The Crownless Do Not Reign

The soft clank of a ladle against a pan woke Eon from his dream.

He rose slowly, dizzy and half-lost between dream and reality. The faint scent of fried garlic, soy, and morning mist glided in through the door of the wooden window. Sunlight, pale and golden, cut through the shadows of his small room, touching the scattered notebooks and the faint scuff marks on the wooden floor.

He blinked up at the familiar, rough ceiling.

Home.

And then, a voice that was clear, teasing, and far too cheerful for the morning hour.

"Brother, I hope you're still alive in there," his sister called from the kitchen, voice muffled only slightly by the thin walls. "Or else I'm eating your share."

Eon groaned into his pillow.

"I'm still sleepy, I hope you will give me a little more time," he muttered, but loud enough for her to hear.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, blinking blearily as he adjusted to the light. His room was still cold from the night. The cracked window didn't keep out much of the wind, and he'd forgotten to re-stuff the cloth beneath it again. He pulled on a scarf and padded over to the basin, splashing himself with what little water remained from the night before.

Still dirty. Still sore.

Pieces of dried dust from yesterday's ruin stuck stubbornly to his sleeves and collar. And his boots… well, better not to look at those yet.

He stepped into the hallway, stretching the last of sleep from his limbs.

The tiny kitchen was already alive with warmth. The stove crackled gently in the corner, and his sister stood over it, stirring something in a battered cast-iron pan. Her long black hair was tied back in a low ribbon, swaying slightly as she moved. Her appearance, always soft and sweet, carried a quiet strength behind her gentle smile. She wore a fraying house-blouse with her sleeves rolled up, her delicate hands moving with practiced ease as she stirred the pan. She had that same glow she always did in the morning—eyes like his own, clear and curious, but full of something softer.

She glanced at him and gave a bright grin. "Ah, the man of the house awakens."

He sniffed the air dramatically. "What is this cooking? Smells like… a tasty food."

"Funny," she said with a tilt of her head. "Because I thought it would smell like someone who forgot to bathe."

He blinked, smirked, then scratched his neck. "…I was tired."

"You say that every morning," she teased, turning back to her pan. "Go wash up properly. I tried to fill the clay jars near the pump this morning, but it's running a bit low now, so fetch more. For me, too. I want to wash myself after breakfast."

Eon yawned as he slumped into a stool. "You're pushing your luck with the bossiness every morning."

She handed him an empty pail without looking. "Oh no, I'm just trying to survive living with a mud-crusted scholar who smells like gravestones."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're lucky you're my cute little demon."

"I know I'm cute," she said, winking.

He shook his head with a laugh, took the pail, and stepped outside into the early morning air.

Their home stood on the edge of a slope, surrounded by overgrown grass and low stone walls—the last corner of a once-wide estate. The land had belonged to their family long before poverty clawed it away. Their parents had sold some of it off piece by piece, chasing after healers, miracle-workers, and half-whispered promises.

A small dirt path led from the house to the water pump tucked beneath an old banyan tree. Dew still clung to the leaves. Birds chirped cautiously in the distance, wary of the wind.

Eon walked slowly, soaking it in.

This land was quiet now. The kind of quiet that no one likes.

He remembered the arguments. The tears. The whispered conversation one night when he'd pretended to sleep—a stranger's voice, soft but cunning, and the strange ring of assurance in his father's reply.

"I know what can help your daughter," the man had said.

Eon never saw him again. Nor his parents.

They were gone by morning.

No letter. No trace. Just a faint rumor passed around the village: Left Eon behind, left Evangeline behind.

He reached the pump and began filling the pail, the old spout clunking softly as water poured into the clay container. It still amazed him—how smooth it was, how the mechanism never rusted, even through storms and neglect. Their parents always said a wanderer had built it—a tinkerer, maybe mad, maybe brilliant. Someone who claimed to have lived more than once.

Of course, Eon didn't believe any of that.

He glanced back toward the house. The smoke was rising from the chimney. Her laughter echoed faintly through the trees.

Now he wasn't so sure.

He returned a few minutes later, arms sore from the weight of the pail. He washed at the back, scrubbing the grime and dust from his arms and face, watching the dirt swirl away through the stones. 

When he stepped back into the house, she was already at the table, food laid out like a quiet blessing: garlic rice, fried eggplant, dried fish crisped just right. Simple, yet carefully prepared.

She smiled when she saw him. "Much better. You don't smell like a gravestone anymore."

He sat down with a satisfied sigh. "Glad I've risen from the dead."

They began eating. The soft clink of utensils filled the room as sunlight warmed the walls. It was peaceful in a way that made the moment feel… borrowed.

"So," she said as she chewed thoughtfully, "any plans today? Other than sulking and scribbling?"

Eon replied, "Actually, I'm thinking of going back to the market. Might sell things."

She looked at him with mock horror. "Brother…"

"Don't worry, I'm just kidding, I won't do that again."

"I swear, if I find out you're trying to scam those poor myth-enthusiasts again, I will throw this spoon at you."

He chuckled. "It's called 'creative marketing.'"

"It's called 'getting beaten up in an alley,'" she replied, narrowing her eyes.

"You think I didn't know? You came home limping, reeking of blood, with a busted lip. You're lucky you keep up that mask of yours. They didn't know your face".

He scratched the back of his neck. "…I hope so."

She folded her arms. "Promise me you won't pull that kind of stunt again."

"I promise," he said, almost meaning it.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in peace.

After the last bite, Eon stood and began gathering the plates. "You go wash up. I've got the dishes."

She blinked. "You're volunteering? No threats needed?"

"Don't get used to it."

She rose from her seat and kissed his forehead gently, something she hadn't done since they were children.

"Thank you," she whispered.

As she stepped out with her basin, humming once more, Eon stood there in the quiet kitchen, hands resting on the table. The sunlight had shifted. A breeze slipped in through the curtain.

Peace like this doesn't last.

Even warmth borrowed from the hearth must one day fade to ash.

He stared at the empty bowl.

Soon, he would have to live as a liar....

But not just yet.