The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Ten: The Crown

Chapter Ten: The Crown and the Trap

The bells rang before dawn.

Not the alarm bells of war, but the jubilant thunder of coronation — echoing across the rooftops of Andar like a promise kept.

Caelan stood in the Hall of Crowns, the great circular chamber beneath the palace dome. Every wall was carved with names — the lineage of rulers past. His father’s was the most recent.

And now, the line would continue.

He wore robes of dark green and silver. Not the gilded garments of conquest, but the colors of growth, of healing. Beside him stood Sareth. Behind him, Garrin. And to his left, Lyra — dressed not in silk, but in her simple leathers, her healing wounds uncovered. A statement.

When the High Priest stepped forward, carrying the circlet of kingship, silence filled the hall.

The crown was placed gently upon Caelan’s brow.

“You were born Caelan of House Vire,” the priest intoned. “Do you accept this crown, not as right, but as burden? Not as ruler, but as servant?”

“I do,” Caelan said clearly.

“Then rise — and let the kingdom rise with you.”

Andar erupted in cheers.

He had never felt smaller — and never prouder.

◇

The feast afterward flooded the palace halls. Tables groaned under platters of roasted boar and honeyed rootcakes. Fiddlers played. Nobles danced. Children snuck pastries beneath their cloaks.

Caelan drifted through it all, smiling, nodding, raising cups.

But something itched at the back of his mind. A silence in his chest. A sense of things unfinished.

When he returned to his chambers that night — exhausted but awake — he found it waiting for him.

A single parchment, folded beneath his pillow.

“South tower. Midnight. Halden. Come alone.”

His blood ran cold.

◇

The south tower was half in ruins — a remnant of older wars. No guards patrolled it. No torches lit its halls.

Caelan came cloaked in black, sword at his hip. Every footstep echoed like a warning.

At the top of the tower, in the crumbling observatory, he found them.

Halden — bound and kneeling. Blood on his face. Still alive.

And behind him, Vayne.

No guards. No fanfare. Just a dagger at the old blacksmith’s throat, and a smile too calm to trust.

“Well met, Your Majesty.”

Caelan’s hand curled around the hilt of his sword.

“You lost. The Assembly chose.”

“Indeed,” Vayne said, almost amused. “But some men weren’t born to kneel. And some debts don’t die just because a boy gives a pretty speech.”

“What do you want?”

Vayne pressed the dagger closer to Halden’s neck. “To leave. Through the northern border. Unhindered. With the remainder of my loyalists. In return, your little friend walks out alive.”

“Or?”

“Or I slit his throat, and send his body back in pieces. Poetic, don’t you think? The king’s first crown, stained by the blood of a commoner.”

Caelan’s breath trembled.

He looked at Halden — bruised, but defiant.

He remembered the first day in the forge. The old man’s gruff bark. The taste of ash. The sting of failure. The quiet pride in Halden’s eyes when Caelan had finally landed a clean strike on the anvil.

He stepped forward, hands raised.

“Let him go. I’ll give you safe passage.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it. You have my word as king.”

Vayne nodded.

He released Halden — who dropped to the floor, coughing.

Caelan rushed to him.

But as he did, Vayne moved like a viper.

Steel flashed.

Caelan turned — barely in time to deflect the blade meant for his ribs.

They clashed.

Sparks lit the broken stones.

“You never could face things like a man,” Vayne growled.

“And you never could let go,” Caelan spat.

Vayne struck hard — but Caelan had trained. In the dirt. In the ring. With sweat and bruises, not polished sparring partners.

He drove Vayne back, step by step.

And then, with a final surge, disarmed him.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

Caelan stood over him, sword raised.

Vayne stared up, breathing hard. “Do it. Be the king they want.”

Caelan’s grip tightened.

Then he threw the sword down.

“I am the king they want,” he said. “And that means not becoming you.”

Guards swarmed the tower moments later.

Vayne was dragged away in chains — silent now, his game finally ended.

Halden was helped to his feet, leaning heavily on Caelan’s shoulder.

“You should’ve let me rot,” the blacksmith muttered with a weak grin. “Would’ve made a better legend.”

“Maybe,” Caelan said. “But I’m tired of legends.”

“I raised a good fool,” Halden grunted. “A damn good one.”

◇

Back at the palace, dawn was breaking.

Caelan stood once again on the high balcony — but this time, he wore the crown not as an heir or a symbol, but as a choice.

Lyra joined him quietly, her hand slipping into his.

“He’s gone?” she asked.

“Arrested.”

“And the old man?”

“He’ll live.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Then it’s really over?”

Caelan looked out over the waking city.

“No,” he said. “It’s just beginning.”

And for the first time, he didn’t dread the weight of it.