The Price Of Light

The obsidian crown felt heavier with every step.

Richard's fingers curled around its cold surface beneath his tangled hair. Jagged edges cut into his scalp, but the pain grounded him — a reminder that this was no ordinary trinket. This was a legacy, a curse, and perhaps the only hope left.

Around him, the wild woods of the Ashridge loomed like a fortress of shadows. The Empire's patrols dared not cross this place — not because of superstition alone, but because here, the laws of men bent beneath older, darker powers.

Maria rode beside him, her gaze sharp as the blade she carried. Carly, ever the restless shadow, flitted between trees ahead and behind, her senses attuned to every whisper and crack of branch.

"We're almost at the refuge," Maria said softly, eyes fixed on the path.

Richard swallowed, the weight of her words pressing down like the crown itself. "I keep thinking about the boy I spared," he said quietly. "The one with the wooden sword."

Maria glanced at him. "You did what you could."

"But did I do enough?" he whispered. "Every time I use the Flame, I feel like I'm burning away more than enemies. I'm burning away my humanity."

Maria reached out, steadying his hand. "That's why you have to hold onto something real. Someone real."

His gaze dropped to the crown again. "This... this isn't real. It's darkness pretending to be light."

Carly appeared then, stepping from behind a tree with a crooked smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Darkness or not, it's keeping you alive — and making you dangerous. Don't forget that."

Richard sighed, a bitter laugh escaping him.

"Dangerous? To who? The Empire? The rebels? Myself?"

---

The campfire crackled beneath a canopy of stars. They had made their refuge in a ruined monastery hidden deep within the Ashridge. Crumbling stone walls entwined with ivy, broken stained glass windows that caught the moonlight in shattered rainbows.

Maria unpacked supplies while Carly prowled the perimeter like a caged wolf.

Richard sat alone on a fallen pillar, the crown heavy on his head. His thoughts spiraled like the smoke rising from the fire.

Who am I now? A savior? A monster?

What is left of the boy who dreamed of light and peace?

He closed his eyes, memories rushing in unbidden.

---

Flashback

Five years ago, in the Temple of Solen, a younger Richard knelt beneath the golden sigil of flame. The priest's voice was steady and cold.

"You bear the Lightflame, the sacred fire of our Empire. It will burn away corruption, purge the wicked, and bring salvation."

Richard had swallowed his fear. "Even if it means killing innocents?"

The priest's eyes gleamed. "Especially then. The price of light is sacrifice."

---

He opened his eyes to the present and shuddered. That price was a debt he hadn't yet paid — but it was coming due.

---

"Richard," Maria's voice broke through his reverie. "We can't run forever."

He looked up. "Then what?"

"Then we fight. But on our own terms."

She knelt beside him and pressed a weathered hand to his cheek. "You don't have to carry the Empire's lies anymore. You can build something new."

He swallowed, the taste of ash and hope mingling in his mouth.

---

Days passed in uneasy silence. They trained, planned, and waited. Richard's control over the Lightflame grew—he learned to bend it, to temper its rage with mercy.

But each use drained more than his strength—it leeched pieces of his soul.

---

One evening, Carly approached him by the fire, her face unreadable.

"You know," she said, flicking a strand of hair, "people don't just fear your flame. They fear what it does to you."

Richard frowned.

"Every time you light up, you get colder. Distant. Like the boy who laughs less each day."

He looked away.

"Don't pretend you don't feel it."

---

That night, Richard dreamed again.

Not of flame this time, but of faces.

Faces he had failed. Faces burned and broken.

And one — the boy with the wooden sword — reaching out to him through the smoke.

---

He woke gasping, the crown's weight unbearable.

Maria found him staring into the fire.

"You're carrying ghosts," she said gently.

"I don't know if I'm the hero or the villain anymore."

She met his eyes. "Maybe heroes and villains are just stories the world tells itself. Maybe you're something in between. Something new."

Richard closed his eyes and nodded.

---

The path ahead was dark.

But for the first time, the light he bore felt like a choice — not a sentence.

The Crownless King was rising.

And the world would soon burn for his truth.

End of Chapter 13