The Shattered Crowns

The grapevines flourished across Astad's verdant hills, their tangled branches heavy with clusters of purples and reds, ripe and glistening in the misty rain. The intoxicating scent of the new harvest drifted upward on the breeze, curling toward the open balcony where Alden stood, his sharp gaze drifting over the countryside. The scent of ripened fruit teased him, and his mouth watered at the thought of sipping fresh wine straight from the vineyard.

What he wouldn't give to be down there, soaking in the summer rain with a goblet in hand.

But no. His duty kept him bound to the King's castle, to this council of squabbling men who wielded words like swords but achieved far less. Alden clenched his jaw, only half-listening to the droning voices behind him. His mind wandered to the horizon, where clouds spilled their silver bounty over green hills and ancient stone castles. The fortresses dotted Astad's hillsides like stoic guardians, watchful against those who dared challenge their dominion.

"The Sunreachers can sail for Estil within days," came the sharp voice of Highlord Ludel, the Highlord of the Seas, his silver-and-navy attire as pristine as the man himself. "A quick reinforcement of the ships at the Pickette will crush Estil's resistance. Their armies are scattered. Their horses weak. The timing is perfect."

Alden tuned him out. The Highlords had been debating for hours, and Ludel's ambitious posturing was as predictable as the rain. The King's decision had already been made. Byleth de Balon might entertain his council's opinions for formality's sake, but Alden knew better. The young King of Astad had always acted on his own whims.

The balcony where they argued jutted out from the King's circular palace, providing a sweeping view of the rolling fields and distant vineyards. Above the Highlords flapped their respective banners, each bearing the sigil of their house. Dominating them all was the King's banner, hanging proudly in the center—a golden crown with two great horns jutting from its sides and two crossed keys beneath it. The image spoke of sovereignty and unity, though neither was guaranteed under Byleth's reign.

The King himself rose from his chair, its position elevated above the rest to emphasize his authority. He wore his golden crown lightly, his amber eyes scanning the Highlords with a calculated intensity that belied his youth. He wasn't much older than Alden, yet he ruled with a sharpness that unnerved his councilors.

Byleth's voice cut through the rain. "And what good would your plan truly achieve, Highlord Ludel?" he asked, his tone as cold and precise as a scalpel. "Our goal was to crush the Gahkar raid and protect Astad's borders. But some of you"—his gaze swept across the council—"saw this as an opportunity to expand our domain. You sought to vassalize Estil, to bring their horses into our fold, and now we are stretched too thin. The Pickette, and Black Baron Redwyn, are at risk because of these ambitions."

The Highlords bristled at the rebuke. Whispers spread among the assembled barons and priests who had gathered on the lower tier of the balcony to watch the proceedings. Wine flowed freely among them, their murmurs a constant undercurrent of discontent. Ever since Byleth had ascended to the throne, such whispers had followed him. They called him reckless, overly ambitious, a king who scorned tradition and uprooted Astad's foundations.

Alden kept his face impassive as the debate continued, his father's sword resting heavily across his lap. It was a constant reminder of the stakes at hand. Osiris Redwyn, the Black Baron of Astad, was trapped at the Pickette, holding the line against Estil's horde. His father had survived countless battles—he had led men through the hellish Battle of the Black Sands and emerged victorious during the War of Keys and Vines. If anyone could endure, it was the Black Baron. Yet, the possibility of his father's death gnawed at Alden's thoughts like a vulture circling a carcass.

He glanced toward the audience below. The barons and marqueses, draped in silks and jewels, drank and schemed beneath the cover of rain. Women flaunted their charms in gowns cut scandalously low, hoping to catch the King's eye. It was all so shallow, so transparent. If they truly understood Byleth, they'd know their pandering was pointless. The Highlords were the only ones whose opinions mattered here.

Alden sighed under his breath. "Damn you, father," he muttered to himself. "You've left me to deal with this nest of vipers. They prattle on like hatchlings, each more arrogant than the last."

The debate dragged on, the Highlords talking in circles as they debated logistics and strategies. Finally, Byleth turned to Alden, his amber gaze sharp. "And what of you, Highlord of the Skies? Your father holds the Pickette. Surely you have an opinion worth sharing."

The murmurs below grew louder, and Alden felt their weight like a thousand needles against his skin. His father's name, Osiris Redwyn, carried immense gravity in this room. The Black Baron of Astad was a legend—a man who had defended a city with only a hundred men against an army of thousands. Alden, by comparison, was but a shadow struggling to escape the enormity of his father's legacy.

