The throne is empty when Seskone’s ruling council drags him up to it. And it will forever be.

“It’s fitting if you take Baraway’s old seat,” says a familiar ruling council member.

Seskone labels the man as Betrayer One. He has long since forgotten his name and has no desire to remember it. Once Seskone’s ally, now, he and the rest of them are nothing in his eyes—nothing but betrayers and the embodiment of his downfall.

He has failed the assault and, by doing so, has gotten every man, woman, and potsoul beside him killed.

Quoreflux. His newer friend, but one more loyal than any of those who came before. Sometimes, circumstances forge bonds stronger than any past can. Seskone’s ruling council of people he once called friends is a testament to this.

“Vagrant in Chains, more like!” proclaims Betrayer Two, another council member who was once a friend but is now reduced in Seskone’s eyes to nothing more than a chittering hyena. She is shrill, her voice cutting past Seskone’s regret and deep into his heart.

The guards obey the implied order, snapping manacles around Seskone’s wrists and ankles and fixing them to his seat.

Seskone slumps into the chair’s cold embrace and, for a long moment, welcomes the weight, thinking he deserves to have his body crushed underneath it. He had once imagined this moment so differently, not as a prisoner but as a king, reclaiming what he had left behind. Yet here he is, a broken man bound by his inadequacies. He has failed not just his friends but also Crystalline itself.

From there, they force him to endure the formation of plans, schemes, and plots that will push Crystalline further into ruin.

“Food, water, and medical supplies are the only untaxed goods left in Crystalline,” says Betrayer One. He hammers his fists on his seat’s armrest. “I say we start now!”

“No time like the present!” agrees Betrayer Two. The woman cackles, and it makes Seskone wince.

“The mining expeditions to reach the clay deposits underneath the city are nearing completion,” intones Betrayer Three, a portly old man. “Soon, we will be able to extract those valuable deposits and sell the proceeds to the kingdoms in our neighboring lands.”

“Here, thee!” yells Betrayer One, raising a glass of disgusting liquid. “To wealth and opportunity, my friends!” He takes a swig, winking at Seskone.

The Vagrant King—once king—wants to leap free from his manacles and strangle the man. Maybe he should, to ensure a quick death at the hands of these guards.

His seat, also a prison, looks out into the throne room, across the carved stonework pillars and filigreed floor patterns, and to the vista affording a view of Crystalline. The kingdom’s clump of towers form its namesake, their roofs not flat but jagged, looking like bunches of worn crystals. The people seem to be reveling tonight, the city blazing with light. Soon, though, these predicaments will come crashing down on these innocent citizens, and Seskone will be powerless to stop them.

In the distance beyond lies the flame from the Baraway residence. It has flickered green since Seskone began the assault on Crystalline. It wanes now before snuffing completely.

Dead, he thinks. All gone. Toben had called the victory at the Baraway residence too early, and this fading signal seals it. Crystalline soldiers would have doused the flames as they overran Toben’s men. Seskone’s allies are, indeed, all gone.

“Merchant princes flock to the city with great interest in our institutions,” says Betrayer Four, a young woman with the countenance of a recalcitrant child. “Our strides in education, health care, and law enforcement have not gone unnoticed.”

For a moment, Seskone allows himself to feel a flicker of hope.

But when Betrayer Three perks up, it vanishes. “Sell them!” he yells. “We can run a bid!”

“That will require us to increase the costs of those services,” says Betrayer Two. She seems perfectly glad to say it.

“Do it,” says Betrayer One, again winking at Seskone. The gesture makes Seskone want to pull the man’s eyes out.

Book burning. Manipulating the economy. Suppression of speech. Child labor. The Crystalline runs through a dozen more topics, each worse than the last. All of it is because Seskone was too hesitant, waiting too long to strike. He will pay for his failures. Everyone will.

The days pass, the nights with them, and Crystalline begins to suffocate under the ruling council’s mandates. The lights in the windows extinguish as the curfews take effect, and the people—once great and motivated minds—now reckon with the safe yet harsh reality under their captors.

Seskone is paraded through the streets, and word soon spreads of his many titles. The Chained King, The Bound Advisor, The Hesitant Heretic—anything that will stir the crowds. They throw apples and stones at him, but their words cut the deepest. “Failure!” and “Worthless pile!” and, worst of all, “Betrayer!”

Betrayer. The Crystalline people have placed him among the ruling council’s ilk. Seskone begins to see this transition has been part of the plan the entire time.

Yet among the crowds, Seskone can’t help but notice some holding their stones back. Others bite into their apples, and even more of them remain silent while others jeer. Their faces light up, and Seskone hopes it is not because of the food itself but a more significant need slowly burgeoning into something more.

