King Caidan was not an indecisive man. From a young age, he showed confidence that his two older brothers lacked. When he was twelve, his father, King Harold, was assassinated by the court jester.
The sound of hushed whispers filled the court as the jester, his painted face pale, pled guilty before the king.
“The king was reckless,” the jester said. “How many of your fathers and sons and husbands have died as part of his ego-driven conquests?! He did not value the lives of his people. He only valued his ego!”
The three sons of the king sat at the helm of the room. The youngest of the three, Caidan, was the only one with vengeance in his eyes.
“In killing King Harold, I have prevented countless deaths. I do not regret it. And I know, the people—even if they do not speak out—appreciate my sacrifice.”
The hall was silent. All waited to see what the eldest son decided. He had been groomed to rule, and rumors of his compassion and mercy had already spread throughout the neighboring kingdoms.
“Execution is not something I wish for anyone,” the eldest son said. “I believe the fate of rotting in a dungeon for the remainder of your life is a far better punishment than a swift release to the afterlife.”
The room erupted with chatter.
Caidan slapped the table with the authority of a tyrant, commanding the room to go silent, and it did.
“Caidan,” the eldest son said. “Control your emotions. If you cannot, then leave.”
Ignoring his brother completely, Caidan turned on his heel and left without a backward glance, the silence heavy with unspoken resentment. With measured steps, he marched down the aisle, the silence broken only by his boots on the polished floor, before he stopped before the accused.
A sneer twisted the jester’s painted lips as he looked down on the boy, his eyes filled with contempt for him and his entire lineage. Their locked stares, cold and hard, showed no respect or remorse.
Caidan drew his blade and cut the jester’s throat.
Caidan stood over the jester’s lifeless form, blade still dripping. The hall, moments ago tense with moral debate, now hung in stunned silence. Gasps rippled among courtiers and guards as they realized the youngest prince had sealed his fate and theirs in a single strike. For in that crimson instant, no one doubted which brother would claim the throne. The hush deepened, a heavy silence pressing down as all eyes tracked Caidan’s departure. His calm, assured stride spoke of a king’s quiet confidence, his authority already palpable.
The Wyrd Interlude:
In a Wyrd Realm where crowns weigh heavier than souls, a young prince’s blade sets a legacy of blood. Here, what we call family are lessons in steel and silence, and each choice forges consequences unseen. This—is Wyrd Fiction.
When King Caidan’s sole child, a girl, turned thirteen, he knew he had failed as her father. Had she been a boy, he thought, he would have made her life harder. Challenged her. Put her in battle. Forced her to get her hands dirty.
Still, she was his princess. The sole exception to his hardened heart. He spoiled her rotten. Whatever she wished, he granted.
Despite his best efforts, he could never refuse the girl. So, on her thirteenth birthday, he did what he must. He exiled her. He realized she would never become the ruthless ruler he needed as long as she remained within his realm.
He refused to see her before she left, knowing the sight of her tear-stained face and the sound of her choked sobs would weaken his resolve.
On what would be her twenty-first birthday, the King set out with his guard to bring her home.
They arrived in the northland a few weeks before winter. Knight Edden, the man appointed as her guardian, welcomed them.
“Where is she now?” The King asked.
“She’ll be returning from work soon, my King,” Edden said.
“Good,” the King said. “Your reports over the years have been insightful. I thank you.”
“My king,” Edden bowed his head. “She has done well.”
“She has no knowledge that you have overseen her, correct?” The King asked.
Edden’s head held its bow. “No, my King. I have taken many disguises, but always stayed close and kept her safe.”
“Not too safe, I hope.” The King said.
“As instructed, I let her experience the pain of life. She has been beaten, and from that, she learned to fight. Never was her life truly in jeopardy, nor—” Edden’s eyes peaked up—“her purity.”
“Well done,” the King said. “I do not wish to dirty my boots in this village.” The King turned to his guards. “Setup camp.” He turned back to Edden. “Bring my daughter to me.”
While being escorted through the camp, Princess Ralina mentally rehearsed what she would tell her father. She had replayed that scene countless times since her exile.
