The Order of the Crownless King

The woods devoured them.

Eryndor's breath came in sharp gasps as he urged his horse forward, Lorien riding beside him. Behind them, the ruins of Elmsworn burned, smoke a black gash against the moonlit sky. His palm still burned where the sigil had marked itself upon his hand, its light diminishing but never fully extinguished.

We must stop," Lorien said, her voice tight. "We can't flee them forever." 

Eryndor gritted his teeth. She was right. They had been riding for hours, yet the feeling of unseen eyes never left him. Every shadow seemed to writhe, every cracking branch a muttered threat. He had never known fear before tonight.

As if in answer to his fear, a shrill whistle tore the air. Lorien's reins tugged, and her horse reared. Eryndor had no chance to react before something—a rope, a snare—snapped shut around his ankle and pulled him from the saddle. He hit hard, a spike of pain lancing through his ribs as his horse bolted.

Lorien leapt down, daggers flashing. "Show yourself!"

A laugh. Then, out of the darkness, a figure stepped.

The man was tall, wrapped in a long weathered cloak, his face obscured in the shadow of a hood. His voice was gravel. "You're lucky I found you before they did."

Eryndor groaned, struggling to sit up. "Who—"

"Quiet." The man cut quickly at the snare with a curved knife. His piercing green eyes flicked to Eryndor's palm. "So, it's true. The mark has appeared."

Lorien moved between them. "Who are you?"

The stranger snarled. "I could ask you the same." He sheathed his knife. "But time is not long, and the Iron Dominion is already looking for you."

The name sent a chill through Eryndor's veins. "The Iron Dominion?"

"The ones who burned your village," the man said. "And they will not stop until you are dead."

Lorien's muscles tensed. "Then why should we trust you?"

"Because I am the only one who can take you to safety."

Eryndor wavered. This night had been a nightmare in every sense, and yet something in the man's eyes—hardened, unbreakable—seemed an anchor.

Lorien's grip on her daggers never faltered. "What's your name?"

The man exhaled, as if he did not wish to say it. "Call me Kaelor."

Kaelor led them along winding forest paths, never halting, never talking. Lorien held herself tense beside Eryndor, her every glance suspicious.

They walked until dawn, where the trees broke away, opening on a valley of shattered shells clustered among jagged cliffs. Broken pillars stood like the bones of some long-dead beast, their sides carved with faded sigils.

Eryndor's stride slowed. "What is this place?"

Kaelor stopped in front of a large stone archway, its apex carved with a shattered crown.

"The last sanctuary of the Order of the Crownless King," he said.

Lorien crossed her arms. "And who are they?"

"Those who have waited for you."

Eryndor had no opportunity to ask what that was meant to imply before a dozen shapes emerged from the wreckage. Cloaked and armored, they walked in silent formation. Some bore swords, others bows, but each wore a symbol—a broken crown above an empty throne.

A woman stepped forward, her silver-streaked hair tied back in braids. Her eyes were piercing, her stance uncompromising. "Kaelor."

Kaelor bowed his head. "Lady Yseult."

Her eyes turned to Eryndor, and she studied him with an intensity that made his skin squirm. "You bear the mark."

Eryndor gulped. "It… appeared after I came into contact with the ruins."

Yseult's expression darkened. "Then the prophecy has been awakened."

Lorien's eyes narrowed. "What prophecy?"

Kaelor sighed. "The return of the Crownless King—a king lost to the ages, destined to return. The sigil is beheld by none but he who shall bring his legacy to pass."

Eryndor's stomach dropped. "You think that's me?"

Rumors spread through the gathered members of the Order. Some nodded solemnly. Others frowned, skepticism written across their faces.

Then a voice sliced through the air, cutting as a sword. "Or another false portent.".

A young man stepped forward, dark hair cut short, lighter armor than the rest. His eyes were defiant.

Yseult sighed. "Bastian, not now."

"He should not be here," Bastian said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "We have seen this before. A boy, a dream, a mark—and each time, it leads to ruin."

Eryndor's fists clenched. "I didn't ask for this."

Bastian snorted. "Then why are you here?"

Eryndor's reply was prevented by a shriek in the ruins.

Followed by—steel on steel.

Pandemonium erupted.

A hooded and unknown figure sprang at Yseult, a dagger slashing toward her throat. She jerked away, but the blade grazed her shoulder, drawing blood.

Bastian was already rushing forward, sword drawn. "Assassin!"

The attacker wheeled, going for Eryndor next. Lorien moved in, her daggers in a flashing whirl. Steel rang on steel, sparks flying off into the weak morning light.

Eryndor retreated, his heart pounding. The Order was shouting, more figures peeling out of the shadows. Had they been infiltrated?

Kaelor drew a pair of curved swords, his movements spare as he cut down a second attacker. "They're Dominion spies!"

Lorien thrust her dagger into the ribs of the first assassin, twisting it. The figure shrieked, spasming, then lay quiet.

There was a silence.

Eryndor looked down at the corpse. The man's cloak bore a symbol on it—a emblem of a three-headed serpent. The same one the soldier in Elmsworn had borne.

Yseult cursed under her breath. "They've been following us for longer than we suspected."

Bastian wiped his sword clean. "We should leave. If the Dominion knows this place—"

Kaelor's gaze flicked to Eryndor. "It's no longer safe here."

Yseult exhaled. "Then we depart."

Later, when the fires were quenched and the dead interred, Yseult pulled Eryndor aside.

"The sigil brands you," she told him. "But you must understand—this does not make you him."

Eryndor nodded, his head heavy with thought. "Then how do I learn the truth?"

Yseult placed a hand on an old map, unrolling it to reveal a name written in spiraling script.

The Seekers' Sanctum.

"Legends say the last accounts of the true king's bloodline are hidden there," she said. "If you wish to learn your fate, that is where you must go."

Lorien stepped forward. "Then we go together."

Kaelor chuckled. "It won't be easy."

Bastian folded his arms. "And if he's not the one?

Yseult's eyes were unreadable. "Then we hope the true heir is found before the world burns. "

Eryndor clenched his fists. He did not know the path ahead, but he did know this—he could not turn back.

The Seekers' Sanctum held his answers. 

And he would have them.

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