Chapter 8 - The Siege of the Upper Gate
Three days later, the sky above the capital city burned red.
The rebellion had spread like wildfire through the lower districts. Word that the true princess—chosen by the ancient crown itself—had returned from the dead galvanized the oppressed citizenry. Barricades of overturned carts and burning timber blocked the main avenues. Royal guards, demoralized and terrified of fighting against divine right, surrendered in droves or fled into the countryside.
At the base of the massive outer gates of the royal palace, Captain Marcus and his rebel fighters stood shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of armed citizens.
"Break the gates!" Marcus shouted, swinging a heavy iron sledgehammer against the reinforced oak doors.
From the ramparts above, a volley of arrows rained down, but before they could strike, a brilliant dome of golden light erupted from the front ranks. Lyra stood at the forefront of her army, the crown blazing fiercely upon her head. With a wave of her hand, the golden barrier deflected the arrows harmlessly into the stone courtyard.
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With a deafening crash, the grand outer gates splintered inward. The rebels flooded into the courtyard, sweeping aside the remaining loyalist guards in a wave of unstoppable momentum.
Lyra walked through the broken gates, her simple linen dress replaced by a dark riding cloak, her posture regal and unyielding. Every step she took echoed with the weight of centuries.
