CROWN AND CRISIS

Rowan shoves open the heavy oak door, revealing cramped, disused chamber tucked away within the castle's depths. 

Dust motes dance lazily in the single beam of light slicing through a grimy window slit. The air hangs thick and stale.

Empty, web-laced shelves line two walls, flanking a scarred wooden table and a few skeletal chairs draped in dusty shrouds.

Grimgut Ratface and Vorlag Lionsbeard stand near the table, careful distances maintained from the filth-laden furniture. Grimgut, arms crossed over his bare, bulging biceps, leans against a stone wall.

Vorlag, his impressive lion's mane cascading down his back, stands straighter, his gaze fixed on the door as Rowan enters.

"Where is Lady Bramble?" Rowan's voice cuts through the quiet.

Vorlag's deep tones resonate in the small space.

"She returned to Nirvana. I doubt she'll join us," his leonine ears twitch slightly.

"No matter," Rowan moves further into the room, stopping near the table but not touching it.

"After yesterday's events… war with Rolandia feels less like a possibility and more like a dawn we cannot prevent,". 

Grimgut grunts, a low rumble in his chest. Vorlag nods, his expression grim.

"I think we should proceed with Prince Alaric's coronation," Rowan continues, his elven features set with determination.

"Secure the succession. Keep him clear of the front lines. His first duty now is an heir,"

"I agree," Grimgut states, shifting his weight. 

"Tensions are rising and with the Queen's display, I can't see how we can avoid war,".

"There is another path," Vorlag says, his voice dropping, drawing their focus.

He meets Rowan's gaze, then Grimgut's, "We eliminate the Queen. She proved much of what Tanix said after all. It is the only way,".

Rowan lets out a short, sharp sound, half laugh, half disbelief.

"Are you serious? Who in hell is going to kill the Queen? Certainly not the Prince. And she is far from the helpless creature she might once have been".

"Precisely," Vorlag counters, stepping closer to the table, his shadow stretching long in the dim light.

"Her presence and actions threaten the nation. High Town has no allies right now. Rolandia and Merdona however, are allied. If we go to war…" he lets the implication hang, "…we lose"

"Hence, the importance of Alaric's coronation," Grimgut interjects firmly.

"A king, an heir. Stability within, even if chaos reigns without."

The scrape of footsteps outside the door halts their hushed debate. Vorlag's head snaps up, ears angled towards the sound. The door swings open wider.

Alaric stands silhouetted against the brighter corridor light, his brow deeply furrowed, his gaze sweeping over them. Instinctively, the three men bow their heads, "Your highness,"

"Good, you're here" Alaric steps inside, the door thudding shut behind him. 

"Where is Lady Bramble?".

"She remains in Nirvana, my prince," Vorlag answers, head still bowed. 

"We have a problem," Alaric begins to pace the limited space between the table and the door, his movements tight with agitation.

He stops, turning to face them directly.

"The Rolandian emissaries. Lord Grimshaw. Tanix," he pauses, letting the names settle.

"They are dead. Poisoned,".

A silent, charged look passes between Rowan, Grimgut and Vorlag. The theoretical discussion of war and succession just slammed into brutal reality.

"My prince," Vorlag begins, raising his head slowly, "If I may?"

"Speak,"

"You must be crowned. Immediately,"

Alaric stares, "What are you talking about?"

"If the emissaries are dead, Rolandia will demand blood. War is no longer a shadow; it is at the gate," Vorlag insists.

"We need a King on the throne,".

"And we need an heir assured," Grimgut adds, his voice gravelly.

Alaric stops pacing, his gaze flicking between the three council members. His mouth opens slightly, closes, then opens again.

"You're asking me… to be King? To produce… an heir…" The words stumble out, thick with disbelief. 

"…you're asking… me… to get married". 

NIRVANA

Sunlight dapples the training grounds in Nirvana. Braga, sweat gleaming on his massive bare chest, moves with surprising agility for his size. 

He spins a long spear in wide, powerful arcs. A thrust skyward, a sweeping block, a forward lunge that seems capable of felling a Runebark.

His movements are raw, almost brutal, yet possess a certain focused intensity. 

A small cluster of female fairies watches from the edge of the clearing, some perch on the leafy branches of a nearby Runebark, their wings of near-invisible blur.

Emmet lies sprawled on the soft grass nearby, idly chewing on a blade of grass.

He watches Braga's display, rolling his eyes as a ripple of appreciative murmurs goes through the fairy onlookers.

"There is nothing special about that," Emmet mutters loudly enough to carry.

"Anyone can swing a stick like that,"

"Braga's movement halts mid-spin.

He lowers the spear, turning his heavy-browed gaze towards Emmet.

A slow dangerous smile spreads across his face. "Is that so, Halfborn?". He hefts the spear, then casually tosses it, butt-first, towards Emmet. 

It lands in the grass just inches from his feet, "Then perhaps you would honour us with a demonstration?".