Straightening his shoulders, Alden met the King's gaze. "Even now, I wish to send my wyvern riders to break the siege," he admitted, his voice steady. "Every night I dream of my father's death. But he appointed me to lead in his stead. My duty is to Astad, no matter what nightmares plague me."

The Highlords stared at him, their expressions a mix of surprise and skepticism. "If we were to leave this very moment," Alden continued, "our wyverns—the fastest mounts in all of Astad—could reach the Pickette before the siege concludes. But to do so would leave the Sunreachers and Spata free to claim our undefended lands. All I can do is trust in my father's abilities and pray he endures."

The room fell silent. Alden could feel the eyes of the Highlords boring into him, searching for weakness or ambition. He gripped the hilt of his father's sword, biting back the curses that threatened to spill from his tongue.

Ellis Harcourt, the Highlord of Tourneys, broke the silence with a mocking smile. "So, a son seeks to solidify his claim," he said, his tone laced with condescension. "How ruthless for one of House Redwyn. I thought your family lived for loyalty and blood."

Alden's eyes narrowed. "Say that again, Lord Ellis, and I'll remind you why Redwyns are masters of the sky," he said coldly.

Ellis raised his hands in mock surrender. "No offense meant, Highlord. I simply made an observation."

Alden's voice was like iron. "If my father dies, then, as the Codes demand, I will lead an assault on Estil myself."

Ellis chuckled, his smirk unwavering. "It's refreshing to see that some things never change. House Redwyn remains as fierce as ever."

The King raised a hand, silencing the exchange. "If Osiris Redwyn survives, it will be by his own cunning and strength. Let us turn our attention elsewhere," he declared, signaling the discussion was over.

The debate carried on for hours, meandering into discussions of treaties, resources, and the logistics of future campaigns. Alden tuned most of it out, his thoughts returning to the Pickette. The image of his father, standing alone against the horde, haunted him.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Alden stretched his aching muscles and strode toward the barracks, eager to escape the political theater. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets damp and slick under the fading light.

"Lord Redwyn, a moment," came a voice behind him.

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, and Alden turned to find King Byleth standing there, his expression unreadable. The other Highlords had already dispersed, leaving the two of them alone in the corridor.

Byleth's tone was uncharacteristically soft. "I wish to offer my condolences for your father. He should not be trapped at the Pickette. He belongs here, helping me rule." He paused, his amber eyes sharp. "If he dies, we will burn Estil to the ground. You have my word."

Alden's jaw tightened. "Thank you, my King, but it was the late King Godfrey's orders that sent him to the Pickette in the first place," he said, his voice clipped.

Byleth nodded thoughtfully. "If he survives, I will rescind those orders. Your father has served Astad well."

Alden bowed, though his heart remained heavy. "House Redwyn is loyal to the crown. Always."

Byleth placed a hand on Alden's shoulder. "I hope you and I can repair Astad. Together, we will reclaim what has been lost."

Alden offered a polite nod, his expression unreadable. "Of course, my King."

As Byleth turned away, Alden made his way to the stables.

internal struggleChatGPT said:

The palace at the heart of Astad's capital, Alcalan, was a masterpiece of both artistry and power, standing as a testament to the kingdom's legacy. Its circular design radiated outward like the spokes of a sun, with wings of polished white stone flaring out from the central tower. Golden inlays traced intricate sunburst patterns along its walls, and ivy crept delicately up the lower levels, a purposeful blend of cultivated beauty and natural splendor. Statues of past kings and queens, their expressions frozen in imperious pride, stood sentinel along the parapets, gazing eternally over the fields that had fed and fortified the kingdom for generations.

Inside, the palace was no less magnificent. Grand halls stretched endlessly, their vaulted ceilings painted with vivid depictions of Astad's history. Murals of naval battles against the pirate lords of Kalla, of wyvern riders battling monstrous foes in the skies, and of the first king's coronation told the story of a proud, unyielding nation. Thick banners in royal blue and gold adorned every wall, each embroidered with the sigil of the golden sun. Chandeliers crafted from glittering Astadian crystal hung above, refracting light into dazzling patterns across the polished marble floors. Every detail of the palace whispered of wealth, authority, and the ambitions of Astad's rulers.

