Heir To The Iron Crown: Dyrith

50 - Fimmtíu

I had been in tough spots before.

I had been poisoned, stuck in a coma, suffered extreme physical pain, and fought for my life many times before.

I had felt the loss of Gramma, and soon after, the loss of my wolf, but I had survived.

Every day I woke up and went on with my life, because I held on to the tiniest speck of hope, that I would make it.

But now, as I was being pushed towards my certain death, my father in the same state right behind me, and with no knowledge of or access to my mate, I knew that I had already given up.

Imadis knew it too.

Never had I felt so mentally weak, so emotionally broken and internally disconnected than I did right now.

I felt numb to the harshness of the way they handled me.

I was indifferent to their unkind words that would otherwise enrage me and the wolf that was a part of me.

If I was a tree, strong and tall, with roots reaching down miles below the surface of the earth, the fearsome winds and storms and rains could only barely shake me.

Yet tonight, I felt like I was being burned alive, I was rooted to the ground too deeply with no capacity to run.

So I let that fire consume me.

Destroy me.

Till there would be nothing left of me,
But dark ash,
And withered roots.

...

We were taken to a large, decorated room.

In the middle of the room stood a pedestal which held a tall Crown, barely catching the light that was lit in its honor.

The Crown did not reflect the light, but absorbed it, creating a humble glow around it, and displaying a kind of strength that no shiny, dainty crowns could ever possess.

It was a marvel of true craftsmanship, the only thing delicate about it being the fine carvings along the edges that my subdued senses could not recognize from the distance.

There was no dirt on the dark crown, and the lines, corners and edges of the piece were sharp and crisp.

This was not something that just anybody could wear, let alone touch. It seemed as if it wasn't just for royalty, but in a way, it was royalty.

This was the Iron Crown.

And we were standing in its room.

...

Behind the pedestal on which the Crown rested, there were four high thrones towards the end of the room.

They were all occupied by old-looking men, one of whom accompanied us on the way here from the dungeons, and all of them matched their robes.

They were clad in heavy, dark red fabric, and sported long hair that covered their ears.

They looked well-groomed and poised, yet their faces seemed sinister in every way.

If their robes didn't give them away, clearly the hatred on their faces directed towards me quickly did.

We were facing the Elders.

And they were going to announce my sentence.

...

I was pushed forward towards them, then pushed down on my knees when I didn't do so on my own.