Blood Dowry

The Three Crowns

The night wind crept in like a cunning thief, slipping through the cracks of the rickety shacks they called home. In truth, those “walls” were nothing more than scraps of wood and cloth tied together. They could barely hold against the wind that always carried whispers from a battlefield that never rested.

Above the dark, soot-stained sky, three crowns watched over the world like the eyes of a devil, distant from each other, yet bound by the same rot.

By the banks of the Calvaris River lay a nameless village. Let’s call it Calvaris, a place where the river ran thick and murky, the color of stale blood. The village chief was an old man with a frail frame. Daraun.

That morning, Daraun was busy cutting wooden planks with the village youth, fulfilling Rapina’s latest order. Wiping the sweat from the creases of his face with a scrap of cloth, he heard a woman’s voice break through the air.

“Daraun,” she croaked, her tone rough with exhaustion and despair. She was dressed as poorly as everyone else, limping on wounded legs. Once she reached him, she said, “They came again today, said we have to build a bridge over the river. They claim this land belongs to Oppressio now.”

Daraun sighed deeply. “Yesterday we paid taxes to Rapina. Today we work for Oppressio?”

A young man nearby overheard them and stepped closer. “What does that mean? Rapina lost?” he asked, his scarred face still strangely innocent.

“Yes,” the woman muttered, snorting in frustration. “But it makes no difference.”

Daraun gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, it makes a difference,” he said, still half-laughing before his face hardened. “The color of the flag. And the man who carries it.”

“I don’t understand,” said the young man.

Daraun placed a bony hand on his shoulder and looked off into the distance. “You don’t need to understand everything. Our lives are like the sun — it rises only to set again.”

“Whoever the king is, the whip feels the same,” the woman added before limping away.

“Don’t think too much about it,” Daraun said quietly. “Get back to work.”

~o0o~

Night fell, but Daraun and the other men were still fastening logs together to form the bridge. On the far bank, Oppressio soldiers watched them, lazily cracking nuts.

By dawn, the bridge was done. The villagers lined up to receive their pay — a single gram of copper each.

“Sir… how much for your bread?” an old man asked, his hands trembling as he stared hungrily at a soldier’s meal.

“Fifty grams,” the soldier said flatly.

“Nothing cheaper?” Daraun asked, his voice rasping.

“Five grams for a single bean.”

The villagers exchanged helpless looks. None of them could afford even a crumb. One by one, they walked home with empty stomachs.

~o0o~

Daraun pushed aside the thin cloth that served as his door. Inside, a seven-year-old boy looked up at him — Lior. The boy’s gaze was deep, full of unspoken questions.

“How did it go?” Lior asked softly, clutching a bamboo tube of water.

“We’ve got a bridge now,” Daraun said wearily, his hands shaking as he took a drink.

“They’re monsters, Daraun. Doesn’t anyone fight back?” Lior asked, his voice trembling with restrained anger.

“Fight?” Daraun let out a dry laugh. “Foolish boy. You want to end up gutted on the road? Many have tried. The crows ate well.”

The room fell silent. Even the birds seemed to stop singing. Daraun met Lior’s eyes — the boy’s spirit burned too brightly for a world like this.

“When I was younger,” Daraun said quietly, “I was part of the Parama Light Alliance.”

“What’s that?” Lior asked eagerly, pulling a wooden block to sit on.

Daraun smiled faintly. “A sea alliance. We took surplus goods from the islands and sent them to those in need.”

Knock, knock, knock.

Someone tapped on the wooden wall outside. Lior sighed — he wanted to hear more. Daraun shook his head and stood to answer.

A young girl stood there, smiling shyly. She held out something wrapped in banana leaves.

“What’s this?” Daraun asked.

“The Oppressio troops came to seize our crops. Some cassava fell off their cart, so we grabbed a few. That’s your share.”

“Ah… thank you,” Daraun said softly.

She nodded. “Alright, I’ll get going.”

Daraun watched her leave, his eyes glistening. He looked down at the cassava in his hands — tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. It had been so long since he’d had cassava.

“Lior! Look what we’ve got,” he called, smiling as he stepped inside.

Lior frowned. “Isn’t that what the soldiers always take from us?”

“Yes,” Daraun said with a grin. “But tonight, we’re lucky. I’ll cook it.”

“I’ll help!” Lior said quickly, following him to the kitchen.

~o0o~

Lior gathered dry leaves and fed them into the clay furnace while Daraun angled a shard of obsidian toward the sunlight. Obsidian — volcanic glass, common around Calvaris, which sat at the foot of an extinct volcano.

After a while, a wisp of smoke appeared, and then a flicker of fire. Carefully, Lior added sticks until the flames grew. Daraun laid the cassava over the embers.

Then—

Thud! Thud! Thud!

“What was that?” Lior gasped, running to the doorway.

Arrows rained from the sky like a storm. The air darkened, and clouds rolled in — as if the gods themselves couldn’t bear to watch. The arrows struck roofs, trees, and people alike. Screams filled the air. Children called for their mothers, parents for their children — chaos devoured the village.

“Oppressio… and Caedes,” Daraun whispered, staring blankly at the horizon.

“Caedes again? Didn’t they lose last year?” Lior growled, his thick brows furrowing.

“Oppressio lost too, Lior. But look — yesterday, they ruled us.” Daraun’s voice was bitter, almost numb. He stepped outside to see villagers trampling one another in panic.

A rider approached on horseback, clad in armor. His voice boomed like thunder.

“STOP!”

The crowd froze. The man didn’t dismount. He just watched them, idly snapping his whip.

“Men over seventeen — follow me to battle!” he commanded.

“Whose side is he on?”

“Caedes?”

“I thought this was Oppressio’s land?”

“Why should we follow Caedes?”

“Who are we fighting for?”

CRACK!

The whip silenced them.

Lior clenched his fists and stepped forward, trembling but unafraid.

“Why should we obey you?” he shouted. “We have the right to refuse! Let us—”

CRACK!

The soldier’s whip struck his face. Villagers dragged him back as blood streamed down his cheek.

“Your mouth’s too big for a slave,” the soldier sneered.

Daraun gripped Lior’s shoulder, voice shaking. “Don’t be a fool. Your life isn’t worth your pride.”