Emmet freezes, eyes fixed on the quivering spear shaft.

"Or perhaps," Braga continues, his voice laced with challenge, "you prefer skills better suited to shadows and back alleys?".

Emmet scoffs, "I'm more of a…" "Is that a cowardly defence I perceive? Are you a coward, Halfborn?"

A flush creeps up Emmet's neck.

He pushes himself up, brushing grass from clothes. He forces a charming smile, ignoring the spear for a moment as he addresses the fairies.

"Now ladies," he begins, walking towards the centre of the clearing, "Prepare yourselves. You are about to witness true artistry,".

He picks up the spear Braga threw him, testing its weight. His style is immediately different. Where Braga was power, Emmet is speed and precision. 

The spear becomes an extension of his arm, darting, feinting, tracing intricate patterns in the air with a fluid, rough-edged grace.

Suddenly, a second spear whistles through the air, aimed straight at Emmet's head. He reacts instantly, blocking with his own spear shaft, the impact jarring his arm. 

He leaps back, putting distance between himself and Braga, who now holds another spear and wears a predatory grin.

"What was that for?", Emmet demands, fury tightening his grip, his voice sharp.

"It is easy to dance when the wind does not blow," Braga replies, settling into a ready stance, "A true test requires an opponent,".

"I liked you better when you were just grunted and called everyone 'dog'," Emmet mutters, barely dodging another swift thrust from the larger man.

The clash begins. Wood slams against wood.

Emmet uses his agility, ducking under the wide swings, deflecting powerful blows, trying to land quick strikes of his own. But Braga's sheer strength is undeniable.

Each block Emmet makes sends vibrations up his arms; each parried blow pushes him back a step.

He tries a series of acrobatic flips and dodges, managing a glancing hit on Braga's arm, but the giant stamps his foot hard upon the earth.

The force radiates outwards, disrupting Emmet's balance. He stumbles. Braga seizes the opening, a swift strike connecting with Emmet's face.

Stars explode behind Emmet's eyes as he hits the grass.

A polite ripple of applause comes from the onlookers. Braga lowers his spear and walks over, extending a large hand down to the fallen half-elf.

A thin trickle of blood runs from Emmet's nose.

"A fine showing," Braga booms, his earlier menace replaced by grudging respect, "You fought well, my friend".

Emmet glares up at the offered hand but takes it, allowing Braga to pull him to his feet, "Come on, cheer up," Braga says, clapping him heavily on the shoulder. 

Just then, their attention shifts.

Emilia, the dark elf, walks past the edge of the training ground, accompanied by two smaller fairies. They head towards the dense forest bordering the settlement.

"Brute," Emmet spits at Braga, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He turns abruptly, leaving the giant and his admirers behind and jogs towards Emilia.

He catches up quickly, "Emilia!"

He calls out, earning her gaze, nonchalant to his call, offering no welcome.

The two tiny fairies beside her hover, their wings vibrating silently, leaving faint trails of magic dust near their feet.

"Good morning, lovely ladies of Nirvana," Emmet offers his most winning smile and a slight bow towards the fairies, who regard him with wide, curious eyes.

He turns back to Emilia.

"I hope you don't mind my company? I've had quite enough of brutes and spears for one morning,"

Emilia looks at him, assessing him before coming to a decision, "We are gathering herbs," she states flatly. "Hardly something to interest a former gladiator. Or a thief,"

"Please," Emmet spreads his hands placatingly, "Those days are long behind me. I am a renewed man in…" he glances around the idyllic setting, "…a new land."

A small, skeptical scoff escapes Emilia.

"Fine. But keep up. And do not be a bother," "You won't even know I'm here," Emmet promises.

"I doubt that," she murmurs, turning and resuming her path into the trees. Emmet falls into step beside the trio. 

MEANWHILE

Queen Gwendolyn glides down a sunlit castle corridor, her hooded servant, Willow, trailing silently behind. Gwendolyn's black gown, embroidered with intricate gold patterns that seem to drink the light from the floating magic orbs, whispers against the polished stone floor.

A self-satisfied smile stretches across her pale face, a stark contrast to her straightened black hair and blood red eyes.

"By now" Gwendolyn muses aloud, her voice smooth as venom,"they should have found the corpses of the Rolandians," her smile widens, the amusement barely contained.

"My Queen," Willow murmurs, her voice low and hesitant, "this guarantees war."

"I know," Gwendolyn replies airily,

"A regrettable necessity. Though knowing my son he would rather have peace. The only plausible offering…" she taps a long finger against her chin, "…would be this Golden Warrior I hear whispers of. Freya, is it?"

"Yes, my Queen. But…" 

"But what?" Gwendolyn snaps, her head whipping around, fixing Willow with a sharp glare.

Willow shrinks back slightly, "Freya… she will not be easily surrendered. The only reason she remains in the dungeon is because she is in love with your son," the words hang in the air.

