Chapter 6 - The Iron Banner
Through the shattered doorway poured an army of elite soldiers clad in polished silver armor, their cloaks bearing the ancient, untainted crest of the loyal northern legions—the personal guard of the true royal house, commanded by General Marcus, who had spent two decades in exile waiting for this exact signal.
"By order of the crown!" General Marcus’s voice boomed like rolling thunder across the hall, carrying an authority that instantly froze every combatant in their tracks. "Drop your weapons! Secure the traitors!"
Lord Garrick froze, his sword still raised above the fallen king. He looked frantically toward the doors, watching as his own mercenaries were swiftly disarmed, pinned to the floor, and bound in heavy iron chains within a matter of seconds.
"Seize him!" Marcus commanded, pointing his sword directly at Garrick.
Before Garrick could swing his blade toward the incoming soldiers, a heavy iron mace thrown by a northern captain caught him squarely in the shoulder. Garrick shrieked in agony as bones fractured, his broadsword slipping from his numb fingers and clattering noisily onto the stone floor.
Within moments, half a dozen northern soldiers swarmed the traitorous lord, slamming him face-first into the marble and locking heavy iron shackles around his wrists.
Clara rushed past the fallen guards, dropping to her knees beside King Darian. The old monarch was coughing violently, clutching his chest as blood stained his royal robes.
"Your Majesty—uncle," Clara choked out, the word feeling strange yet entirely natural on her tongue.
Darian looked up at her, a weak, proud smile touching his pale lips. He reached up, his trembling hand touching her cheek, wiping away a smear of soot and blood. "You have your mother’s fire, child... I knew it the moment I looked into your eyes."
Father Thomas hobbled over, kneeling beside them and pressing a cloth to the king’s wound. "We need healers, quickly! The king has lost too much blood!"
"I don't need healers," Darian whispered, his breath growing fainter. He turned his head toward General Marcus, who had rushed up the dais and dropped to one knee. "Marcus... thank the gods you received the signal."
"We were ready, Your Majesty," Marcus replied grimly, bowing his head. "Every loyal outpost in the realm is mobilizing as we speak. The usurper's network is collapsing."
Darian nodded weakly, then shifted his gaze back to Clara. He grabbed her hand, placing his cold, heavy signet ring—the ancient symbol of the sovereign ruler—directly into her palm.
"Take it, Clara," the king whispered, his eyes slowly losing their luster. "Take your rightful place. Heal our fractured realm."
"No," Clara sobbed, gripping his hand tightly. "Don't leave me. I just found you."
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With one final, peaceful exhale, King Darian’s hand went limp in hers.
The Great Throne Room fell into a profound, suffocating silence. General Marcus bowed his head low, pressing his fist to his heart, while all around the hall, northern soldiers and loyal courtiers slowly dropped to one knee in absolute submission to the new queen.
