The Stone and the Crown

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Part 1 — The River Festival

The River Festival came once every ten years, and the people of Galenreach prepared for it as though the gods themselves might walk among them. Lanterns swung from ropes strung across the narrow streets, casting amber light onto worn cobblestones. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honeyed bread, and carved trinkets. The river, broad and patient, gleamed with floating candles—hundreds of tiny flames drifting toward the old bridge that bound the town together.

From the high road, Princess Serenya watched the celebration with the mild detachment of someone used to being on display. Her black mare moved at a measured pace, hooves clicking sharply against stone. Behind her trailed the royal escort—soldiers in gleaming breastplates, ministers in silk. To her right rode Prince Rhaiven of Corvash, his armor polished to a mirror shine; to her left, Lord Veyric of Tornevale, smiling like a man rehearsing a seduction. Somewhere farther back lurked Duke Marrec of Orvale, his eyes fixed on her like a hawk waiting for a stumble.

“Do they always glare so at visiting royalty?” Veyric murmured, gesturing to the townsfolk lining the road.

“They glare at anyone who interrupts their work,” Serenya replied without glancing his way. “Royal or not.”

She had no patience for the courtly games that dripped from these men’s mouths. They circled her like wolves, each thinking himself clever enough to win her hand. None seemed to notice that her hand was not up for winning.

When they reached the central square, Serenya dismounted, her crimson cloak sweeping the dust. The mayor stepped forward to welcome her, his bow deep but wary. For the first time, Serenya noticed an absence. Traditionally, the Stonekeeper—or his heir—would greet the princess at the festival, presenting a carved token of the Keystone Pact. But no such figure emerged from the crowd.

“The Stonekeeper has not come?” Serenya asked.

The mayor’s jaw tightened. “There has… been no claimant these past years, Your Highness.”

The words itched in her mind. No claimant meant the pact was unguarded—a dangerous state for a kingdom whose borders relied on it. But the festival carried on, music swelling to cover any whispers.

That evening, needing escape from the noise of her suitors, Serenya slipped away from the royal lodging. The river drew her like a dark ribbon under moonlight. She followed its curve until the laughter and drums faded, and there she found a lone figure by lantern light, kneeling at the base of the old bridge.

He was tall, lean, with the rough hands of a laborer. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and a mason’s chisel lay on the stones beside him. He worked with deliberate focus, tapping at a crack in the wall as though it had insulted him personally.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking up.

“And yet,” Serenya replied, stepping closer, “here I am.”

The man glanced up then, his eyes an unsettling shade of storm-grey. No bow, no fluster—just a steady look, as if weighing whether she was worth acknowledging at all.

“This bridge is older than the kingdom,” he said finally. “It holds the pact in its stones. If you’re here to admire the lanterns, you’re in the wrong place.”

“And if I’m here to ask why the Stonekeeper is missing from his own festival?”

His gaze lingered on hers a moment longer than politeness allowed. “Then you’ll be disappointed. The Stonekeeper is gone. Has been for years.”

Something in his voice told her that was not the whole truth.

She left him there, but his face followed her into her dreams—grey eyes, quiet defiance. She told herself it was because he had spoken to her without fear. She told herself it was nothing.

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