Waylen learned quickly that Vaeloria punished those who lived.
Before sunrise, wanted notices were already being nailed to walls. Crude sketches.
Wrong details. One truth repeated beneath them all.
SURVIVOR OF THE CORONATION. DEAD OR ALIVE.
Waylen tore one down and kept walking.
He moved through the lower districts where stone gave way to rot and desperation.
Here, the city whispered instead of shouted. People watched from doorways. Eyes followed him. Fear spread faster than truth.
He kept his head down.
The crown was quiet.
That frightened him more than the screams.
A sudden shift in the air warned him too late.
Steel flashed.
Waylen twisted aside as a blade sliced through his cloak instead of his spine. He stumbled forward, rolled, and came up with a rusted dagger in his hand.
Three men blocked the alley.
Not guards.
Hunters.
"You ran far," one said calmly. "Longer than most."
Waylen's pulse thudded. I didn't take the crown.
"We know," another replied. "That's why you're dangerous."
They advanced.
Waylen didn't think he moved. He threw a broken bottle, blinding one man long enough to slip past. A blade grazed his arm. Pain flared, sharp and real.
Then,
The pressure returned.
Cold.
Focused.
The crown's awareness brushed his thoughts like fingers on skin.
The hunters faltered.
Just for a heartbeat.
Waylen felt it,not power, not control,but resistance.
The crown was pushing against him, testing the limits of his refusal.
He used the moment.
Waylen slammed his dagger into the nearest man's thigh and ran. He didn't stop until the sounds of pursuit faded into the city's endless noise.
Breathing hard, he pressed a hand to his bleeding arm.
"I don't want this," he whispered again.
This time, the crown did not respond.
But deep beneath the palace, ancient magic shifted.
The crown was learning.
And so was Waylen.