The kingdom of Eryndor is proud of being different.
The first kingdom to choose its ruler by vote instead of bloodline. The first to call itself "a land of the people."
And I? I am the proof of that brilliant little idea.
Prince Elias Veremund. Son of kings. First in my line to lose the crown.
Yes, you heard right. I lost. Not to another noble house, not to some general, not even to a foreign invader.
I lost to a commoner. A man who once plowed fields now sits on the throne my ancestors built.
Now I'm told I must serve under him.
Tell me, how does that make sense? One king, chosen by the gods, by blood, by legacy that was efficient. That was order. But now? Now the crown can be thrown to whoever wins the people's cheers. A baker today, a blacksmith tomorrow. Is that progress, or madness?
My ancestors… what were they thinking? Changing the law, giving away power, calling it "democracy." Did they really believe the mob would choose wisely forever? Or did they just want to be remembered as kind and just rulers?
Well, congratulations to them. Their kindness has left me stripped of the only thing that ever mattered.
And yet… as much as I rage, I can't stop thinking: maybe the people are right. Maybe I wasn't enough. That thought more than anything makes my blood boil.
I walk through what used to be my castle, my home.
Servants don't meet my eyes anymore. Guards don't salute. Every portrait of my forefathers stares at me with painted judgment. They don't say it, but I can hear them: "You failed."
Boxes are stacked against the walls. My life, reduced to furniture and heirlooms shoved into crates. Tapestries folded and tied like rags. A crown I'll never wear again wrapped in cloth.
Then I see it. An old chest shoved into a corner, iron-bound, half-forgotten. No crest. No lock that fits my keys.
Curiosity wins over pride. I pry it open with a dagger.
Inside: scraps of the past. A dagger dulled by years of fighting. A ribbon, frayed, almost childlike. Foreign coins from kingdoms that don't exist anymore.
And at the very bottom… a journal.
The leather is cracked, the corners worn. Whoever wrote this carried it through fire and blood. Unlike the rest, it feels alive like it's waiting.
I open it.
The first line stops me cold.
"I'm so tired. I want to run away."
Not the words of a king. Not the words of a soldier. Just… a man.
For the first time in weeks, I forget about the throne, the people, the shame. I just stare at those words, feeling something I can't name.
And against my better judgment
I turn the page.