Prologue
Long before kings fell and empires burned, the gods of the land whispered of a child who would rise from shadow.
"With eyes as green as the cedars, the chosen one shall emerge. Through him, the divisions of kingdoms shall be mended, and the broken shall stand united."
No one knew when he would be born. No one knew in which kingdom he would draw his first breath. No one knew from whose loins he'd come out from. Some said he would be a prince, some a beggar, others merely a name forgotten before the winds carried it away. Yet all who heard the prophecy agreed: the world would tremble before him, for the balance of power rested in the hands of one who was both scorned and destined.
Darkness would rise in his time. Warlords with fire in their hearts and cruelty in their veins would tear across the lands. Cities would burn. Thrones would shatter. Queens and kings alike would tremble under their tyranny. And still, the child with eyes of cedar green would walk into the storm, neither herald nor savior at first, but the amender the world had long awaited.
Some whispered the child's path would be wrought with betrayal, exile, and blood,not only his own, but the blood of those he loved. Others claimed he would know loneliness deeper than any dungeon's shadow. And yet, the prophecy promised one thing above all: though kingdoms may fall, he would rise to mend them all.
No voice could call his name, no sword could mark his fate, until the hour of reckoning. And when that hour came, the world would know that even a nobody could be born a king.
Chapter 1 – Bastard of Glandow
The courtyard doors swung open and closed again, each time revealing a procession of noblemen, their ladies, and little ones, filing in to pledge allegiance to the king. Every time Randall pressed himself against the cold stone wall, he tried to catch a glimpse of the grandeur he was never allowed to share. He imagined the silk, the polished floors, the scent of burning candles, the finery, the caliber of people in there. But he could only imagine,he was not meant to be there. Not really. Not ever.
Pity, he thought, that a boy like him could only stand in shadows while his younger brother, barely ten, occupied the throne of attention inside. Queen Noria would have a fit if she ever saw him peeking. She hated him,not because he had done anything wrong, but because he existed. Born of her husband's indiscretion, of a woman whispered to be a prostitute, Randall carried her loathing like a crown of thorns.
Prince Pharrell, smiling with the innocence and arrogance of youth, sat between the king and queen, every eye in the hall upon him. Randall, meanwhile, lingered outside, punished not for any crime he had committed, but for his father's folly. "You committed offenses enough to fill the kingdom, you came and almost destroyed my home" Queen Noria's voice would echo in his memory, though she never listed them. Randall chuckled quietly. He had not destroyed her home,he hadn't even stepped inside it. Yet here he wasa, a shadow on the walls.
His thoughts drifted, as they often did, to his mother. The king's lover, the yellow-haired woman who had given him life and then vanished forever. He had only ever heard whispers of her: that she brought King Aldric joy in moments the queen could not, that she was laughed at, scorned, and forgotten. Randall smiled faintly. If she were alive, he imagined, maybe the world would have been a little softer, a little warmer.
The doors opened again, and Randall pressed closer, desperate for a better view. That's when Torbert, the chief of guards, saw him.
"Hey! Bastard!" Torbert barked, striding toward him, the clank of his boots echoing against the stone. "What in blazes do you think you're doing here, eh? You want to go there?"
Randall flinched but didn't speak. Torbert loomed closer, fists clenched. "Not your type, okay? Do you think people like you are allowed in there?Your type are scrubbing in the kitchens or begging for crumbs in the villages,not standing here trying to peek into the halls of kings. Now off with you, before I have your hide thoroughly beaten."
Randall had grown accustomed to the insults. He was used to the mockery and embarrassment. He had learned to carry them like armor, shrugging off each word. But he could never quite understand why they existed. He had not committed a crime. He had done nothing to deserve this life. Sometimes, he thought, perhaps it was punishment for something no one had ever told him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing his mother once more. Even if she had not been able to offer him comfort and material things, he would have had her presence, her love. That thought made the courtyard seem colder, the guards harsher, the palace gates farther away.
The sounds of the doors opening and closing faded into a strange rhythm as he watched. Laughter, whispers, and the soft rustle of silk floated out to him, mocking in their warmth. Then, from inside, he heard the king's voice,strong, steady, commanding.
"My people," King Aldric proclaimed, "throughout my reign, you have stood by me, and for that, I am grateful. But there is more to celebrate today. There is one among us who shall carry the future of Glandow in his hands."
The crowd's murmurs swelled with anticipation. Randall's pulse quickened. He had thought, for a fleeting second, that perhaps the words would be his. That perhaps, against all odds, he would step into the light.
Instead, the king gestured, and Prince Pharrell emerged, standing taller than his years, with a practiced smile. "I present to you the crown prince of Glandow,Prince Pharrell," King Aldric announced.
The crowd erupted in cheers. "Long live the crown prince!" The nobles bowed and knelt, hands pressed to the ground. Randall felt a cold weight settle over his chest. His throat tightened. Jealousy, envy, shame, rage,they all collided into a single, choking wave.
He should have been the one standing there, wearing the fine silks, receiving bows and applause. He should have been the one with the crown whispered to await him at birth. But he was not. Not because he was lesser in skill, in thought, or in heart,but because of the color of his mother's past, because of a queen's fear and a law that deemed him illegitimate.
Queen Noria's smile was wide and triumphant. She beamed as though the entire kingdom had been laid at her feet. The image made Randall grit his teeth. Her satisfaction was a knife that cut deeper than any word from Torbert.
The courtyard had become a theater, and he, the unwanted spectator, could only watch. The drums of celebration echoed in his ears while a bitter silence settled inside him. He did not cheer. He did not move. He could barely breathe.
For a moment, he imagined standing tall, breaking free of the courtyard's walls and shoving past every noble, every guard, and every whispering servant. To claim the place that was his by right of life, if not by law. But the thought was fleeting. He was not allowed. He had never been allowed.
Instead, he turned his gaze to the shadows of the walls, the edges of the courtyard where the sunlight did not reach. He found comfort there, in the silence, in the distance. A half-smile tugged at his lips. The world could announce Pharrell as heir. It could cheer for a boy who barely knew the weight of a sword, the responsibility of a crown. Randall had survived worse than exclusion. He would survive this too.
The day dragged on, each ceremony blurring into the next. Nobles came and went, pledging loyalty and kissing hands. Randall watched, eyes sharp despite the ache in his chest. He saw whispers, secret glances, and sly smirks from those who envied him even in his absence. Some pitied him, others scorned him,but none could erase the truth: he was still the king's firstborn.
When the crowd began to thin, Torbert approached again. "Go, now," he spat. "Before I decide to teach you a lesson you'll never forget."
Randall's lips twitched in a wry, bitter smile. Lessons learned from Torbert came and went like the wind. His life had been a series of lessons, each one crueler than the last. And yet, he had endured. Each insult, each mockery, each slight had built him into something sharper, stronger. Something they could not touch.
The sun was low in the sky, turning the courtyard stones a deep orange. Shadows stretched long and thin, reaching toward him as if to whisper promises of a life yet unwritten. Randall pressed his hands against the cold wall one last time and straightened his back.
The world might not have given him a crown, or a place at the table, or even the courtesy of acknowledgment. But he was alive. And one day, he thought, he would carve a place for himself so undeniable, so complete, that no one,not the queen, not the king, not Torbert, not any of them,would dare question it again.
For now, though, he turned away from the doors, the laughter, the music, sounds of the palace fading behind him, and walked into the shadows of the outer courtyard. Somewhere in the distance, the cries of celebration echoed, and Randall whispered under his breath, half bitter, half defiant:
"One day… they will all know my name."