Gwendolyn stops dead, her smile vanishing, "What did you say?", she turns fully, her red eyes seeming to glow brighter.

"In love with my son? Impossible. He would have told me," "Would he?". Willow's voice trembles, regretting the question instantly.

With unnatural speed, Gwendolyn closes the distance, her hand lashing out, gripping Willow's throat and slamming her against the stone wall.

"What," Gwendolyn hisses, her grip tightening, cutting off Willow's air, "is that supposed to mean, witch?"

Willow claws weakly at the Queen's hand. 

Gwendolyn holds her for another moment, then releases her abruptly. Willow collapses to her knees, gasping, choking, rubbing her bruised throat.

"Speak, creature" Gwendolyn commands, looming over her, her eyes blazing.

"The Prince… Freya…" Willow coughs, struggling for breath, "…they have loved each other for years. The king forbade it because of their roles,".

Gwendolyn raises a demanding eyebrow.

"Alaric,the sole heir. Freya, the kingdom's shield. As Queen, she would be withdrawn from battle. High Town… needs her strength. High Town has more enemies than friends,".

Willow looks up, meeting the Queen's furious gaze.

"My Queen, if war comes now, the court may be forced to release her. To let her fight,".

A low growl emanates from Gwendolyn's chest. She turns and punches the stone wall beside her.

The rock cracks and spiders outward from the impact. Then, moving in a blur that defies normal speed, she vanishes down the corridor, leaving Willow coughing and trembling on the floor.

*************************************************************************

Freya sits on the cold stone floor of her cell, knees drawn tightly to her chest. The morning breeze drifts through the barred window, cool against her skin, stirring loose strands of red hair

Suddenly, prickling sensation runs up her spine. An unnatural wave of power washes through the dungeon's stale air. She surges to her feet, muscles tense.

"Guards!" She calls out, her voice echoing.

"Something is wrong! Something is coming!"

A figure emerges from the deepest shadows at the end of the corridor. A woman in a flowing black gown, rich with gold embroidery. Skin like moonlight, eyes like embers.

The two guards stationed outside Freya's cell immediately bow low, "Your majesty,".

Gwendolyn gives a curt nod towards the empty corridor, a silent dismissal. The guards hesitate, then retreat.

"So," Gwendolyn purrs, gliding closer, her red eyes raking over Freya, assessing her like livestock. "You are the great Golden Warrior I have heard so much about,".

Freya stands tall, meeting the Queen's predatory gaze without flinching. 

"And you are the reason His majesty confiscated the relic from me. It was a gift, so he might finally accept my love for the Prince," her hands clench into fists at her sides.

"Remarkable," Gwendolyn murmurs, tilting her head.

Her eyes seem to see something beyond Freya's physical form, shimmering threads of power clinging to the warrior, "But irrelevant now. My son requires a different sort of Queen, one of my choosing. 

And with my return, High Town no longer requires your… services."

Freya's jaws tighten, "Whatever schemes you weave, Alaric will stop you,".

Gwendolyn laughs, a cold, brittle sound. "My weak, sentimental child? Please,".

A small knowing smile touches Freya's lips, "Weak? Then you truly know nothing of the man I love. He is strong in ways you'll never know,".

She unclenches her fists, "Enjoy my gift, Your majesty. While you can,".

Gwendolyn's face contorts, teeth grinding audibly. She spins on her heel, starting back down the corridor just as the dismissed guards reappear, moving to resume their posts.

Gwendolyn stalks past them.

They reach Freya's cell, turning back to their duty, only to find the Queen standing before them again, impossibly fast.

A sphere of raw, red energy crackles in her outstretched palm. She thrusts it forward. It slams into the first guard's chest, burning a smoking hole straight through his armour and torso,.

He collapses without a sound.

The second guard opens his mouth to scream but Gwendolyn is suddenly behind him, one hand clamped over his mouth, forcing pulsating beams of destructive magic down his throat.

His muffled screams turn into horrific gurgles as he burns from the inside out.

With the guards dispatched, Gwendolyn turns to the barred gate of Freya's cell. She grips the cold metal bars , with a screech of protesting metal, she rips the entire gate from its stone moorings and hurls it aside.

Instantly, a palpable aura of golden energy flares around Freya as she braces herself for combat. But Gwendolyn doesn't attack. Instead, she stumbles backward, her expression shifting dramatically.

The fury vanishes, replaced by wide-eyes horror.

Tears well, tracing paths down her pale cheeks. Her voice, now high and trembling, breaks the sudden silence.

"What… what have you done?" She whimpers, pointing a shaking finger at Freya.

"Guards! Guards! Help!"

Footsteps pound down the corridor as more guards rush towards the scene, drawn by the Queen's cries.

Reinforcements arrive, their eyes falling on the dead guards, the ripped-off cell door and the lone battle-ready figure of Freya standing amidst the carnage.

"She killed them!" Gwendolyn shrieks, collapsing into a feigned faint.