The Crown We Break

Chapter Five: The Masked Village

Chapter Five: The Masked Village

The village of Thalen sat quietly in a valley shaped like a cupped hand. From the ridge above, it looked almost serene — red-tiled roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, lanterns glowing softly along the streets.

But something was wrong.

Too perfect.

Too quiet.

Lyra reined her horse in, her hand resting instinctively on her dagger. Caelan, beside her, said nothing. His face was unreadable.

“This far south and no patrols?” she murmured. “No guards? No checkpoints?”

“It’s like they don’t need them,” Caelan said. “Like everyone here already knows where they belong.”

That scared her more than empty streets ever could.

They descended the slope into Thalen.

As they passed into the town square, people stopped what they were doing and turned.

A farmer froze mid-step.

A boy dropped a wooden toy.

Two women at a well whispered behind closed palms.

But no one ran.

No one shouted.

They just watched.

Caelan dismounted slowly, not wanting to startle anyone. Lyra did the same.

“We’re not here as soldiers,” he called, raising his hands. “We’ve come to speak. To listen.”

A soft voice replied from the chapel doorway.

“You’ve come too late for both.”

The speaker was a man in a white mask — porcelain smooth, featureless but for two dark slits over the eyes. A sigil had been carved just above the brow: the sword through the crown.

He stepped forward, arms relaxed but sure. Behind him, several others appeared. Men and women. Young. Old. All masked.

Lyra tensed.

Caelan stayed still.

“We’re not enemies,” Caelan said.

“No,” the man said. “But you were once our king.”

“I never wanted—”

“But you were,” the man interrupted gently. “And we remember what that meant.”

A child in the crowd repeated the phrase like a song.

“We remember what that meant.”

⸻

Lessons of the Mask

The masked man offered no name. He invited Caelan and Lyra into the old village hall — though “invited” felt like a warning in silk.

Inside, the banners had been torn down. Sareth’s emblem was carved into every beam.

The masked man gestured to two chairs. “Sit.”

They obeyed.

“You must have questions,” he said.

“Why masks?” Caelan asked first.

“Because we’re not interested in faces,” the man replied. “Faces are for nobles. For portraits. For worship.”

Lyra tilted her head. “And what are you, then?”

He didn’t blink. “Memory.”

Caelan leaned forward. “What is Sareth offering you that I haven’t?”

The masked man’s answer came immediately. “A place.”

“I abolished the throne. I shared power. I built the Council—”

“And we don’t get to sit at it.”

Caelan fell silent.

“You broke the crown,” the man continued, “but not the kingdom. You just handed it to different hands. And those hands never reach us. But Sareth?” His voice warmed. “He comes to the fields. He eats with us. He listens.”

Caelan tried not to show the pain that hit behind his eyes. Tried not to flinch.

“You can’t lead us,” the man said gently. “Not because you are cruel. But because you are foreign. You belong to the palace. We belong to the dust.”

He rose.

“The South remembers.”

He left without waiting for a reply.

⸻

Night Whispers

That night, Caelan sat by the village well, watching the stars blink to life over the quiet valley. Lyra joined him after making rounds.

“They won’t follow you,” she said. Not unkindly.

He nodded.

“They think I never wanted the crown.”

“You didn’t,” Lyra said.

“That’s the truth. And it still isn’t enough.”

“No,” she agreed. “Because truth isn’t what they want.”

He looked at her. “Then what do they want?”

She hesitated.

“Belonging.”

He looked down at his hands. “What if I’m not the one to give it to them?”

“Then choose someone who can,” she said softly.

He blinked. Looked at her again. “You mean…?”

She shrugged. “I mean you can’t win this the way you won the castle. Not with swords. Not even with stories.”

A pause.

Then she added, “You may have to share your legacy.”

⸻

Elsewhere — The Blade Beneath

Far from Thalen, in the gutted city of Dunwild, Sareth stood in a torch-lit cellar. The woman from the Eastern alliance stood beside him. Together, they looked over a long table.

On it: schematics of the Hall of Accord.

Hidden tunnels. Old servant routes. Guard schedules.

“Your agent got all this?” he asked.

She nodded. “He was one of them. Until now.”

Sareth studied the blueprints.

“And the people of Dunwild?”

“They’re ready. They await your sign.”

He traced the edge of the council chamber drawn on the parchment.

“We’ll give them something they’ll never forget.”

He smiled.

“And make sure the king remembers.”