"The crown holds its own will, child. Whoever weighs the crown must bear its desires."
I woke from my nap, the dream clinging to me like a second skin. I was seventeen when my father named me heir to the throne, and his words had haunted me ever since. I had asked him why me, and not Viktor, the eldest son of the Frieshter family, my brother. All he gave me was that cryptic phrase, one I still couldn't decipher. After that day, my father was never the same. I could no longer meet his eyes, let alone question the crown's decision again.
Pushing myself up from beneath the olive tree's shade, I cracked my neck and let the spring wind sweep the hair from my face. The valley stretched before me, and below it lay Illes, once glorious, now ruin and dust. The people slept in the streets, wrapped in ashen blankets, boots caked in mud. Some scrambled for scraps of dried bread, others fought over the last drops of rainwater pooling in the dirt. The sight settled on my shoulders like a leaden mantle, heavy with guilt and pity.
The heat was rising. The lower folk could scarcely afford food, let alone water. It was a miracle they clung to life at all. And I wondered; what kept them from surrendering to despair? Was it their bond to this land? Or some hollow faith in a silent god? I couldn't tell, but the question gnawed at me.
Every great empire, as the historians taught us, passes through three phases: the rise, the glory, and the fall.
Illes was no exception. It had known triumph, and now, under my father's rule, it was crumbling. All I could do was watch as he drowned himself in wine and corruption, deaf to the suffering of his people. They cried out, yet the court feigned ignorance, leaving them trapped in their own private hell, staring up at a heaven they would never touch. Powerless. Broken.
As I stood there, consumed by my thoughts, the children noticed me. Their eyes locked onto mine, undefeated, unbowed, unbroken. And in their innocent gaze, I saw the truth. It wasn't hope that sustained them. It wasn't love for this wretched land.
It was anger.
A fire smoldered behind their ribs, devouring their pure hearts, sharpening their green minds. It was the kind of fury that kept a man alive just long enough to seek vengeance. It was starting to take root inside of them. To shape them so they can fit in the mold it had prepared for them.
A shudder ran through me. One by one, their fingers lifted, pointing as an attempt to accuse, to blame, to target. Their silent indictment traveled up the valley, past the filth and the ruin, straight to the man who sat atop the throne.
And to the one who was next in line.
This was no plea. No desperate prayer.
It was the spark before the blaze.
It was the beginning of a rebellion.