CROWN OF ASHES: A Kingdom's Last Hope

A Maid's Son The clang of steel echoed across the training grounds long before the sun climbed above the eastern walls of Valeris. Dozens of soldiers stood in neat rows, sweat dripping from their brows as wooden practice swords crashed together again and again. "Again!" Captain Garrick's booming voice shook the field. The recruits groaned. Their arms burned. Their legs trembled. But one soldier stepped forward without hesitation. Rowan. His uniform was faded from years of use. The leather around his wrists had cracked, and the practice sword in his hand carried more scratches than most soldiers earned in a lifetime. "Begin!" A larger recruit charged first. Rowan sidestepped just enough to avoid the swing before striking toward the recruit's shoulder. Too slow. The recruit blocked the attack and slammed Rowan onto the dusty ground. Laughter spread across the training yard. "I told you," one recruit sneered. "A maid's son is still a maid's son." Another laughed louder. "You think hard work can change your blood?" Rowan remained silent. He pushed himself back to his feet, wiped the dirt from his cheek, and lifted his sword again. Captain Garrick folded his arms. "Continue." The next blow landed across Rowan's ribs. Pain shot through his body. His breathing became uneven, but he refused to step back. Again. Again. Again. Each defeat was followed by another attempt. By noon, most of the recruits had collapsed beneath the shade of nearby trees. Only one sword was still moving. Swing. Swing. Swing. Rowan practiced alone. Captain Garrick watched from a distance. One of the instructors walked beside him. "He's hopeless." Garrick kept watching. "Perhaps." "He'll never become anything important." The captain remained silent for a long moment before replying. "I've seen talented men give up." His eyes stayed on Rowan. "I've never seen that boy quit." The palace bells rang across Valeris as the city slowly came alive. Merchants opened their shops. Children chased each other through narrow streets. Carriages rolled toward the marketplace. Rowan walked through them unnoticed. He stopped beside a small bakery and smiled faintly as the warm smell of fresh bread drifted into the street. His stomach growled. He reached into his pocket. Three copper coins. Not enough. He looked away and continued walking. Soon the grand palace appeared before him. Its white stone towers stretched proudly into the sky. Royal banners danced in the wind. Rowan never entered through the front gates. He walked toward the servants' entrance instead. Several maids hurried in and out carrying baskets of laundry and food. Among them was Lydia. She was smaller than most of the women around her, her hands rough from years of hard work. The moment she saw Rowan, her tired face lit up. "Rowan." He smiled. "Mother." She brushed dust from his shoulder. "You trained again without eating." "I'm fine." She narrowed her eyes. "You always say that." From inside her basket, she secretly pulled out a wrapped piece of bread. "I saved this." Rowan hesitated. "You should eat it." "I already have." He knew she was lying. Lydia always lied about eating whenever food was scarce. Still... He accepted it. Not because he believed her. Because refusing would only make her sad. As he ate, Lydia noticed the fresh bruise along his jaw. Her smile disappeared. "They hit you again." "It was training." He replied. "They hit you harder than training requires." Rowan looked toward the palace walls. "It doesn't matter." "It matters to me." Lydia replied. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the palace faded into the background. Finally Rowan broke the silence. "One day..." Lydia looked at him. "You won't have to work here anymore." She smiled gently. "My son." "I mean it." "I know." "I'll become someone." "You already are." "No." His voice softened. "I'll become someone the whole kingdom knows." Lydia reached out and touched his cheek. "I don't need a famous son." "I only need you to come home safely." Rowan laughed quietly. "You worry too much." "And you dream too much." "Maybe." "But dreams are all poor people own before they earn something greater." Lydia stared at him. Sometimes... She forgot he was still only twenty-one. He carried himself like a man who had already lived twice that age. She carefully removed a small sewing kit from her apron. "Sit." Rowan obeyed. Without another word, she began stitching the tear in his uniform. Her fingers worked with practiced care. Rowan watched silently. Every stitch reminded him of the sacrifices she had made. Every scar on her hands reminded him why he trained until his muscles failed. Not for glory. Not for medals. For her. When the stitching was finished, Lydia smiled proudly. "There." "Looks new." "It'll have to." They both laughed. For a brief moment... Life felt peaceful. Then... A deep horn echoed across the kingdom. Once. Twice. Three times. Every soldier in the courtyard froze. Captain Garrick's voice thundered from the palace gates. "All soldiers report immediately!" The laughter disappeared. "The northern patrol..." He paused, his face unusually grim. "...has vanished." Rowan tightened his grip on his sword. Something was waiting beyond the northern forest. And whatever it was... It had left no survivors...