The Heavy Crown

The clashing of steel on steel echoed across the battlefield as men in metal armor fought against those in ragged tunics. Wind howled from the south, whipping through the marshlands and up to the fields leading toward Estoneshire. It carried a chilling air—a warning from the storm heading north. On the outskirts of the city, the King’s Army was fighting a skirmish against the forces of the People’s Rebellion. Though the soldiers were equipped with better weapons, their orders were clear: push the rebels back but minimize the bloodshed.

In the heart of the chaos was Rhett, holding his sword defensively as he dodged an axe swung by a rebel. Though the man he fought against aimed to kill him, the prince’s goal was to disarm his opponent. If he could help it, he would use anything but the sharp part of his blade—he would hit with his fists or shield, aiming them at the ribs or jaws of those he fought against.

There was a sharp pain that ripped across his arm as the rebel’s axe sliced through his armor. Rhett gritted his teeth as blood seeped from the wound.

It’s not too deep, Silas said as his scales rippled across Rhett’s arm. You will heal within the hour.

Rhett nodded to himself, tightening his grip on his sword as he shoved the man backward before shattering the handle of the axe with a well-placed strike. The rebel stumbled, weaponless, and Rhett brought the pommel of his sword down hard, breaking the man’s nose.

An arrow flew through the air toward Rhett, but it bounced with a hard thud against a raised shield. The prince glanced over, spotting Tristan. The blonde-haired man grunted as he deflected another arrow with his shield.

“Why haven’t they retreated yet?” Tristan questioned, though his voice was barely heard over the fighting.

Rhett’s gaze went across the battlefield, toward the marshlands where the rebels’ camp was hidden away. He swung his shield into another attacker, knocking him to the ground before answering.

“It won’t be much longer,” he muttered. “Give it a few more minutes, and they’ll run for the tree line.”

As if on cue, a gust of wind swept through the battlefield, bringing with it the first snow of the storm, and Rhett knew the end of this skirmish was near. But for now, the fighting raged on, steel hitting against steel as the storm drew ever closer.

It was not long before the clashing died as the rebels, weary and beaten, broke formation. A few glanced back, but most ran toward the marshlands, hastening their retreat before the storm could get worse. Rhett watched them flee, holding his men steady with a raised hand. The King’s Army did not pursue. As always, they held their ground, unwilling to chase the rebels into the swamps where the thick mud and tangled roots could hinder their assault.

There was silence across the field for a moment, and the only sounds came from the wind and the distant splash of fleeing footsteps into the woods. The soldiers in armor waited, their eyes watching Rhett for their next command. The prince looked across the battlefield, noting the fallen on both sides. Some groaned in pain, while others lay motionless. Rhett lowered his hand, giving the signal to withdraw.

“Gather the wounded and identify the dead!” He shouted, using Silas to help carry his voice across the field. The soldiers moved quickly to obey, some kneeling to check for signs of life while others began to pull the injured into their camp.

Rhett took his sword, wiping the blood on the grass before sliding it back into its sheath. He exhaled heavily, turning away from the field as Tristan jogged to catch up to him. Together, they made their way back to the camp. Here, away from the battlefield, the air was filled with the sounds of blacksmiths repairing weapons and men murmuring around the fires. Rhett pushed through the busy camp, making his way to the large tent in the center. Inside was a warm room filled with tables cluttered with maps, markers, and scattered parchments.

He removed his armor piece by piece, starting with the arms and then the chest plate. Sighing as the weight was lifted from his body, he placed the armor on a stand. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat and streaked with dried blood on his sleeve.

Rhett then moved to the largest table, where he carefully placed small tokens on the map—one to mark where the rebels had emerged, another to show the direction of their retreat. With a quill in hand, he jotted down a few notes on a piece of paper.

Moments later, the captains began to file into the tent. These were men of various ages, all hardened by weeks of skirmishes. Some bore the tired lines of veterans in their forties, while others were younger, inexperienced, but eager. They circled the table, waiting for Rhett’s orders, though several of them exchanged uneasy glances.

One man with gray streaks in his beard crossed his arms, grumbling under his breath.

“This rebellion would be over by now if we were allowed to kill the peasants outright.”

Rhett froze mid-scribble, and the edge of his quill scratched harshly against the parchment. His eyes glanced up, with dark orange shimmering over his hazel eyes as Silas raged within. He straightened his back, causing his muscles to tense as he turned toward the man who had spoken.

“I’ve explained this before,” Rhett growled dangerously. “We’re not here to slaughter farmers, merchants, or servants. Do you want peace? Then we show restraint! Killing hundreds of peasants would only fuel more rebellion… more war.”

The tent went silent as Rhett’s glare went across the other captains, some of whom looked away, uncomfortable with his gaze.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer to keep fighting for the next decade? Burn every village, tear apart every family… How long do you think that will last before the entire kingdom is in flames?”

The man who had spoken opened his mouth to protest but then thought better of it. He looked down, biting back whatever words he had been about to say.

“I want harmony between the crown and its people,” Rhett continued as he narrowed his eyes. “And I will see it happen, even if I have to drag every one of you along with me. Is that clear?”

A murmur of agreement passed through the captains, though a few still wore expressions of discontent. Rhett turned back to the map, steadying his hands despite the lingering frustration. The storm outside was beginning to grow, and he hurriedly rushed to finish writing.

