The Crimson Crown

King Kael Thryne

The heavy velvet drapes in King Thryne’s chamber muffled the sounds of the restless castle below. He sat at the edge of his massive, gilded bed, a scowl darkening his face as his attendants moved about, preparing the room for the night. The executions had been calculated, brutal, and public. He had expected fear to crush the spirits of the Four Winds people, but instead, the city still simmered with quiet defiance.

The servants were calm when he passed; the streets were quieter than he liked. It wasn’t submission—it was something more dangerous. Hope. He could feel it like a slow-growing ember refusing to be snuffed out.

“Pathetic fools,” he muttered, brushing off the attending hands of a servant trying to drape a robe over his shoulders. “They think they can defy me. Let them try. I will grind their hope into dust.”

The candles flickered around the room, their warm light doing little to soften the weight of his frustration. He waved the attendants away with a dismissive flick of his hand. They hurried out without a word, leaving the king alone with his thoughts.

He was about to rise and pour himself a glass of wine when it happened.

A deep, resonant note filled the air, vibrating through the stone walls like the roar of a slumbering beast awakened. The horn’s call grew louder, its power undeniable, reverberating through the very marrow of the castle. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a presence, commanding and unyielding.

Thryne froze, his blood running cold as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. That sound—it was impossible. And yet, it was unmistakable, a horn.

His heart pounded as he stalked toward the balcony, throwing open the heavy doors with a ferocious sweep. The night air rushed in, cool and sharp, but it was the sight beyond that made him falter.

In the distance, atop the spire that loomed over the castle, she stood.

Glowing.

The girl—the princess he knew it had to be—bathed in a golden light so bright it banished the darkness around her, casting the city below in radiant hues. The streets, the rooftops, and even the castle walls reflected her glow, the brilliance filling every shadow, every crevice.

Thryne’s chest tightened with rage and disbelief. The Winds—he had thought them fractured, silent, abandoned. And yet here she was, a beacon of defiance, filling the city with hope so palpable it was like a dagger in his chest.

“No,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His fists clenched against the railing as he leaned forward, his teeth grinding. “This cannot be.”

The light reached even to the outskirts of the city, and he could see the people stirring below, their faces turned toward the spire, their expressions awash in awe and newfound resolve.

The horn’s call faded, but the damage had been done. The glow dimmed, leaving behind the unmistakable flicker of rebellion ignited.

“She thinks she can defy me,” Thryne hissed, his voice venomous. He spun on his heel, his robe billowing behind him as he strode toward the door, barking orders to the guards outside. “Send word to every post. Increase the patrols. Scour the castle. Find her, and bring her to me.”

But as he stormed into the corridor, the echoes of the horn lingered in his ears. A sound that would haunt him as much as it rallied the kingdom.

Elyse

Elyse had always been the quiet one, the girl no one noticed. She was the one who scrubbed the floors without complaint, fetched water without question, and disappeared into the background like a shadow. Just a servant girl, meek and unassuming, her life defined by the mundane tasks that kept her invisible. She had never thought of herself as brave—bravery was for soldiers and heroes, not someone like her.

But for her queen… for her queen, she could do this one thing.

The weight of the lantern in her hand was a constant reminder of the task before her. Its flickering light cast dancing shadows on the damp stone walls as she worked her way through the forgotten tunnels beneath the castle. The air was heavy and cold, the scent of mildew clinging to every breath she took. Pools of stagnant water glistened underfoot, their surfaces rippling faintly as she stepped cautiously around them.

Cobwebs hung thick and heavy across the passageways, brushing against her shoulders as she ducked beneath them. Elyse shivered, her heart pounding with every step. The tunnels had been abandoned for generations, their purpose all but erased from memory, save for the whispered tales passed down among the servants. Tales of escape routes and secret passages, of hidden paths that could turn the tide of war.

She hadn’t believed them—until tonight.

The horn’s call still echoed faintly in her mind, its power filling her with a resolve she hadn’t known she possessed. That single, resonant note had been like a spark in the darkness, igniting something deep within her. She had seen the glow from the spire, had felt the warmth of it, even down here in the cold and damp. It was a sign, a call to action.

