"The Price of Power"

The throne room was silent.

Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the kind that followed screaming — the echo of decisions that could never be undone. King Alric sat slouched on the iron throne, blood still drying on his hands. The crown that once gleamed with pride now felt like a noose tightening around his skull.

He had won. At least, that’s what the bards would write.

Outside, the banners of his enemies were being burned. The city bowed to him now — after five years of war, betrayal, and broken oaths. Alaric the Victor, they would call him. Alaric the Ruthless, in some songs. But never Alaric the Merciful.

Mercy had been the first thing he sacrificed.

He remembered the day his brother rode into the capital, sword drawn, and asked for peace. “We can share the throne,” Darin had said, eyes earnest. “Two brothers — two kings.”

Alaric had embraced him. Kissed his forehead like they were boys again.

And then he’d ordered the guards to slit his throat.

Power was not shared. That was the lesson his father had etched into his bones.

He rose now, slowly, feeling the weight of his armor and regret pressing into his chest. The iron throne groaned under his absence. Behind him, the windows were shattered — remnants of the siege. The wind whispered through the cracks, carrying the scent of smoke, ash, and something else. Something older.

“Your Majesty,” a voice called from the doorway.

It was Elira, his spymaster — the last person he trusted. Or, perhaps, tolerated. Trust was a luxury he’d long since spent.

“They’ve found her,” Elira said. “In the eastern mountains. She survived.”

Alaric's eyes narrowed. “The girl?”

She nodded. “Your niece.”

H turned away from her, fists clenched at his sides. The child had been just a baby when the bloodlines clashed. A spark of rebellion left hidden away. A name the people still whispered: Leora.

“Send riders,” he said. “Bring her here. Alive.”

Elira hesitated. “The people are already calling her ‘the rightful heir.’ If you bring her here—”

“Alive,” Alric repeated, cutting her off. “I’ll decide what to do with her.”

She bowed and left.

He didn’t tell her that he already knew what he would do.

That night, Alric wandered the palace halls, empty and cold despite the gold. The paintings of old kings stared down at him — all men who had paid their own price for power. Some with madness. Others with legacy. None with peace.

He passed the nursery, untouched for years. Once filled with laughter — his son’s laughter.

Little Kael, who had died of fever while Alric was campaigning in the north. The boy had begged him to stay. Alric had promised to return before his next birthday.

He hadn’t.

The crown had whispered louder than the child.

Weeks later, Liora stood before him — sixteen, defiant, eyes full of wildfire and sorrow.

“You’re my uncle,” she said. “You killed my father.”

He studied her face. She had her mother’s eyes — soft but strong. His brother’s jaw. His brother’s fire.

“I did,” Alric said plainly.

He expected rage. Screaming. A lunge for his throat.

But she said nothing. That silence — that was worse.

“I can offer you a place here,” he said. “Safety. Education. Even a crown — someday.”

She laughed, bitter and broken. “I don’t want your crown.”

He leaned closer. “Then what do you want?”

She looked up at him with eyes like steel. “A world you don’t rule.”

That night, Alric dreamed.

He was standing in a field of ash, the sky split in two, the throne burning. Shadows danced around him, wearing the faces of those he’d betrayed. His son. His brother. His queen, who had vanished into exile rather than watch him become the man he is now.

He woke gasping.

The next morning, he ordered Liora’s chambers to be locked and doubled the guards.

But he also had books delivered to her. Tutors. And a small garden built just outside her window.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe it was hope.

Maybe it was that, in the end, Alric knew the truth: the price of power wasn't just blood. It was loneliness. A crown heavy with ghosts. A throne surrounded by silence.

And in that silence, he wondered — not for the first time — if winning had been worth it.