In the Kingdom of Arana, beauty and prosperity flourished under the rule of the old king, Arthenon. He was beloved by his people, for he had ruled with wisdom for decades. Yet, as time wore on, his health failed, and his one great sorrow was that his son, Prince Alaric, was too young to ascend to the throne.
When King Arthenon felt his end was near, he summoned his brother, Lord Malgard, to his side. "You will be regent," Arthenon declared. "Guard the throne for Alaric until he is of age. When the time comes, you will hand him the crown, as is right."
Lord Malgard, with dark eyes gleaming, bowed low. "Of course, my king."
But as the old king's breath left him, so too did his promise. Malgard did not see himself as a mere caretaker; he had always harbored ambitions of power. And though he outwardly mourned his brother's death, within him stirred a dark desire. He could not simply relinquish the throne to a child. Soon after his brother’s funeral, he convened secret councils with the kingdom’s most influential lords, those who could be persuaded by wealth or whispers of greater power.
And thus the scheme was born: young Alaric, the rightful heir, was killed in his sleep, his small body buried in the dead of night. The people were told the boy had tragically succumbed to an illness. Malgard then did something unheard of—he appointed his daughter, Aralyn, not as queen, but as king.
It was an unprecedented declaration. The title of "king" was sacred, bestowed upon men chosen by the gods themselves. To crown a woman as king was unthinkable, a blasphemy against the very order of Arana’s world. The people, shocked and confused, murmured in disbelief. Their confusion turned to anger. Who was this woman to claim such power? Who were these lords to abandon the divine law?
Protests erupted in the streets, and from within the noble ranks, dissent brewed. A faction of the lords, outraged by the sacrilege, demanded a council, a parliament, to limit the authority of this new "king." But Aralyn, hardened by her father’s teachings, met their defiance with steel. With brutal efficiency, she crushed the rebellion, spilling the blood of the lords who had dared to oppose her. In the aftermath of the carnage, she and Malgard ordered the destruction of all records of the old king’s reign, erasing from history the memory of Prince Alaric and the rightful line.
But Aralyn was not satisfied with mere domination. She wished to rewrite the very fabric of her legacy. To celebrate her victory, she summoned the kingdom’s most famous young poet, Caelan, renowned for his skill with words and beloved by the people.
"You will write me a poem," Aralyn commanded. "The greatest poem ever created. It will tell of my power, my glory, and my right to rule. Make it so beautiful, so perfect, that no one will ever question my claim again."
Caelan, though outwardly compliant, was sick with grief. He had been a secret supporter of Prince Alaric and knew well the tragedy of his murder. But he bowed before the new king, hiding the fire of rebellion that burned within him. When he returned to his chambers, he confided in his closest friend, Eamon.
"I have been given an impossible task," Caelan said, pacing the room. "They want me to praise her, to glorify her tyranny. But I cannot simply let the truth be forgotten."
"You mustn't risk your life," Eamon pleaded. "Write the poem, do what they ask, and live another day. If they discover your treachery, you will die."
Caelan stopped pacing and looked his friend in the eye. "The truth must be told. Even if it is buried deep within the words. I will write a poem that sings of her greatness on the surface, but at its core, it will hold the truth of her crime."
Eamon shook his head. "How can you hide such a thing in plain sight?"
"By wrapping the lie in the most beautiful of words. I will make my praise so extravagant, so layered with metaphors, that no one will question it. But at the center, I will plant a seed—a single line that will echo through the ages, a key for those with eyes to see."
"And what will that line be?" Eamon asked.
Caelan's voice was steady as he replied, "It will be a question—a challenge that cuts to the heart of her treachery. 'You whore, why did you get the young prince killed?' That is where I will begin. Every word after will spiral around that accusation."
Eamon's breath caught in his throat. "You will die for this."
Caelan smiled sadly. "Perhaps. But some things are worth dying for."
And so Caelan began his work. He crafted a poem so beautiful that it moved those who heard it to tears. The court celebrated him, and Aralyn herself smiled as she listened to the words that appeared to honor her reign. But hidden deep within the verses, wrapped in veiled allegory, was the truth of her treachery. The poem spoke of a glorious ruler, but also of a lost prince, betrayed and silenced. And at its heart, nestled among the lines, was the question that would haunt Aralyn's legacy for generations: Why did you kill the rightful king?
Though Caelan knew he might be discovered, he also knew that the truth could never be fully erased. His words, once spoken, would live on, passed from mouth to mouth, heart to heart. In the end, it was not Aralyn’s victory that would endure, but the whispered truth of her crime, carried by a single line in a poem that history would never forget.
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