimly. "Of the one who hunts you."
Aren's heart hammered. "The Shade King…"
"He's growing stronger. Too strong. And the city won't hold another assault."
Aren tightened his grip on the sword. The metal responded, glowing faintly like a heartbeat syncing to his.
Hagan placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to save the world today. You just need to walk into that council chamber and show them you haven't abandoned hope."
Aren exhaled shakily.
Kira stepped beside him again. "We're with you. Always."
He looked at the ruins one last time, then at the sword in his hand.
He didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel ready.
But maybe… readiness wasn't the point.
"Alright," Aren said quietly. "Let's go."
And as the three of them walked back toward the citadel, the wind shifted—carrying with it the faint, distant sound of a horn.
A warning.
The next storm was already coming.
---