The harvest festival cloaked Riverbend in warmth. The palace courtyard
glowed with lanterns shaped like wheat blossoms, strings of lights swaying
gently in the night breeze. Flutes and wooden drums played while villagers
danced in circles; skirts twirled, feet stamped in rhythm. Children chased the
shadows of torches, and the smell of honey cakes mixed with smoke, filling the
air with sweetness.
From the upper balcony, Princess Elara watched uneasily. Something felt
wrong. There were fewer guards than usual. Some men in palace armor moved
stiffly, as if they had only just learned how to wear it. She held her breath,
a chill pressing against her chest.
A servant passed carrying a jug of wine. Elara stopped him.
"Where are the northern gate guards?" she whispered.
The servant bowed too deeply, voice trembling. "I… I don't know, Your
Highness. They haven't changed shift since afternoon."
Her eyes swept back to the courtyard. The people still laughed, still
danced. They had no idea this night could wipe away every smile.
An old guard approached and murmured, "Princess… the birds won't roost in
the garden tonight. It means a flood is coming."
Elara met his gaze. "Then stand at the northern wing. If that flood comes,
we must have time to shut the gates."
He nodded and left with heavy steps.
Inside the great hall, King Alden sat high, his smile warm as he greeted his
people. "Riverbend stands because of your labor," he proclaimed. "This harvest
does not belong to the king—it belongs to all of you." Applause burst forth.
Yet at the far end, Duke Roderic's eyes glinted cold, like a blade waiting to
be drawn.
The music swelled, reaching its peak. Dancers spun in wide circles, skirts
flaring, steps stamping like ripples on the river.
Then a scream split the night. From a side gate, a torch crashed against the
wooden doors. Flames leapt, steel clashed.
"Attack!" roared Baron Ulric Fenmarsh. Dozens of swamp soldiers stormed in,
faces smeared with ash, spears gleaming. They hurled torches into the armory.
Fire devoured the racks with greedy tongues.
The music died. Children shrieked, mothers clutched their sons, merchants
dropped their goods. Dancers scattered, flutes and drums abandoned on the
floor.
Palace guards faltered. "Who's friend, who's foe?!" a captain shouted, but
strangers wore their armor, sowing chaos. Orders dissolved into smoke.
Amid the panic, Roderic strode into the great hall. The march of his men
hammered the marble floor, cold echoes filling the chamber. His thin smile
carried not joy but certainty, as his plan bloomed in firelight.
"Duke Roderic!" King Alden rose, his voice still commanding despite the
crack. "What is the meaning of this? You bring weapons to a people's feast?"
Roderic stepped closer, gaze piercing. "These weapons are not mine, Majesty.
They are the shadows of the chains you've fastened on Riverbend's neck.
Tonight, those chains break."
Alden's spine straightened. "You forget your oath. Your grandfather swore
loyalty in this very hall, swore to guard the river with my forebears."
Roderic's smile was bitter. "The river belongs to the people, not to a king
who kneels before Valoria's gold. I honor my oath to them—not to the throne."
"Peace saves lives," Alden shot back, anger laced with grief. "Would you
trade peace for the blood of your own people?"
"Peace bought with shame is just another prison," Roderic replied. He raised
his hand. "And tonight, I tear it down."
His troops advanced. Blades shone, chandeliers casting shards of light
across steel. Alden snatched the sword beside his chair, reflexes of an old
warrior still alive. But Ulric's spear struck, knocking the weapon from his
hands, ringing against the marble.
"Don't kill him," Roderic ordered calmly. "Alive, he is worth far more."
Chains clamped around Alden's wrists. The hall that once held music fell
into a pit of silence, broken only by ragged breaths and eyes wide with fear.
Elara ran down the corridors. Her gown whipped against the stone floor, its
hem soaking damp patches. Behind her, the clash of steel, sharp cries, bodies
collapsing—each echo heavier than the last. Loyal guards fell one by one, their
blood marking the path.
At a corner, Countess Selene Harrowind waited. Her gown remained pristine,
her face serene, as though the chaos were a ball she had orchestrated.
"River princess," she said softly, like a lullaby, "you're far too precious
to be left wandering."
Elara pressed herself to the cold wall. Two loyal guards surged forward,
their swords clashing with Selene's men. Flames dripped from torches, sparks
hissing on stone.
A side door burst open. "This way!" Lord Cedric Thornvale's voice was
urgent, heavy. Lady Marianne Duskford stood with him, her gown stained red, a
bloodied dagger in her grip. "Quickly, Princess—the river passage!"
Elara darted to them. The door slammed shut behind her. From outside,
Selene's voice cut through the wood: "You can run tonight, but your shadow will
be mine."
The secret corridor was narrow, damp, reeking of earth and moss. Symbols of
flowing water carved by ancestors lined the stone walls. Elara brushed her
fingers across them, grounding herself in history as she hurried.
Her hand slipped into the hidden pocket of her gown. Cold metal touched her
skin: the river-carved ring, her mother's gift. A crown in miniature. Her
mother's words echoed, "This ring is no ornament. It reminds you the river
never dies—it only finds a new course."
Now the ring felt like the only crown left to her. She clutched it tight, as
if her parents' strength could flow through the metal.
The passage opened into the underground dock. Dark water shimmered,
reflecting faint light dripping through cracks above. A small wooden boat
waited.
Cedric braced the door with his shoulder, blood dripping. Marianne shoved
the boat into the water. "Go, Princess. Don't look back."
Tears blurred Elara's vision. "I… I will not forget you."
"Save Riverbend," Cedric replied, voice unsteady but resolute.
Elara leapt into the boat, grasped the oars. Water splashed cold against her
arms, carrying her promise away.
On the palace balcony, Roderic's cloak billowed as fire from the armory lit
his face crimson. The people gathered below, forced to watch.
"People of Riverbend!" his voice thundered, amplified by soldiers. "Alden
has sold this river to Valoria! He has bartered your sweat for gold that never
reached your tables. But tonight, we are free!"
Selene stood beside him, unfurling a scroll: news of Princess Elara's death
in resistance. Couriers spurred their horses, carrying the lie faster than
truth could travel.
Some nobles cheered, their cries stabbing the uneasy silence. Most citizens
only bowed their heads. A few clapped weakly, others wept in silence. The cheer
was hollow, dragged from throats heavy with fear.
Roderic raised his hand, demanding their eyes. "From this night forward,
Riverbend stands under its own hand—not under foreign gold!"
The cry rose again, but fear echoed louder than the voices.
Meanwhile, Elara rowed into the fog. The torches of the towers burned behind
her like the house of her childhood being consumed.
Her arms trembled. She reached into her pocket, clutching the river-carved
ring. It was cold and heavy, yet also warm—because she knew the true crown of
Riverbend now rested in her hand.
As long as I hold this ring, Riverbend is not lost. Her lips
quivered, whispering the vow:
"I will return. Even if the world stops its ears, this river will speak again
through me."
A night bird swooped low, its wings cutting through mist. From the banks
came the crack of a branch falling into the water. Elara rowed harder, a small
figure against a vast river, but her resolve filled every ripple.
On the balcony, Roderic basked in forced cheers while Selene whispered her
next schemes. They stood in firelight, convinced they had claimed all.
But the river held its secret: a princess hidden in the dark, carrying the
crown in her pocket; a traitor basking in false light, surrounded by hollow
cries.
And the river, as always, flowed on—silent, but recording everything.