PART 2 — THE SECRET UNDER THE CROWN

“Seize him.”

King Marcellus’s order cut through the courtyard like a blade.

The guards froze.

The sword still hovered in front of Bastian, glowing brighter with every heartbeat.

“I said seize him!” the king roared.

Two royal guards stepped forward with spears raised. Bastian stumbled back, but the sword moved before he did. It swept sideways through the air. Not touching flesh. Not spilling blood. Only striking the ground.

A wall of blue-gold flame rose between Bastian and the guards.

The crowd screamed and scattered.

Priests fell to their knees.

Prince Cedric pointed a shaking finger at Bastian. “Witchcraft! He’s a gutter-born sorcerer!”

“That sword does not kneel to sorcery,” someone said.

The voice belonged to an old knight standing near the ruined archway.

Sir Rowan Vale.

He had once served King Elias, before Marcellus took the throne. Most people thought he was half-mad now, an old relic who drank alone and spoke to ghosts.

But tonight his eyes were clear.

He

“That sword was forged for the bloodline of House Aurelian,” Rowan said. “It kneels only to the rightful heir.”

Duke Varian snapped, “Silence, old man.”

But the crowd had already heard.

Rightful heir.

Bastian’s heart pounded.

“I’m not an heir,” he said. “I don’t even know who my parents were.”

Sir Rowan looked at him with something close to grief.

“Show your left shoulder, boy.”

Bastian backed away. “What?”

“Show it.”

The sword turned, its glowing point aimed gently toward Bastian’s torn shirt.

His hands shook as he pulled the ragged collar down.

A mark glowed faintly on his shoulder.

He had always thought it was a burn scar.

A small golden sun split by a silver line.

The nobles gasped.

The old priests covered their mouths.

Sir Rowan bowed his head.

“The Sunbreak mark,” he whispered. “The mark of Elias’s son.”

Bastian felt

“No,” he said. “No, that’s impossible.”

King Marcellus descended the balcony stairs with his cloak snapping behind him. His face was no longer cold. It was desperate.

“Lies,” he said. “All of it. The prince died with his mother.”

Sir Rowan turned toward him.

“No, Your Majesty. The queen died. The child vanished.”

Marcellus’s eyes sharpened. “Careful.”

But Rowan was done being careful.

“For fourteen years, we were told assassins killed Queen Amara and her newborn son during the winter rebellion. But some of us saw the nursery afterward. No child’s body was ever found.”

Bastian could barely breathe.

He saw flashes in his mind.

Snow outside a window.

A woman singing.

A silver pendant pressed into his tiny hand.

A man shouting, “Take him through the servant tunnels!”

Then darkness.

He reached into his shirt and pulled out the only thing he owned: a broken silver

The moment it touched the sword’s light, it opened.

Inside was a tiny painting of Queen Amara holding a baby wrapped in blue cloth.

On the back were three words.

Protect my son.

The courtyard erupted.

People shouted. Nobles argued. Knights looked from the pendant to the king.

Prince Cedric stared at Marcellus. “Father?”

Marcellus said nothing.

And that silence betrayed him more than any confession could.

Duke Varian stepped in front of the king. “This is a trick. A street thief found an old pendant and painted lies inside it.”

Sir Rowan drew his old sword.

“Then let King Marcellus swear before the blade.”

The courtyard went still again.

Everyone knew the ancient law.

The forgotten royal sword did not only recognize blood.

It judged oaths.

A false oath spoken before it would burn the liar’s mark into the stone for all to see.

King Marcellus’s jaw tightened.

Bastian looked at him, fear slowly turning into something harder.

“You knew me,” Bastian said.

Marcellus’s eyes flicked toward him.

“You knew who I was.”

The king stepped closer. “You are nothing but a starving boy being used by old traitors.”

“Then swear.”

The words came from Bastian before he realized he had spoken them.

The king stopped.

Bastian lifted his chin.

“Swear you didn’t steal my father’s throne.”

Rain fell harder.

The sword drifted to Bastian’s hand.

This time, when he touched the hilt, it did not pull him.

It fit.

As if it had waited all his life for his fingers.

The blade’s light spread across the courtyard, illuminating every face.

Marcellus looked at the crowd and saw the thing all tyrants fear most.

Doubt.

So he smiled.

It was a thin, poisonous smile.

“Very well,” he said. “I swear before steel and crown that I did not murder my brother Elias, did not order Queen Amara’s death, and did not steal a throne that was not mine.”

For one second, nothing happened.

Then the stone beneath his feet cracked.

Blue fire erupted around him.

The sword rang like a bell.

Across the wet black stone, burning words appeared one by one.

KINSLAYER.

USURPER.

CHILD HUNTER.

The crowd recoiled in horror.

Prince Cedric staggered backward as if struck.

“No,” he whispered. “Father… what did you do?”

King Marcellus stared at the words, his face collapsing.

Duke Varian tried to run.

The sword flashed.

The courtyard gates slammed shut by themselves.

Bastian stood in the rain, sword in hand, no longer looking like a frightened street rat.

He looked like the answer to a crime the kingdom had buried for fourteen years.

Marcellus fell to one knee.

Not in loyalty.

In defeat.