The Crown We Break

Chapter Nine: The People’s Flame

Chapter Nine: The People’s Flame

The banners went up within days.

Not royal silks, but patchwork symbols, hand-painted by villagers, carried by farmers, stitched by mothers and former soldiers.

Some bore the cracked crown — Sareth’s symbol of resistance.

Others flew the new torch emblem — the one Caelan had introduced years ago as a symbol of shared light.

And beneath both, a phrase echoed on every tongue:

“Let the people choose.”

In the capital, council halls overflowed. Town criers read aloud the coming vote’s rules — each village would cast its voice in one of two directions:
• The High Council: a body of representatives, elected and advised by Caelan, to continue the fragile constitutional monarchy.
• The People’s Assembly: a rotating citizen body without thrones, crowns, or legacy — Sareth’s vision.

No swords. No siege.

Just ballots.

And behind every ballot, a story.

⸻

Lyra vs. Sareth

A public debate was held in Stonevale, the heart of the midlands — a place too neutral to be swayed, and too central to be ignored.

A stone platform was raised. On one side: Lyra.

On the other: Sareth.

Caelan watched from the edge of the crowd. He had refused to speak, honoring his promise to let the people decide — not be charmed by their prince again.

The moderator stepped forward. “Opening statements.”

Lyra went first. “The Council isn’t perfect. But it is stable. It gives you a voice — and safeguards against tyranny.”

Sareth’s reply was quieter. “The Council asks you to trust it. The Assembly asks you to be it. If you want change, don’t vote for someone who might deliver it. Vote to become it.”

The crowd murmured.

The debate went on for hours — fierce, passionate, personal.

And Caelan, listening, realized something.

They were both right.

And that terrified him.

⸻

Undercurrents

Not everyone welcomed the vote.

In the shadows of the northern border, a rogue battalion of former knights refused to disarm. Loyal to the old ways — to thrones and divine right — they called the vote blasphemy.

They attacked a town that refused to fly the crown.

Dozens died.

Caelan was woken with the news in the middle of the night. He read the dispatch in silence.

“They weren’t acting under your orders,” Lyra said. “Everyone knows that.”

“But they think they are,” Caelan murmured.

He paced to the window.

“If we let this continue, we’ll have civil war before we ever count a vote.”

She stepped closer. “Then we stop them. Together.”

He nodded. But his eyes lingered on the hills beyond the city.

The crown may be cracked, he thought — but some would still kill for its shine.

⸻

Letters and Lovers

In the days that followed, Caelan received two letters.

The first was from a woman in a distant fishing village. She wrote:

“We never thought you’d remember us. We never thought we mattered. But this vote — this choice — it makes me feel seen. My son will vote. I will too. For the first time, I feel part of something greater than survival.”

The second letter was different.

From Darien.

The healer Caelan had once fallen in love with before taking the throne. They had parted quietly — both knowing duty made poor soil for romance.

But now, the letter simply said:

“I’m still here. If you want to be too.”

Caelan held it in his hands for a long time.

The world waited.

But for once, so did love.

⸻

The Torch Procession

A week before the vote, citizens in the capital organized a silent march through the city — holding torches, not weapons.

It wound past the palace, past the wrecked archives, and up to the gates of the old tower.

Caelan stood watching from the balcony. He didn’t wave.

He didn’t speak.

He just watched.

And in the flickering torchlight, he saw something bloom — not obedience, not awe.

But agency.

They weren’t looking up at him for answers anymore.

They were looking forward.