The king was dying.
Even the air knew it—thick with smoke, blood, and the perfume of a fire that had burned too long. Outside, snow dusted the black towers of the High Keep. Inside, the last of the Veyrion kings clung to his breath like a blade slipping from its sheath.
General Cael stood by the wall, still wearing the travel mud from the urgent summons. He had seen battlefield deaths—watched a man gut himself to preserve honor—but watching King Alric slip away was different.
Not just because Alric was his closest friend.
But because, even though the king had publicly named his heir, no one believed he meant it.
He had declared it more than once, in council and over wine, with the boy sitting quietly at his side. Yet the court dismissed it as sentiment. They expected him to change his mind in the end—to choose one of the elder sons with titles, training, and political allies.
Because who truly crowns a child?
Yet here they were.
And the boy beside the bed was not just present. He was waiting.
Aerion. Only fourteen. Sharp-eyed. Silent. The youngest son. Born of the king's favorite consort, yes—but never the most likely heir. The court had called him "the quiet shadow" while the others hunted hawks and made war games of real blood.
Cael thought: The nobles will never allow this. The elder sons will riot. The kingdom will split.
The king stirred. His breath rattled like dry parchment. "Cael."
Cael stepped forward. "I'm here."
The king's voice was thin but steady. "You remember the old tales?"
"I've served through three uprisings," Cael said grimly. "I remember every tale."
"No," Alric rasped. "Older. The First King. Veyrion the Storm-Walker."
A pause.
"He could run faster than monsters. Tear down mountain gates. They say he lifted a crumbling fortress and crushed an invading army beneath it. Do you believe it?"
Cael smiled faintly. "I believe it mattered. That's enough."
The king's hand trembled. "He made the laws. 'All my blood should have a chance. Not the eldest. Not the richest. The wisest.' That's what he said."
Cael's brow furrowed. "And you've chosen a boy of fourteen?"
The king turned to Aerion. His gaze softened. "He's the only one who listens. The only one who doesn't crave the crown more than the kingdom."
He reached for parchment with trembling fingers. Ink smudged across the page as he wrote Aerion's name—every stroke heavy with the weight of a legacy. He stamped his seal at the bottom, final and official.
Cael watched in silence.
"You know what this will do," the general said at last. "Your elder sons—your brothers—they have armies."
"They have ambition," Alric replied. "But only he has sense."
The king fumbled once more, pressing something small into Aerion's hand. The boy didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't cry.
Just accepted it.
Then Alric looked at Cael, and his voice dropped to a whisper.
"Marry your eldest daughter to him," he said. "Let him live differently than I did. Let them wed—truly and openly. He won't need to hand out golden chains. Instead, he'll share honor, power, and legacy with his wife and their children. He will be the last king to bear the golden chain."
Cael's heart slowed.
His daughter, Aelira, was only thirteen.
Still, he nodded. "For peace. And protection."
The king gave a tired smile. "He will need both."
Then he leaned back against the cushions.
And breathed no more.
⸻
Aerion stood.
No one told him to. No one had to.
He walked toward the hearth. The parchment still clenched in his hand.
Cael stepped forward sharply. "What are you—?"
The boy cast the sealed scroll into the fire.
The flames devoured it with a quiet hiss.
Cael's mouth fell open. "That was your proof! The only record!"
Aerion looked at him. Not defiant. Not afraid. Just tired.
"It would've brought war," he said. "Better they think he died without naming anyone, than believe he chose me and refuse it."
Cael stared at the boy. Something stirred behind those quiet eyes—something old, unblinking, and steady as frost.
"A ruler who hides his crown has already lost it."
"No," Aerion said quietly. "A ruler who wins without a war... rules longer."
Outside, the wind howled over the towers.
And in the distant provinces, golden chains were being pulled from locked boxes, worn again for the first time in decades.
They were no longer just symbols of blood.
They were invitations.
To war.
———
Author's Note:
In most ancient Asian histories, kings could have multiple concubines but only one official wife, and sons from either the wife or concubines could have a chance to be heirs—though in some dynasties, only the oldest son of the wife was chosen.
In (for example) early English history, kings usually had only one wife and maybe some mistresses(?) but illegitimate children couldn't inherit the throne. I also drew inspiration from Ancient Rome, where any noble could have a shot—even one emperor's mother was once a slave.
With all this in mind, I've created a more restricted fictional heir system for this story. Hope that makes sense!
If you like it, please vote :)