“Have we tallied the number of injured and dead?” He questioned without looking up.

One of the captains shifted beside him, reaching out for small little pegs to place on the map.

“Four dead, my prince. Three peasants and one of our soldiers. Seven peasants were found wounded on the field—five have surrendered, but two are being… less cooperative.”

“Tie up the hostile men,” Rhett instructed as he nodded slowly. “Give them time to calm down. As for the others, offer them food and medicine.”

He paused as his eyes focused on the map in front of him.

“Also, send a healer to the marshlands. Let him go there to aid the wounded rebels who happened to retreat.”

A murmur of protest went through the tent.

“You would send a healer to the enemy, Your Highness?” One of the captains questioned with a frustrated sigh. “We’d be patching up men who’ll come back to fight us tomorrow.”

Rhett’s hand slammed down on the table with a loud thud, silencing the grumbles. His voice was stern, leaving no room for argument.

“They are not the enemy. They are citizens of Sylvaris—our neighbors, our brothers. We send aid because they are our people, and we are not here to butcher them. If they refuse treatment, that’s on them. But we will not leave them to die like animals.”

The tension in the air grew thick, but no one dared to challenge the prince again. The captains shifted uneasily while some avoided his gaze. Rhett’s demeanor softened slightly as he turned away from the table, catching sight of the snow falling outside. The flakes swirled in the wind, dusting the ground and covering it in a layer of white.

Rhett bent down, unlacing his muddied boots. They were caked with dirt and grime, while the soles were worn and nearly falling off. He kicked them off to the side before heading to a nearby chest, retrieving his favorite pair of shoes. They were clean, and despite their age, they looked brand new. He slipped them on, running a finger along the ‘R’ etched on the side before standing back to his feet.

He walked to a chair at the back of the tent and grabbed a heavy cloak, throwing it over his shoulders. The fur-lined edges brushed against his chest as he pulled it tight. Without a word, he retrieved the parchment he had been writing on, rolling it up with care and tucking it into the inner pocket of his cloak.

“Tristan,” he called over his shoulder. “Ready the horses. You and I are heading to Casshire.’

As Tristan gathered his cloak, Rhett left the tent, and his boots crunched against the snow as he stepped outside. Behind him, the men began to murmur again.

“He does this every storm,” one of the older captains sneered as he leaned toward the others. “Leaves the front lines and returns to the palace while the rest of us freeze our asses off here.”

“He’s just a spoiled prince,” another joined in bitterly. “Can’t handle a bit of discomfort or blood.”

Tristan paused as he stood at the edge of the tent entrance. His grip on the flap was tight as he fumed. These men didn’t know Rhett… But none could know that comfort was far from his mind.

“The prince is not abandoning the field,” he interjected in an attempt to silence the men. “He’s returning to relay critical information to the King. And unless any of you are foolish enough to want to incur the wrath of a dragon, I suggest you hold your tongues.”

The grumbling quieted, though a few sour looks remained. Tristan gave them one last hard stare before stepping out into the cold to follow Rhett. He found the prince already by the horses. The snow whipped through Tristan’s blonde hair as he checked the saddle before mounting his horse.

As they set off through the snowstorm, Tristan rode close beside Rhett, pulling his cloak tighter to shield him from the cold. After a long stretch of silence, Tristan finally glanced at the prince.

“The captains are growing restless, you know.”

“Let them,” Rhett scoffed as his breath fogged in the air. “They want a bloody war, to crush the rebellion and bathe in the glory of it. I’m trying to keep the kingdom together, not tear it apart.”

Tristan glanced sideways at him, gripping his reins tighter as the wind pulled at their cloaks.

“I understand that, but leaving every time a storm brews on the horizon… it’s not good for morale. The men talk, and not all of it is favorable.”

Rhett’s jaw tightened. He didn’t reply. Instead, he kept his gaze on the path ahead, watching the snow swirl around them as they rode toward the north. His horse snorted, eager to get away from the storm.

“Lady Amara is safe, Rhett,” Tristan sighed as his tone softened. “She’s surrounded by guards, and no harm has occurred since the fighting started. There’s no need to check on her every few days.”

Still, Rhett said nothing. He kicked his horse to go faster, pushing toward the mountain pass that led to Casshire. Though his thoughts raced, his mouth remained tightly shut.

Amara is only safe when we are there, Silas rumbled from within.

Rhett clutched the reins tighter until his knuckles turned white. Silas’s words echoed his own fears, the ones he tried so hard to suppress. He couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how many guards he left with Amara or how fortified the palace was, she was never truly safe unless he was there. Every passing day without seeing her filled him with dread.

He knew it wasn’t rational. He knew that Cuthbert’s Palace walls were strong and that Amara was surrounded by the people he trusted most. But Silas’s voice kept reminding him of one thing: She is ours to protect.

The wind died down around them as they rode past the storm’s northern edge, though it would not be long before it caught back up. Tristan glanced at Rhett again as he furrowed his brows. He could feel the tension and stress radiating off his friend, but he didn’t press further. He knew Rhett well enough to understand when silence was the only response he’d get.

A/N: Here is the map of Sylvaris for those who need a reminder