The Shadow of the Crown
In the silver-misted forests of Preatoria, the elves once lived in a rhythm of shared wisdom and light. But those days felt like a fading memory under the rule of King WengSmith. While his brow bore a crown of gold and emerald, his chest held a heart calcified by greed. He didn’t lead his people; he broke them, demanding a terrified obedience that drained the spirit from the woods until the very leaves seemed to lose their luster.
Watching from the steps of the throne was his only son, BangSmith. For years, the young prince stood in the stifling chill of the Great Hall, watching his father hand down sentences like hammers. He saw the way the villagers bowed—not out of love, but to avoid the King’s gaze. Every time BangSmith stood beside his father, a heavy, cold sickness settled in his gut. He knew he was looking at his future, and it terrified him.
BangSmith was nothing like the man who sired him. While WengSmith took, BangSmith gave. He spent his nights in the lower villages, stitching the wounds of forest creatures and sitting at the feet of elders who still whispered of the old ways. But to the world, he was just an extension of the tyrant. He was a ghost in the palace, a silhouette forever trapped in his father’s long, dark shadow.
The breaking point came on a night thick with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke. After watching his father condemn a group of innocent elves for a minor act of defiance, BangSmith reached a quiet, final clarity. He unpinned his royal crest, letting the heavy gold hit the floor with a dull thud. He realized he couldn't fix a broken throne by sitting on it.
He slipped out of the palace that night, leaving behind the safety of his name and the weight of his inheritance. He didn't want a kingdom handed to him on a tray of blood and fear; he wanted to find out if he was worth anything at all without a title to shield him.
In the years that followed, BangSmith became a wanderer of the outer lands. He traded his silk robes for worn leather and his royal guards for the companionship of those he served. He became a student of the world, a warrior who fought for the small and the forgotten. In taverns and campsites, rumors began to swirl of a nameless elven traveler who brought justice where there was none—a man whose power came from his hands and his heart, not a crown.
Back in the decaying splendor of Preatoria, WengSmith sat alone on his throne, aging and bitter. He remained convinced that his power was his greatest achievement, never realizing that his true legacy was the son who had the courage to walk away. BangSmith was still out there, growing into the leader Preatoria had forgotten it needed—not as a king by blood, but as a man who had earned the right to lead.