The Weight Beneath the Crown

Edmund D. Smith stumbled into his chambers at the D. Smith mansion, the door clicking shut behind him. His steps were uneven—like a man drunk, though he hadn't touched a drop. The mask of indifference he wore in public had slipped the moment he was alone.

He slammed into the bed, face-down, breathing heavily.

Over the years, this weakness had come in waves, sudden and unexplainable. He never sought a doctor. He couldn't. Not when eyes were always watching—especially James's. If word ever got out that he, Edmund, the illegitimate son of Darren Smith, was fragile… James wouldn't hesitate to slit his throat. It would be the perfect excuse.

The Smith family looked picture-perfect to the public. In truth, it was a mess stitched together by obligation.

Edmund's mother wasn't Stovian. She was from another land—Guzan, a region drenched in bloodshed and whispered to be home to the most ruthless killers in history. Darren Smith had traveled there once to forge a union. The negotiations failed, but a single night left its mark: Edmund. Born in the barracks of Guzan, he was brought to Stovia out of guilt. His arrival shattered whatever "happiness" the Smith household claimed to have.

Darren Smith was no king. The true royal family—the Blackwoods—were still legally in power, but scandal and infidelity had eroded their claim. When the queen fled pregnant from the palace, the king collapsed into grief. With no heir, a centuries-old pact was enacted: should the royal bloodline falter, the Smiths—Stovia's military backbone—would inherit the throne.

Next Morning – Smith's estate open ground

The clang of steel echoed across the courtyard.

Ten men circled James D. Smith.

He was a wall of muscle—6'4", broad-backed, dark-haired, his black fringe falling over narrowed, unreadable eyes. Not an ounce of fat clung to him. Every muscle strained against the fabric of his training gear as he moved with lethal grace. He wasn't just strong—he was terrifying.

A fist flew. James ducked. Another came in from behind. He twisted and slammed the attacker into the dirt with one hand. A blade slashed toward him—he caught it mid-air, yanked it free, and dropped the man with a single punch.

He didn't use his magic. He never did.

Born with fire magic that barely lit a candle, James had long abandoned trying to perfect it, despite his mother's pleas. She insisted he could become something greater. He didn't care. Ruling didn't interest him.

What did interest him… was making sure Edmund never took his place.

Their father had already cheated on his mother. Already tainted their bloodline. Edmund wouldn't take the throne, too.

He would not let it happen.

On the edge of the grounds, Daisy Brook sat on a bench with her medical bag, quietly watching him spar. Her ocean-blue eyes scanned every injury, already preparing what to treat. She didn't speak. 

James didn't even look at her, but he knew she was there. He always knew.

Edmund's chambers

Knock Knock.

"Come in," Edmund said, not looking up.

He sat hunched over the desk in his private study at the D. Smith estate, ink-stained fingers flipping through confidential reports—papers on the Dolphin's organization, scattered pages about Mevelior, half-written notes. But his eyes glazed over the text, absorbing none of it.

Fredrick Ross strolled in, smug as ever, a lollipop sticking out the corner of his mouth. "Well, don't you look like a vampire accountant. You slept last decade or what?"

Edmund didn't bother replying, eyes locked on a faded Sketches buried in one of the files. "How's the girl?"

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Girl? I talk to so many girls—oh, you mean the one you almost murdered in front of God and the pigeons. She's recovering."

Edmund's gaze darkened. "Anything else?"

Fred sucked on the lollipop a moment, then let it drop into his palm. "Fine. She's stable, but you still went overboard. With a girl that weak?"

Edmund leaned back, eyes finally meeting Fred's. "You know it had to be this way. If word got out the one responsible for what happened in Mevelior is here—in this kingdom—panic would spread. And you know father and James."

Fred threw his lollipop in the bin next to his table and lit a cigarette

Edmund raised an eyebrow. "You're getting too comfortable with me."

Fred exhaled smoke. "I've seen you sob in a cellar with a broken nose and a bruised ego. I'm as comfortable as it gets."

That earned him a glare. "Remind me why I keep you around."

Fred grinned. "Because you've got terrible taste in friends."

Edmund closed the folder. "That, I believe."

To anyone else, Fredrick Ross was insufferable. But to Edmund, he was the one person who'd stood beside him since the beginning—through every brutal spar, every whispered threat from nobles, every wound left untreated in silence. Levi had trained them both. That made them brothers, in a way deeper than blood.

They stepped out of the study and began down the hall. Outside, the courtyard buzzed with energy—the open ground of the Smith mansion alive with the sound of fists and steel.

Their eyes were drawn, inevitably, to the center.