The banners outside the Kings tent bellowed in the wind. The dark colors and the sigil, an elephant, were something she never thought she’d see again.
She hated it.
The night was bitter. As she stepped inside the tent, the first snow was falling, and she felt a few sneak down her neckline and send a chill down her spine.
“Daughter.” She heard his voice. The voice she cursed at every night all these years. And she boiled.
The King sat on a makeshift throne, twenty feet in front of her. One guard on either side.
She didn’t bow. The King smiled.
“You’ve grown,” he said.
“You’ve aged.”
The King ran a finger through his wiry grey beard. The fire roared and wind beat the sides of the tent. It was all amplified by the Princess. Rage had her senses tuned. Her nostrils flared and a rush of perfume and privilege made her gag.
“What are we doing here?” She asked.
“First, I want to say I am sorry. For this.”
“For this—do you mean this, the vile scent of your bathwater, or this—you exiling me when I was a child?”
“There was no other way.”
“What do you want from me?”
“What I’ve always wanted,” he stood. “For you to rule, as I have.”
She chuckled. “On the day they left me, I received two things. A small sack of coin. And a message. I kept the scroll you wrote for the first few months before I burned it. But against my wishes, every night, I heard your voice whisper them to me.”
The Princess took a single step forward and drew a dagger from her belt. “Grow stronger. Grow vengeful.”
The guards took a defensive stance, but the king waved them off. He slowly started towards his daughter.
“You know how I came to be King?”
“One old man put a crown on your head, another old man read from an old book and waved his fucking hand.”
“Amusing,” the King was brooding. He continued to approach, slowly. The weight of his power fell on Ralina with every step and she felt like a child again—a young girl pulled far from home and told not to return.
His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the floor. The room plunged into deeper darkness as a gust of wind extinguished half the candles, their sputtering flames leaving a smoky scent.
“I never waited to take an order,” the King huffed. “A ruler must act. When everyone else is weighing options, a true ruler slams his fist on the table!”
He stepped to her.
“Executing your father’s assassin, and then conspiring to usurp two elder siblings for the throne—” she sighed. “How did I ever admire you?”
“Weakness. Indecisiveness. Those are not traits of a powerful king.”
“No, that’s control, right father?”
“I found no joy in liberating your uncles from their birthright. But it was necessary, so I did it.
“Needed only by your ego.”
The King smirked.
Ralina was unmoved. “You think your plan has worked, don’t you? That how I speak to you now shows you made the right decision? That I’ve become a person you respect—and slightly fear.”
“You’re vengeful, are you not?” The King asked.
She took her time, finding the right response. It was a game of chess she’d played for nearly a decade, every night, anticipating how this conversation would happen.
“I am,” she said.
“Good,” he nodded. “You should be.”
She knew what she had to do. There was only one way she could win. They locked eyes, both knowing what was coming.
“You want me to kill you?” She asked.
“I want you to rule as only my bloodline can.”
“I won’t return.”
She took a step back, and he matched it. “If you leave,” the King said. “You’ll never be free of the vengeance brewing in you.” He took a breath. “I know. You and I are the same. You see it now.”
If she left, he would be right.
If she killed him, he would have won.
The fiction she crafted around this moment always ended the same way, and every night she told herself the same thing—when the time comes, be courageous enough to do it.
She raised the dagger. The King felt a weight lift from him, a relief he’d only felt one other time in life, when he killed the jester.
Ralina put the blade to her own throat.
“I pass my vengeance to you.”
The King gasped but his outstretched hand was too late. Blood sprayed across his face and the Princess hit the floor. The King collapsed to his daughter and a chorus of his screams and the winter wind haunted the world that night, and King Caidan, in his grief, knew he was doomed.
The Wyrd Curtain:
When vengeance weighs heavier than love, legacies shatter like brittle glass. A father’s cruel design breaks in the instant, leaving a wound that scars the king forever. Amid hollow echoes and howling grief, no throne can mend all wounds or forge untainted paths from spilled blood. The cycle breaks, the night swallows all sorrow—and Wyrd Worlds yet await.