For the first time in her life, Elyse felt like she mattered.

Her footsteps faltered as she reached a fork in the tunnel, the path splitting into two dark, yawning corridors. She hesitated, lifting the lantern higher to peer into the shadows. The map the servants had drawn for her was clutched tightly in her other hand, its edges damp from her nervous grip.

“Left,” she whispered to herself, the sound barely more than a breath. Her voice echoed faintly, swallowed by the oppressive silence. She turned down the left passage, her resolve hardening as she pressed forward.

She wasn’t a warrior. She wasn’t trained for this. But she was Elyse, a servant of the Four Winds, and she would see this through. If opening these tunnels meant giving the queen’s army a chance—if it meant giving hope to the people she loved—then she would face whatever lay ahead.

The flickering light of her lantern caught the faint outline of an iron gate ahead, its bars rusted but sturdy. Elyse’s breath quickened as she approached, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on her. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold metal.

The gate groaned in protest as Elyse pushed against it, the rusted hinges resisting her every effort. Her arms burned from the strain, her hands slipping against the damp, cold metal, but she refused to give up. With a final, determined shove, the gate gave way, swinging open with a loud creak that echoed through the tunnel. Elyse staggered back, her lantern shaking in her grip as the passage ahead revealed itself.

The ground beyond the tunnel was hard-packed earth, illuminated in patches by the pale light of the crescent moon. Elyse stepped cautiously forward, the cool night air rushing past her, a stark contrast to the oppressive dampness of the tunnels. She lifted her lantern higher, its glow cutting through the darkness.

And then, she froze.

A figure stood just beyond the threshold, his crimson and gold armor catching the faint light of her lantern, gleaming like a beacon in the night. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his helmet tucked under one arm, and his face—though shadowed—was etched with surprise. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of her.

Elyse’s heart leaped into her throat, her breath catching as they stared at each other, the moment hanging heavy between them. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, both too stunned to react. Then, recognition dawned in his eyes.

“You…” he breathed, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You’re from the castle.”

Elyse nodded, her voice catching as she whispered, “I’ve opened the tunnel for you.”

His expression shifted, surprise giving way to something warmer, something resolute. He glanced over his shoulder, signaling silently to the shadows behind him. From the darkness, more figures emerged, their armor catching the lantern’s light as they stepped forward. A troop of soldiers, their presence commanding and unwavering.

The man turned back to her, his face breaking into a wide grin. “You’ve done well,” he said, his voice low but filled with gratitude. “Lead us. We’ll follow.”

Elyse swallowed hard, her chest tightening with a mix of fear and exhilaration. She nodded quickly, turning back toward the tunnel and motioning for them to follow. The soldiers moved with purpose, their boots crunching against the earth as they filed into the passage, their weapons gleaming faintly in the dim light.

For the first time, Elyse felt the full weight of what she had done. She wasn’t just a servant anymore. She was a part of something greater, something that could change everything.

With renewed determination, she led the way back into the tunnels, her lantern lighting the path ahead.

Gareth

The air was heavy with tension, the kind that settled into the bones and refused to let go. Gareth crouched low in the shadow of a sprawling oak, his keen eyes fixed on the walls of the town in the distance. The faint glow of lanterns marked the enemy patrols, their movements methodical but predictable. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight of it grounding him as the horn’s call from earlier replayed in his mind.

That sound. It had been unlike anything he had ever heard, a call that didn’t just command attention but demanded it. It wasn’t merely a signal—it was a summons, a rallying cry that had stirred something deep within him and his men.

“Sir,” one of his soldiers whispered, breaking his thoughts. Gareth glanced back, his expression steady, calm, the same way it always was when his men looked at him. “Do you think it’s true? That the princess is alive? That the Winds are still with us?”

Gareth didn’t answer immediately. He’d heard the whispers, the murmurs that had spread like wildfire through the camp after the horn sounded. Stories of golden light, of defiance burning bright atop the spire in the heart of the castle. He wanted to believe it—needed to believe it. But belief alone wouldn’t win this battle.

