The Ashes of Avalonia

The fallen prince stood barefoot in the mud, his linen tunic damp from the mist that rolled in off the sea. His black hair, drenched with sweat, was plastered to his fevered brow. The tang of salt was a pale ghost of what he remembered from the high cliffs of Avalonia, his father’s kingdom. Here, the salt air was harsh, bitter, an unwelcome reminder of his exile. 

Alden, once Prince of Avalonia, now a peasant in the faraway land of Andareth, leaned on his hoe, surveying the small garden patch he was tasked to till. His hands, once accustomed to sword hilts and reins, were calloused and raw. Every swing of the hoe seemed to echo with the clashing of swords from that night. 

Midnight. The bells had just struck twelve when the castle walls trembled under the force of the battering ram. He and his father, King Alaric, had rushed from their chambers, rallying what knights they could find. For a brief, shining moment, the tide seemed in their favor, his uncle’s forces faltering under the weight of Alaric’s command. But the tide turned when the gates fell, and the enemy surged in like a black wave. 

It had been Alden’s father who ordered their retreat, even as his loyal knights begged to stay and die with him. "You are Avalonia’s last hope," Alaric had said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Live, my son. One day, you will return." 

Alden had obeyed, though it tore at him. He had fled with a handful of knights, leaving his father, his crown, and his heart behind. He could still hear the screams of battle in his dreams, still see the flames consuming the only home he had ever known. 

In the three years since that night, Alden had learned to survive in the village of Windmere. To the people here, he was merely a young man with a sad smile and an accent that marked him as foreign. His knights, once resplendent in silver and blue, now worked as farmhands, blending into the rustic life. Only Sir Rowen, his father’s most loyal knight, stayed close, a constant shadow at Alden’s side. 

"Daydreaming again?" Rowen’s voice cut through his thoughts. 

Alden straightened, his back aching from the labor. "Reminiscing," he replied. 

Rowen crossed his arms, his once-polished armor now replaced by coarse wool. His weathered face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes—deep-set and watchful—carried the same burden Alden bore. 

"It’s dangerous to dwell too much on the past," Rowen said. "You have a new life here." 

"A life I never chose," Alden muttered, lowering his gaze. 

Rowen sighed but said nothing. He understood the weight Alden carried, though he rarely spoke of it. The fall of Avalonia had crushed them all, but for Alden, the pain was more than just losing a kingdom. 

It was losing her. 

Lady Elyssia. 

The daughter of Lord Bramwell, she had been his closest friend, his confidante, and, in the quiet moments between duty and expectation, his love. The night of the attack, she had been in the eastern wing of the castle with her family. He had planned to see her after the skirmish, to make sure she was safe. But the flames rose too high, the enemy pressed too hard, and he had been dragged away before he could reach her. 

No one had seen her since. 

Alden’s heart ached with the memory of her laughter, the way her auburn hair caught the sunlight. He had searched for her in the aftermath, sending discreet inquiries through the few allies who remained, but the answers were always the same: silence. 

He refused to believe she was dead. He would have known. He would have felt it. 

That evening, as the village gathered around a fire to share stories and songs, Alden sat apart, his gaze fixed on the flames. They reminded him of the pyres that had consumed Avalon, of the destruction his uncle had wrought. 

A hush fell over the villagers as a cloaked figure approached the fire. The stranger’s presence was commanding, their movements fluid and precise. When they pulled back their hood, gasps rippled through the crowd. 

It was a woman, her face obscured by a mask of black silk. Her voice, however, was clear and strong. "I come with news from the east," she announced, her accent foreign yet familiar. "King Alaric’s heir lives." 

Alden’s breath caught. Rowen, seated nearby, stiffened. 

The woman continued, her gaze sweeping over the gathered faces. "The tyrant who sits upon Avalonia’s throne has declared himself invincible, but whispers from the borderlands speak of rebellion. The people cry for their true king." 

Murmurs spread through the crowd, and Alden’s hands clenched into fists. 

Rowen leaned in, his voice a low warning. "Careful, my prince." 

Alden ignored him, standing and stepping into the firelight. The villagers fell silent, their eyes on him. 

"What do you know of the heir?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. 

The woman’s gaze met his, and for a moment, he thought he saw recognition in her eyes. 

"I know he is here," she said softly. "And that his people need him." 

Later, as the village returned to their homes, Alden confronted the woman outside the inn where she had taken refuge. 

"Who are you?" he demanded. 

She hesitated before removing her mask. The sight of her face nearly brought him to his knees. 

"Elyssia," he whispered. 

She looked different, her features sharper, her eyes harder. But it was her. 

"It’s been a long time, Alden," she said, her voice trembling. 

He reached for her, but she stepped back. "I thought you were dead," he said, his voice breaking. 

"So did I," she replied. "When the castle fell, my family... they didn’t make it. I only survived because I was taken—" Her voice faltered, and she looked away. 

Alden’s chest tightened. "Taken by who?" 

"Your uncle’s men," she said, her voice cold. "I escaped, but not before I learned the truth." 

"What truth?" 

"Your uncle plans to march on Andareth. He won’t stop until every kingdom bows to him." 

Elyssia’s words lit a fire in Alden that had long been smoldering. The next morning, he called a council of his knights, revealing his intent to reclaim Avalonia. 

"It’s madness," Rowen argued. "We are few, unarmed, and unprepared." 

"But we have hope," Alden countered. "And allies who will rise if we call." 

Elyssia nodded. "The borderlands are restless. The people are ready to fight." 

Though reluctant, Rowen and the others agreed. They began their preparations in secret, forging weapons and gathering supplies. 

Weeks later, Alden stood on a hillside overlooking Avalonia. The land was scarred but still beautiful, the towers of the castle reaching for the sky like a memory of what once was. 

Elyssia stood beside him, her presence a reminder of all he had lost and all he hoped to regain. 

"For Avalonia," he said, his voice steady. 

"For the future," she replied. 

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Alden led his knights into battle, his heart filled with both fear and determination. He would reclaim his kingdom, not just for himself, but for the people who still believed in him—and for the love that had brought him back to the fight. 

In the ashes of Avalonia, hope burned bright.