Yet, despite its grandeur, Alden felt no comfort here. The soaring walls felt more like a cage. The weight of his title—Highlord of the Skies—hung heavy on his shoulders, made worse by the silence he carried for his father. His family's home, Wyvernmore, a castle perched high in the craggy cliffs to the south, lacked this polish and opulence. But it had always felt like home. The wyverns that nested there, their wild cries echoing through the air, were a reminder of his heritage, of his family's ancient bond with the sky and its beasts. Here, in Alcalan, with its endless politics and scheming, Alden felt out of place.

A rustle and a low, rumbling growl pulled Alden from his thoughts. He turned, his eyes drawn to the white-scaled wyvern perched near the palace stables below. Sarion, the pride of Wyvernmore, stretched his long neck, shaking rainwater from his massive wings. Even from this distance, Alden could see the taut muscles rippling beneath Sarion's shimmering hide, each movement betraying the creature's barely contained power. The wyvern's horns curved back elegantly, framing its angular head, while its slitted golden eyes watched the stablehands with keen intelligence.

Alden felt a pang of guilt as he watched Sarion. The creature had been restless since they'd arrived at the capital weeks ago. The confines of the palace stables weren't suited to a beast born to roam the open skies. Sarion's unease mirrored Alden's own, a caged predator trapped in a world of stone and propriety.

"Stop causing trouble, Sarion," Alden muttered under his breath as he noticed the wyvern nudging one of the stablehands, its clawed forelegs scraping at the cobblestones.

The stablehand, a young boy barely into his teens, flailed his arms as he shouted, "Get back! You've already eaten half the horses' feed!"

Alden couldn't help but smile. Sarion was as much a troublemaker as he was a warrior. The wyvern turned its gaze upward, as if sensing Alden's attention, and let out a deep rumble that echoed across the courtyard. It wasn't a growl of warning but a sound of recognition, almost a greeting.

Alden's smile faded as he leaned against the balustrade, his gaze locked with Sarion's. The wyvern, with its sharp teeth and predator's instincts, was a reminder of everything he longed for: the thrill of the hunt, the open skies, and the clarity that came with action. There was no place for hesitation in battle. A wyvern didn't debate; it attacked, it defended, it survived. But here, in the palace, Alden was forced to navigate the labyrinth of politics, where every word carried weight and every gesture could spark conflict.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. Sarion had the freedom to be what he was—a creature of the skies. Alden, however, was trapped. His heart yearned to fly to the Pickette, to rally his riders and break the siege that threatened his father. But duty stayed his hand. His position as Highlord of the Skies wasn't just a title; it was a chain, binding him to the will of the crown.

The King's words from earlier still rang in his ears. "If your father dies, we will burn Estil to the ground." Byleth had spoken them with such calm certainty, as though the Black Baron's death was already written in the stars. The thought made Alden's stomach churn. His father was more than just a man; he was a legend, a symbol of Astad's strength. To lose him would be to lose a part of the kingdom's soul—and a part of Alden's own.

He hated the helplessness that gripped him. Alden had trained his entire life to be a warrior, to lead men into battle astride Sarion's back. And yet, here he was, grounded by politics and strategy, watching from afar as his father fought for survival. He had spoken confidently during the council meeting, assuring the Highlords that he trusted in his father's abilities. But in truth, Alden's confidence was a facade, a mask to hide the fear gnawing at his heart.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. The rain continued to fall, soft and steady, as if mocking his turmoil. Sarion let out another rumble, this one softer, almost reassuring.

"I know, boy," Alden murmured. "I want to fly, too."

Sarion tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, as though he understood Alden's words. It wasn't entirely impossible; wyverns were far smarter than most people realized. Alden had raised Sarion from a hatchling, forging a bond that went beyond mere rider and mount. In moments like this, he envied the creature's simplicity. Sarion didn't have to wrestle with doubt or duty. He only had to act.

But Alden was no wyvern. He was a man, a Highlord, and his choices carried the weight of an entire kingdom.

The stablehand below yelped as Sarion, seemingly bored with the boy's protests, nudged him aside and turned his attention to the barrels of feed stacked nearby. The wyvern's tail swished lazily, sending a shower of rainwater cascading off its scales. Alden chuckled despite himself.

"Let him eat," he called down, startling the stablehand. "He's earned it."

The boy hesitated, then nodded, stepping back as Sarion tore into the feed with gusto.

Alden pushed off the balustrade and straightened his tunic. He couldn't linger here forever. The council meeting had dragged on for hours, and his absence would eventually be noticed. But for now, he allowed himself one last moment to watch Sarion.