Chapter 121: The Village that Forgot Hope
Ashford wasn't what Elias expected.
From a distance, the village looked like a handful of rotting teeth jammed into the side of a dying hill. The fields around it were barren, the wind stirring the dry soil into ghostly whorls. Half the houses had collapsed under the weight of time and neglect; the other half leaned precariously, patched with scraps of wood and sorrow.
No laughter. No voices. No signs of life, except for the bitter smoke rising from a few broken chimneys.
Ashford had forgotten hope — and hope had returned the favor.
Elias reined in his horse at the top of a ridge. Sophia came up beside him, her cloak whipping in the cold wind. Kaelen circled like a wolf, his sharp gaze scanning the ruins.
"They'll never fight for you," Sophia said under her breath, sadness bleeding through her voice.
"They don't have to," Elias replied. His voice was calm, but inside, anger coiled tight like a serpent. "They only have to believe."
Kaelen grunted. "Belief is harder to spark than revolution."
Elias dismounted, boots sinking into the cracked earth. He pulled the hood of his cloak low over his face and started down the slope toward the village.
The others followed.
---
Ashford's main street — if it could be called that — was a muddy scar lined with hollow-eyed buildings.
The few villagers that remained watched them with dead stares. Some clutched rusted farming tools. Others simply stood and stared, broken and resigned.
A boy no older than seven, barefoot and filthy, darted across the road, vanishing into the ruins.
No one spoke.
No one smiled.
The smell of rot and despair hung heavy in the air.
A withered old man shuffled forward, leaning heavily on a splintered staff. His face was a roadmap of scars and sorrows. His eyes, however, burned with a stubborn light.
"You're either mad," he croaked, "or stupid to come here."
Elias lowered his hood. His face was pale, the fading bruises from past battles marking him as no ordinary wanderer.
"Maybe both," Elias said, voice steady. "Or maybe I'm the only one who remembers what it means to fight."
A murmur ran through the villagers, low and uncertain.
The old man spat into the dirt. "Fight? Fight who? You think we don't know what happens when you raise your head in Arden's kingdom?"
He lifted his shirt, revealing a mess of old lash scars crisscrossing his chest and ribs.
"This is what happens."
Sophia stepped forward, her voice ringing clear and strong. "And what happens if you keep your heads down? Starve slower? Die quietly?"
The old man sneered. "We survive."
"Survival isn't living," Elias said quietly. "It's dying on your knees."
The old man studied him for a long, heavy moment.
"You talk pretty, boy. But pretty words don't fill empty bellies."
Elias nodded. "You're right."
He turned to Kaelen, who whistled sharply. From the rear, Elias's men began unpacking sacks — sacks filled with grain, dried meats, medicines.
A gift.
A beginning.
Gasps ran through the crowd.
The old man's hand trembled on his staff.
"Why?" he whispered. "What do you want from us?"
Elias stepped forward, his voice carrying over the broken village.
"I want your anger," he said. "I want your hunger for justice. I want your pain, your fury, your strength. I want you to remember that once, you were free — and that you can be again."
The villagers stared at him, as if seeing a ghost.
Or a miracle.
---
That night, the villagers gathered in the ruins of the old church — a skeleton of blackened wood and shattered glass.
Elias stood before them, the flickering fire casting long shadows.
He told them the truth.
Of the lies Arden had spread.
Of the blood spilled in secret.
Of the prince they thought dead — alive, breathing, standing before them.
Not the boy they had once known, but the man forged in betrayal and sorrow.
He told them of the oath.
Of the fight that was coming.
Of the chance to reclaim what had been stolen.
He spoke not like a royal, but like a man who had lost everything — and was willing to lose more if it meant something better could rise from the ashes.
When he finished, the silence was thick enough to drown in.
Then, slowly, the old man rose to his feet.
He lifted his staff and slammed it into the floor with a crack that echoed through the broken rafters.
"We have nothing left," he said, voice trembling. "But maybe nothing is what we need to fight back."
Others stood.
A young woman missing two fingers.
A boy with a limp.
A mother clutching a sickly child.
One by one, they rose.
One by one, they chose to remember their rage.
Elias closed his eyes for a moment, the fire's warmth brushing his face.
It had begun.
---
The days that followed were brutal.
Kaelen trained them without mercy — teaching them how to fight, how to endure, how to think like wolves, not sheep.
Sophia taught them to heal wounds and set traps.
Elias trained with them, bled with them, suffered with them.
They had no armor.
Their weapons were rusted blades, axes, sharpened sticks.
But their spirits — those burned brighter with each passing day.
The village transformed.
Fields once left barren were cleared and fortified.
Old barns became armories.
Children became scouts.
Every soul became a soldier.
And the name they whispered now was not in fear, but in fierce, trembling hope:
The Dead Prince Lives.
---
On the seventh night, as Elias sat sharpening his blade by the dying fire, Sophia dropped down beside him.
"You know Arden will come," she said.
"I know," Elias replied.
Sophia stared into the fire. "They'll kill everyone. Women. Children."
"I know," Elias repeated, voice hard as stone.
Sophia hesitated, then touched his hand.
"Then promise me," she whispered. "If the worst comes... you won't let them break you."
Elias looked at her — really looked at her — and in her eyes he saw the weight of everything they had lost, everything they still stood to lose.
"I promise," he said.
Not because he was sure.
Not because he was invincible.
But because he had to.
Because they had to believe in something, even if that something was just the stubborn refusal to kneel.
---
In the darkness beyond the village, unseen by all but the most wary eyes, riders approached.
Banners black as pitch fluttered in the wind.
The king's soldiers.
The first wave.
Ashford would soon drown in blood and fire.
But Elias — the boy who had once dreamed of peace — now stood ready not to beg for mercy.
But to take it by force.
With fire.
With fury.
With a kingdom's hope burning in his heart.
---