Chapter 21: Shadows of the Crown

The first rays of dawn painted the horizon in soft hues of gold and crimson, bathing the desert in an eerie calm. Within the camp, the mood was anything but serene. Marek sat in his opulent tent, the crown of the king chief resting heavily on his brow. Its golden surface caught the faint morning light, but Marek's expression was anything but regal. His fingers drummed impatiently against the carved armrest of his throne-like chair, his thoughts dark.

A knock at the tent's entrance shattered the silence.

"Enter," Marek growled, his voice clipped.

The flap opened, and one of his guards stepped in, his leather armor dusty and scuffed. The man's face was tight with unease, and he avoided Marek's piercing gaze.

"Well?" Marek snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut.

The guard cleared his throat nervously. "My lord, the exiles... they're gone."

Marek's fingers stilled, his body going rigid. "Gone?" he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

"We searched their tent at dawn, my lord," the guard explained hurriedly. "It was empty. There are no tracks leading out of the camp, no signs of where they've gone."

Marek rose slowly, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the tent. His golden cloak shifted with the movement, the sunburst emblem emblazoned on its back gleaming faintly. He took a step toward the guard, his every movement deliberate.

"You're telling me," Marek said, his voice low and measured, "that four people—wounded and burdened with supplies—simply disappeared into the desert without a trace?"

The guard swallowed hard, his hands clenching at his sides. "Yes, my lord. It appears they left during the night. The moonlight would have made it easier to travel unnoticed."

Marek's jaw tightened, his anger barely contained. "And no one saw them leave? No one thought to guard the exiles?"

The guard hesitated, his face paling. "The orders were to escort them at sunrise. No one expected—"

"No one expected," Marek cut him off, his voice rising. "Is that your excuse for this failure?"

The guard flinched but said nothing.

Marek's gaze burned into him for a long, tense moment before he turned sharply away, his golden cloak billowing behind him.

"Get out," Marek hissed.

The guard stumbled over his salute before fleeing the tent. Marek stood alone for a moment, his thoughts churning. This wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a threat. Kael's disappearance—whether by his own doing or the meddling of his father's loyalists—posed a danger Marek couldn't ignore.

Kael's exile had been carefully planned. By offering it publicly, Marek had appeared magnanimous, a leader willing to spare his nephew despite his failures. But now, Kael's vanishing act would not be seen as defiance. The tribes would assume the desert had claimed him, and yet... Marek knew better. Kael wasn't just gone. He was out there, alive, and as long as he was alive, he was a risk.

A rustle from the corner of the tent drew his attention. Marek's son, Khorin, stepped into the light, his arms crossed. The younger man's sharp features mirrored his father's, though his youth carried an edge of arrogance that Marek had long since tempered in himself.

"Kael's gone?" Khorin asked, his tone neutral but curious.

Marek's gaze softened slightly. "Yes. And you know as well as I do what that means."

Khorin smirked, leaning casually against a post. "He's running. Desperate, scared. Let him wander the desert; he won't last long."

"Maybe," Marek said, though his tone suggested doubt. "But I won't gamble the crown on 'maybe.' The tribes will believe he's dead, but we can't leave loose ends. He must be found and dealt with."

Khorin's smirk widened. "So, what do we do? Send Ryn to track him down?"

Marek nodded, his jaw tightening. "Ryn and his best. Quietly. I want Kael silenced before anyone even knows he's alive."

Khorin's brow furrowed. "Do you think he had help?"

Marek's expression darkened. "It's likely. Someone close to Talar—someone foolish enough to think they could protect him."

Khorin's eyes glinted with amusement. "Elyra."

Marek's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Yes. She's loyal to a fault. But loyalty is a weakness when directed at the wrong cause."

"Do you want her silenced too?" Khorin asked, his tone casual, as though discussing the weather.

Marek hesitated, his mind calculating. "Not yet. She's too visible. But watch her. If she steps out of line again, I want to know immediately."

Khorin nodded, his smirk returning. "Consider it done."

The camp had begun to stir, warriors and elders going about their morning routines. Marek watched from the entrance of his tent as the first fires were lit, their smoke curling into the pale sky. He should have been reveling in his triumph, his new crown a symbol of his power, but Kael's escape lingered like a thorn in his side.

Ryn approached, his expression grim but focused. "The trackers are ready, my lord. We'll begin our search immediately."

Marek nodded. "Good. And remind everyone—this must remain a secret. If word gets out, it could destabilize the tribes."

Ryn placed a fist over his chest in salute. "Understood."

As Ryn turned to leave, Marek's voice sliced through the quiet, calm yet razor-sharp. "And Ryn... Kael is not to continue breathing. Do you understand?"

Ryn halted, glancing over his shoulder. A dark grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Crystal clear, King Chief."

Marek stepped closer, his gaze unyielding. "Make sure of it. No room for error."

Marek stood in his tent, his thoughts heavy. He had always known ruling the tribes would require sacrifices, but Kael's rebellion had forced his hand sooner than expected. The boy had to be dealt with—completely, finally. Only then could Marek's vision for the tribes take shape.

He moved to the center of the tent, where a map of the tribal lands lay spread across the table. His fingers traced the edges of the marked territories, his mind racing with possibilities. Kael could be anywhere—heading south to seek shelter, hiding in the central canyons, foolishly venturing into the lawless north, or heading east to be swallowed by the empire.

But it didn't matter. Marek had resources Kael could never hope to match. It was only a matter of time before the boy was found.

Khorin entered the tent, his expression smug. "The elders are asking about the exiles."

Marek's gaze flicked to his son. "What did you tell them?"

Khorin shrugged. "That they left as ordered. Nothing more."

"Good," Marek said, his voice cold. "Keep them occupied. The less they know, the better."

Khorin hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "Father... do you think Kael could ever challenge you? Even if he survived?"

Marek's expression hardened. "He won't survive. But even if he did, he would never have the strength or the support to lead. He's a boy, not a king. That's why you are my heir, Khorin. You understand what it takes to rule."

Khorin straightened, pride flickering in his eyes. "Of course."

Marek placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his grip firm. "Never forget—power is not given, Khorin. It's taken. And it's kept by ensuring no one is strong enough to take it from you."

Khorin nodded, his confidence unwavering. "Kael will be nothing more than a footnote in your story, Father. I'll make sure of it."

Marek allowed himself a faint smile. "See that you do."

As Khorin left, Marek turned his gaze back to the map, his mind already working on his next move. The desert stretched endlessly before him, vast and unforgiving. It would consume Kael and anyone foolish enough to follow him.

Because Marek wasn't just a king chief—he was the beginning of a new era for the tribes. And nothing, not even Talar's bloodline, would stand in his way.