Chapter 130: THE CROWN THAT BLEEDS.
The first dawn after crossing the River of Silence broke with a sky the color of rust. The sun bled weakly behind torn clouds, its light dull, almost reluctant to touch the land ahead. It was as though the heavens themselves wished to wash their hands of what we were about to do. The air smelled of frost and ash, the soil dark and swollen with years of unburied bones.
I stood apart from the camp, my boots sinking into the black earth, watching smoke curl upward from the fires my men had built. Behind me, the South stirred—the clang of armor, the muttered prayers, the coughs of those who still carried sickness from the crossing. But none of them looked toward me. Not directly. They whispered my name, yes, but always when they thought I could not hear. Always like a word too heavy for their tongues.
The crown had not touched my brow, but I could feel it there, invisible, pressing its weight into my skull until every thought was sharpened into pain. They had given it to me without ceremony, without words, simply by chanting my name until the sound became a law. And I had taken it—not by choice, not by desire, but because no one else could.
"Burden and blade," I murmured, the words tasting of iron.
The System stirred, coiling like smoke within me. Its voice was silk, sly and patient.
"You wear it well. Whether you admit it or not, the crown belongs to you."
"I did not ask for it."
"No king ever truly does. Crowns are not claimed by desire. They are claimed by necessity."
I closed my eyes, but it did not silence the weight. Behind my lids, I saw the duel again—the commander’s face as his blade broke, the moment his life spilled into my hands. I had killed him because I had to, but the river whispered that I had killed him because I was meant to. One death had unsealed all of this, and now the South could not look at me without seeing something more than a man.
Kael approached from behind, his footsteps deliberate. He had learned not to startle me, not anymore. His voice was low, rough with fatigue.
"The scouts have returned. Northern banners wait three leagues ahead."
I turned. "How many?"
"Enough to bleed us, not enough to break us. A vanguard. They guard the plains beyond."
Plains. Open land. No trees, no cover. The North wanted to meet us in the light, to test whether the South’s shadow could stretch across such vastness.
"Then we strike before they are ready," I said.
Kael studied me, eyes narrow, his scarred face unreadable. "You are not the man you were before the circle."
"No," I admitted. "I am not."
He nodded once. Not with approval, but with the grim acknowledgment of a soldier who knew what war did to men.
By midday, the South was marching again. Thousands of boots crushing the frost-bitten grass, shields strapped tight, pikes bristling like a forest of iron. The sound was not thunderous; it was steady, inevitable, the heartbeat of a beast too large to stop.
When the Northern vanguard came into sight, the earth seemed to hold its breath. Their banners snapped in the wind—white crossed with crimson, the sigil of a stag pierced by an arrow. They stood in disciplined lines, their armor polished, their pikes gleaming in the wan light. They had chosen their ground carefully: the plains stretched wide, the river at our backs, the hills to their sides. A killing field.
I rode forward alone, mounted on a black warhorse whose breath steamed in the cold air. My army halted behind me. The Northern commander broke from his lines, mounted as well, riding to meet me at the center. He was young—too young, with eyes still burning with conviction rather than the emptiness of experience. His armor shone as though untouched by battle.
He raised his hand. "Turn back."
His voice was steady, carrying across the silent field. "The river is your boundary. Cross it, and none of you will return. Leave now, and we will let you live."
Behind me, I heard the South stir, a murmur of anger and disbelief. I did not move.
Finally, I said, "The river was not a boundary. It was a gate. And gates are meant to be crossed."
The young commander’s jaw tightened. "You are Ryon, then. The warlock of the South."
The title hissed between us, heavier than his threat. I let it hang for a moment, then answered:
"No. I am only what you made me."
His hand tightened on his reins. For a heartbeat, I thought he would draw his sword and test me here, alone. But then he turned, riding back to his lines. He did not look over his shoulder.
I raised my arm. The signal.
The South surged forward, a tide of black iron.
The plains erupted. Arrows screamed overhead, pikes slammed into shields, and the first clash was a roar that shook the air. The North met us with precision, their formations tight, their discipline unshaken. But we had crossed the river, and in that crossing, we had shed something. Fear. Doubt. Mortality.
I waded into the fray, blade drawn, my warlock’s fire trailing behind each swing. Northern steel met Southern fury, sparks bursting like stars. I cut through them not as a man, but as the storm they had named me. My magic burned through shields, shattered pikes, set armor ablaze.
But every man I felled left an echo in me. Every scream tangled with the voices already haunting me. The crown pressed heavier, reminding me that their deaths, too, belonged to me.
Hours bled together. The field became mud and blood, the air a haze of smoke and fire. Kael fought beside me, his axe splitting shields, his roar carrying over the clash. Men fell, men rose, men screamed my name like a battle cry and a prayer.
And then it ended.
The North broke. Their lines shattered, their banners fell. The survivors fled into the hills, their discipline lost to terror. The South stood victorious, though victory tasted like ash on my tongue.
The field was a grave. Bodies lay thick, Southerners and Northerners tangled together, their blood pooling into the soil. The air stank of iron and smoke. The men cheered, but the cheers were hoarse, thin, almost hollow. They cheered not because they felt joy, but because they feared the silence.
I stood amid the dead, my blade dripping. The crown pulsed heavier, my head bowed as though under an unseen hand.
The System’s voice was soft, almost reverent.
"You see it now. Blood crowns you more surely than gold ever could. This is the weight you carry. This is the crown that bleeds."
I dropped to one knee, the mud swallowing me, my breath ragged. Around me, the South raised their voices again. My name, over and over, until the sound became thunder.
Ryon.
Ryon.
Ryon.
The chant filled the field, drowned the silence, smothered the cries of the dying. It was worship. It was surrender. It was a shackle I could not break.
And as their voices rose, I understood: I could not lay this crown down. Not now. Not ever.
The river had tested me. The plains had baptized me.
Now the crown was mine.
And it would bleed until I did.