“The Winds have never abandoned us,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “And as long as we fight for them, they’ll fight for us.”

The soldier nodded, the flicker of doubt in his eyes replaced with quiet resolve. Gareth turned his attention back to the town, his gaze sweeping over the terrain. The walls were tall and imposing, but they weren’t impenetrable. The darkness was their ally tonight, cloaking their movements as they crept closer.

When word of the capital’s fall had reached them, Gareth had wanted to march immediately, to lead his men into the fray and reclaim what was theirs. But orders were orders, and his general had commanded patience and caution. It had taken every ounce of his will to hold back, to wait. Being a leader wasn’t just about strength—it was about restraint, about knowing when to act and when to bide your time.

But now, the time for waiting was over.

The horn’s call had changed everything; its message was clear: the time to act was now. The tunnel had been a godsend, a long-forgotten path that the enemy had overlooked in their arrogance. Gareth’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he thought of the brave soul who had risked everything to open it. He didn’t know their name, but they had given him and his men the chance they needed.

He glanced over his shoulder at his troop, their faces barely visible in the shadows. They were seasoned soldiers, men and women who had fought alongside him for years. Their loyalty was unshakable, their resolve unwavering. He raised a hand, signaling for them to move forward.

The group advanced silently, their boots muffled by the soft earth. The walls loomed closer with every step, the faint murmur of the enemy growing louder. Gareth’s heart pounded in his chest, not with fear but with anticipation. The capital was within reach, and tonight, they would take the first step toward reclaiming it.

As they reached the base of the wall, Gareth crouched low, his gaze flicking toward the tunnel entrance where a faint glow of lantern light marked their contact. The servant girl had done her part—now it was time for them to do theirs.

He placed a hand on the wall, the cool stone rough against his palm. His voice was barely audible as he spoke, but the words carried the weight of a promise. “For the Four Winds,” he murmured.

And with that, he led his troops into the darkness.

The damp, narrow tunnels seemed to stretch endlessly, the faint echoes of dripping water the only sound besides the soft shuffle of boots on stone. Gareth kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white with tension. The air felt heavier the closer they got to the castle’s inner corridors, the weight of anticipation pressing down on him and his troop.

The lanterns they carried cast flickering shadows on the walls, every darkened alcove a potential hiding spot for an ambush. Gareth’s eyes darted constantly, scanning the path ahead, while his soldiers followed in a tense, focused silence. Their nerves were taut, every breath measured, every step deliberate.

“Steady,” he whispered over his shoulder, his voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “Eyes forward. No noise unless necessary.”

The damp air grew colder as they ascended a narrow stairwell, the stone walls giving way to a broader corridor. The faint murmur of distant voices reached them, carried on the still air. Gareth signaled for his troop to halt, pressing himself against the wall as he strained to listen. The enemy was close—closer than he had anticipated.

“Stay sharp,” he mouthed to his men, motioning for them to advance. Their movements were slow deliberate, their weapons drawn and ready.

As they rounded the corner, they saw them.

A troop of enemy soldiers, their yellow and black uniforms stark against the dim torchlight, were marching toward them. For a moment, both sides froze, the corridor thick with an almost palpable tension. Gareth’s breath caught in his throat as he met the gaze of the enemy commander, a man with a grizzled face and a sneer that faltered into shock.

The moment stretched impossibly long, the stillness deafening.

And then it shattered.

“Engage!” Gareth roared, his voice echoing through the halls like a thunderclap.

The corridor erupted into chaos. The enemy surged forward, their shouts filling the air as they drew their weapons. Gareth’s soldiers met them head-on, their swords clashing with a metallic ring that reverberated through the stone walls. The corridor, once silent and oppressive, now exploded with the sounds of combat—grunts of exertion, the clang of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded.

Gareth’s focus narrowed as he drove into the fray, his sword moving with practiced precision. He parried a strike from an enemy soldier, the impact jarring his arm, before stepping forward and delivering a swift counterstrike that sent the man crumpling to the ground. Around him, his troops fought with the ferocity of those who had waited too long for this moment, their movements fueled by the horn’s call and the hope it had ignited.