James.

Broad back glistening with sweat under the sun. Ten men surrounded him, attacking together in a calculated wave of blades and power.

He met them with ferocity—blows like sledgehammers, eyes sharp like broken glass. Black hair clung to his forehead, fire licking at his fists with every motion. Every muscle moved like it had been carved from stone. His strikes echoed.

Not one man stayed standing.

Fred whistled. "Motherfucker never sleeps."

Edmund didn't respond.

His eyes locked with James's across the courtyard.

And James saw him.

They didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

Just stood there, the space between them taut like a drawn bowstring.

One born of fire.

The other shaped by silence.

Both bred by war.

Both ready to slit the other's throat if the moment came.

Fred broke the tension. "Come on, Edmund. Don't let his jawline intimidate you."

James called out, not looking away. "Yeah, go with your boyfriend."

Edmund turned without a word, coat catching in the wind. Fred followed, tossing a middle finger over his shoulder.

"Told you he likes me," he muttered.

In the Medical Wing

Freya lay in the infirmary bed, unconscious, her body wrapped in gauze and smeared with dried blood. Her shoulder was dislocated, few pulled muscle, and purple-blue bruises marked her jaw, arms. Cuts—clean but deep—lined her hands where she had tried to fight.

In her unconscious mind, there was only void. Black and cold. A voice—feminine and distant—called her name.

"Freya..."

It sounded like salvation.

But the deeper she fell into the darkness, the more twisted the voice became. The softness rotted into a deeper tone, maniacal now, like a joker in a circus, mocking her.

"Freya... Freya... Freya..."

She winced in her sleep, her eyes squeezed shut, her head jerking from side to side.

And then, the voice changed completely. Cold. Commanding. Male.

A masked man. A shadow in the void.

"Freya Sinclair," he said.

"Freya. Freya. Freya."

The name echoed like a chant until she bolted awake, gasping.

"Freya Sinclair!"

A nurse stood beside her bed, concern etched on her face. "Are you alright?"

Freya blinked, sweat beading down her temple. Her breath was shaky. "Doctor…" she murmured.

Reyna entered with her usual deadpan expression, clipboard in hand. She ran a few brief check-ups in silence—checking vitals, glancing at the monitors, and jotting down a note or two.

"Hm," she said at last. "You're stable. You can be discharged now."

She handed over two vials of potions. "These will help with the healing. No combat until the bruising fades."

She turned to the nurse. "Get her a new uniform. Burn this one."

Reyna took care of most of Edmund's messes personally. She and Edmund had an unspoken pact: do what's needed without asking questions. No emotions, no explanations. Just efficiency. They were alike that way—too alike.

Freya left the medical facility quietly, muttering a soft, "Thank you."

She wandered in the halls of the Stovia Cadet Corps. The polished floor reflected flickers of movement. She paused.

Was someone watching her?

She turned sharply. No one.

Her breath quickened. You're imagining it, she told herself. Trauma does that.

Then Edmund's voice echoed in her memory, each word like a stone dropped in still water:

"What happened in Mevelior?"

"Who killed Dophin?"

Her brows furrowed.

Who killed Dophin? She asked herself.

Her lips parted. "He's dead?" she whispered.

He's dead?

Rage surged in her like a storm. Her fists clenched, and it felt like darkness wrapped around her spine.

I wanted to kill him myself.

"FREYA!"

She snapped out of it.

Daisy Brook was running down the hallway, waving. "You're out! Oh my God, are you okay?"

Freya blinked, the storm slowly receding.

"I'm fine. It was… the entrance exam."

Daisy's brows knit in confusion. "Entrance exam? That's weird. It's usually just a written test, some personality screening, and a ten-minute spar at most to test fitness. And you don't even have to be a fighter."

She fell quiet, chewing her lip.

"Maybe… new protocols?" she offered weakly.

Freya looked down. "Some guy in a white suit was taking my test. Strong. Scary. Smoked a lot."

Daisy's mouth dropped open.

"EDMUND D. SMITH?! No way!" She gasped. "You fought him?"

"Who is he?" Freya asked.

Daisy looked around and lowered her voice. "He's… going to be the prince."

"Going to be?"

Daisy nodded. "The royal family—Blackwoods—are no longer ruling. Long story. But soon, a new crown will be announced."

She paused, realizing she said too much. "I—I probably shouldn't have told you that. It's not public knowledge yet. I just know it because I've been assisting the Smith family…"

Freya said nothing.

But the weight of it all pressed down harder now. Like something was building.

And she wasn't sure if she wanted to stand in the middle of it—or run.