After a ten-minute walk to the King's hall, Calen was brought before King Maelor.
The King sat comfortably on his throne, showing no desire to welcome the Warden. Lord Calen bent his knee, acknowledging that the South was loyal to the King and the crownlands of the Centre.
The King continued to ignore his subject.
"My lord," Calen began, his voice low but firm. "The harvests fail. The men starve while your courtiers drink wine from southern grain."
The King rose slowly from his throne, his gold rings glinting in the firelight. "You forget yourself, Warden," he said. "The South belongs to the Crown."
Calen's eyes lifted, burning. "Then the Crown forgets who feeds it."
For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then the King, angered by such defiance, paused — then chuckled.
"Calen, it surprises me that you have the courage to speak so boldly to the King of Frankia. I was seeking a Hand for myself… perhaps you could be one. Would you like to serve as my Hand?"
Lord Calen, realizing he could demand southern rights if seated on the council, could not reject such a generous offer. "I would be honoured to serve you as your Hand, my King," he said, barely able to hide his joy.
Calen wrote a letter back to Carienhelm , explaining what had happened in the capital and how generous the King had become toward the South.
He gave the letter to his messenger — not knowing it would be the last time the man would see his lord alive.
Days passed, and word spread of the new Hand of the King.
The South celebrated, believing their long-awaited rights were near.
In Carienhelm especially, men and women rejoiced. Feasts were held, farmers gave half their crops to prepare food, and people celebrated through the night — not knowing that a new war would soon begin.
A few weeks later, Calen finally brought his plea to the council.
"The South revolted two decades ago," he said. "That time has passed. The province of Valenor is loyal to the crown. I request that you grant us the rights we have long been denied."
"That's a story for another day, Lord Calen," Ser Corran replied darkly. "What about the fact that you've been plotting to assassinate the King with the help of the Kingsguard?"
The room went silent. Most knew Corran was lying, following the King's orders.
Moments later, voices rose in unison: "Hang the traitor! Hang the traitor!"
The King, informed that his plan was succeeding, ordered Ser Mervin to behead the Warden without trial.
The word spread through the city in less than half an hour.
The square of Aureth was silent, save for the creak of the gallows. Rain fell in thin lines, washing the dust from the Warden's cloak but not the shame from the crowd. Calen Dareth stood tall, hands bound, eyes fixed on the golden banners fluttering above the palace.
The King watched from his balcony, a cup of wine in hand, his smile thin and cruel. "Treason," he declared, though his voice shook more than the condemned man's.
Calen did not beg.
"If loving the South is treason," he said, his voice calm as thunder before a storm, "then may every man here learn to betray."
The lever fell, the crowd gasped, and a kingdom cracked — though no one knew it yet.
***