The Crown We Break

Chapter Seven: The Fire Beneath The Throne

Chapter Seven: Fire Beneath the Throne

The first explosion was small.

A burst of stone and flame that shattered a guard station near the northern gates — not enough to kill, but enough to scatter.

The second came minutes later, in the lower kitchens — sending a pillar of smoke spiraling through the west wing and panicking the servants.

The third, timed precisely, tore through the base of the old tower that supported the council archives.

By the time Caelan arrived at the central corridor, ash already coated the air like snow, and half the palace was in chaos.

He shoved past a coughing guardsman. “Status?”

“Multiple detonations — coordinated,” the guard wheezed. “Saboteurs. Already inside.”

Lyra appeared beside Caelan, sword drawn, face streaked with soot. “This was no message,” she said. “It’s the beginning.”

Caelan’s heart hammered.

The letter. The warning. Sareth had said ashes — and now they were real.

“Where’s Vos?” he demanded.

“Gone,” she said grimly. “He slipped out before the first blast. No sign since.”

⸻

The Council Fractured

The surviving council members gathered in the safe chamber below the Great Hall — a room Caelan had never wanted to use.

Menal paced furiously. “It had to be Vos. He knew every passage. Every rotation.”

Elric, bandaged and bloodied from helping civilians evacuate, growled, “He fed our maps to the rebels. That’s how they got past us.”

“We don’t know if Sareth wants to take the palace or just destroy it,” Maera added, trying to keep her voice steady.

Caelan listened to them all — but heard only silence.

The silence of failure.

Of fire winning.

Of control unraveling.

He turned to Lyra. “We need to get ahead of him.”

“Then you have to give them something now, Caelan,” she said. “Something bold.”

He looked around at the faces — councilors, wounded, smoke-wrapped, angry, afraid.

“This was supposed to be the age of voices,” he whispered.

Lyra didn’t blink. “Then raise yours.”

⸻

The Broadcast

At dusk, Caelan stood atop the watch balcony. The fires had been quelled, for now. A crystal-mirrored amplifier stood beside him — connected to enchanted channels that would carry his voice to every major village, every square, every inn across the kingdom.

He glanced once at Lyra, who nodded.

Then he spoke.

“This is Caelan,” he said.

Not King. Not Councilor. Just Caelan.

“I promised a kingdom without thrones. A world without tyrants. I swore I would not rule you with fear. Today, that promise was tested.”

He paused.

“We were attacked by a force that hides behind sermons and fire. That calls itself salvation while burning the future down. And yet…”

He gripped the railing tightly.

“…I still believe we can be more.”

A hush fell over the capital. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.

“I don’t want your loyalty,” he said. “I want your courage. Your presence. If you believe in something better, in something shared, then come. Not as soldiers. As citizens. Stand with me — not to protect a palace, but to protect the idea that we can govern together.”

His voice broke, but he didn’t stop.

“We may lose this fight. But if we do, let it not be because we stayed silent.”

He stepped back.

The amplifier dimmed.

And for a moment, all across the realm, the embers seemed to still.

⸻

Elsewhere — The Seed Grows

Sareth stood in a ruined chapel in Dunwild, surrounded by masked followers.

He had heard Caelan’s message. He smiled as if it amused him.

“He speaks like a man trying not to drown,” the Eastern woman beside him remarked.

“He is,” Sareth said softly. “But even drowning men can thrash hard enough to shift tides.”

He turned to the crowd.

“Ready the next phase.”

⸻

That Night

Caelan sat alone in the shattered Hall of Accord.

Bits of plaster clung to the walls. The chandelier lay in fragments. But the great circle — the table — remained.

Scorched, cracked, but unbroken.

He ran a hand across its surface.

Lyra entered quietly and placed a sealed scroll beside him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Message from Thalen.”

He unrolled it.

One line was written there:

“The mask is not the face. Come see what lies beneath.”

He looked up at her.

“They’re inviting me back.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Could be a trap.”

“Or a test.”

He stood.

“If the kingdom must change again,” he said, “then I need to know what it’s becoming.”