The enemy fought back hard, their desperation evident in every swing of their weapons. Gareth knew they couldn’t afford to be pushed back. This wasn’t just a skirmish—it was the first step toward reclaiming the castle, toward reclaiming their kingdom. The weight of that knowledge drove him forward, his blade cutting through the chaos with deadly efficiency.

“Hold the line!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the din. “Push them back!”

The tide began to shift. For all their numbers, the enemy was unprepared for the sheer determination of Gareth’s troops. Step by step, they drove the invaders back, their unity and resolve an unstoppable force.

As Gareth fought, his thoughts turned briefly to the horn, to the light that had filled the city. The princess—no, the queen—had called them to action, and now they fought not just for their kingdom but for her. For the hope she had reignited.

The battle was far from over, but as the enemy began to falter, Gareth felt the spark of victory flicker in his chest. Tonight, the castle would remember the power of the Four Winds.

The corridors of the castle were a blur of chaos and bloodshed, the din of combat echoing through the ancient stone halls. Gareth pushed forward, his blade slick with the effort of cutting down yet another foe. His men were right behind him, their movements precise and disciplined, but the cost was mounting. Every clash with the enemy left their ranks thinner, every fallen comrade a weight on Gareth’s chest.

But he didn’t falter. There would be time to mourn later—time to honor the sacrifices of those who had given their lives for the kingdom. For now, he had to press on. For the Four Winds. For his people.

“Stay together!” he barked, his voice carrying over the chaos. “We’re almost there!”

They broke through another wave of enemy soldiers, the clash of steel and cries of pain leaving a grim symphony in their wake. Gareth’s breath came heavy, his muscles burning with exertion as he led his remaining men deeper into the heart of the castle. The spire loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against the dim torchlight, and Gareth’s resolve hardened. The princess—the queen—was there. She had to be.

As they ascended the narrow stairwell leading to the spire, the air grew colder and heavier, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on them. Gareth glanced back at his men, his gaze lingering on each of their faces. They were fewer now, but the fire in their eyes mirrored his own. These were the most loyal, the most unyielding, and they had followed him through hell to get here.

“Steady,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “This is it.”

At the top of the spire, the door stood ajar, the faint flicker of light spilling out into the stairwell. Gareth stepped forward cautiously, his blade at the ready as he pushed the door open. What he saw brought him to a halt.

There, bathed in the faint glow of the torches, stood Queen Liliana and Prince Dorian. They were alive. Liliana’s red hair shimmered in the dim light, her presence commanding and regal despite the chaos that had gripped the castle. Dorian stood at her side, his hand resting protectively on the hilt of his sword, his stance unyielding.

Gareth’s heart swelled with a mixture of relief and reverence. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope too much, hadn’t dared to believe they would find not only the queen but their king as well. But here they were—the heart of the Four Winds Kingdom, unbroken and unwavering.

Without hesitation, Gareth dropped to one knee, his head bowed low. The weight of his sword rested against the stone floor as he spoke, his voice steady despite the emotion threatening to choke him.

“My queen, my king,” he said, his words carrying the weight of his loyalty and devotion. “I am Gareth; myself and my troops are yours to command.”

Behind him, his men followed suit, their armor clinking softly as they bent the knee, their heads bowed in deference. The room fell silent, the echoes of battle below a distant hum as the moment stretched.

Liliana stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over Gareth and his men, her expression one of quiet strength. “You honor us with your loyalty,” she said, her voice steady but warm. “Rise, Gareth of the Four Winds, and know that your sacrifices will not be forgotten.”

Gareth lifted his head, meeting her eyes with a renewed sense of purpose. This was why he had fought, why he had endured. For this moment, for this chance to reclaim their kingdom. And with their queen and king leading them, he knew they would succeed.

With a nod from Dorian, Gareth rose to his feet, his grip tightening on his sword. The battle wasn’t over, but for the first time in weeks, hope burned bright in his chest. The Four Winds would rise again.