More guards trickle into Crystalline, accompanying merchant princes from the neighboring kingdoms. The guards patrol the streets, setting themselves up on tower walls and in watchtowers, armed with crossbows and leering eyes that watch the people and even Seskone. On his walks with his prison guards, Seskone notices their eyes are just like the few hesitant protesters: passive and, maybe he hopes, a bit sympathetic.

The Crystalline’s economy strains. The children don their masks and gloves and climb into the clay mines underneath the city, their taskmasters forcing them onwards. Seskone is brought before them to witness his failures, but even the gazes of those children are innocent and uncomprehending of their fate.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

One child runs up to Seskone. “Vagrant King!” she screams, in chains herself. She hugs Seskone’s legs, and Seskone is about to reach for her before a taskmaster intervenes and pulls the child away.

Shortly after that, he hears the first whisper.

“He is not like them,” someone says. “Look! He is chained.”

Seskone turns around to see who is talking but finds only scared expressions as people run from the guards, prodding them back into their homes. Maybe it is just wishful thinking.

Weeks pass and Crystalline falls into decay. The stonework crumbles. The roads begin to fill with dirt and trash. The people become frailer, their backs hunching, their clothes bland and inexpressive.

Yet some stand tall. Some continue to look at Seskone with awe, not because he is a prisoner but because he is still alive and has not given up.

“I think the time is right,” Betrayer One says, “for our Vagrant King to become Crystalline’s true ruler once again.”

Taking the words at face value, this is a change of heart. But when Betrayer One hands Seskone the words he must speak during the ceremony, Seskone knows it is a step off a cliff to his death.

On the day of the ceremony, Seskone walks freely up to the podium. He knows it’s all a ruse, with the guards in the watch towers training their crossbows on him and his enemies controlling his words.

Yet there are others in the crowds, the ones with those eyes. Those eyes that glint with something. Is it… pity? Or sorrow? Perhaps sympathy?

No.

It is hope.

Seskone gazes out to them, and the rotting state of Crystalline hits him like a bolt to his chest. The people are small, frail visages of themselves from months ago. They are downturned and sullen, defeat and regret clouding their expressions. Dark, nondescript robes have replaced their previously colored garments. Their hair is short and expressionless. They have no wealth to show because they have none anymore.

Yet their eyes betray their predicaments.

A guard prods Seskone, reminding him that he’ll be skewered in front of the people he has failed if he chooses to delay any longer.

Seskone opens his mouth to speak and wills himself to doom his last vestige of hope: his words.

“I wish, upon you all, the-”

Two hands shoot up in the crowd, belonging to the same onlooker with her head raised. The gesture is so out of the ordinary and misplaced that it makes Seskone stutter.

“I wish to undo everything that-”

Another person raises their arms, and then another. Guards bordering the crowds push themselves towards these strange people.

Seskone turns around, expecting to feel the guard’s prodding weapon in his back, but the man is gone.

“I-”

More hands shoot up: observers sitting on their balconies, the merchant princes on their tented wagons, and even some guards standing around the assembled crowd.

Then, all at once, those with raised arms sit on the ground, lie down, and use their hands as pillows.

Seskone blinks, his words frozen in his throat, as the people begin to topple, willfully collapsing like dominoes. It takes him a moment, but he recognizes their forms—the way they lie on the ground, just as he had outside Crystalline’s palisade walls, waiting for a future he no longer believed in. The gesture becomes their uniting symbol, a silent message to Crystalline and Seskone: though he once slept outside its gates, he is not sleeping anymore. Neither are they.

“What are you doing?” Seskone asks, looking around. He doesn’t shout. He is still confused and unsure if this is a ceremony feature. Maybe he had begun speaking too early.

That’s when he sees him—a solitary man standing among the downed bodies. He towers over them. He could send any one of the guards to his death. Seskone recognizes him instantly. He thought he was dead.

Toben Rimshaw gestures Seskone to duck.

Seskone does, falling to the stage’s floor just as a flurry of crossbow bolts fly from the watchtowers, lodging into the guard captains and officers loyal to the ruling council. But not loyal to Seskone.

Pandemonium ensues when the sleeping men and women jump to their feet and produce blades and bows. They turn from the crowds to those same guards, the ones without the glints in their eyes—the ones that would undo them and Seskone.

They rip into them.

“Vagrant!” screams Toben, pulling himself onto the stage. “Come on, man!” He offers Seskone a hand.

Seskone, still confused, takes it and runs with Toben off the stage and through a side passage, along a choking of alleyways, and through Crystalline’s clogged streets.

“What is going on?!” Seskone asks. “What is happening to the people?”

“Your people, says Toben. They wind down a side street as others fight around them. “It appears that some still have faith in you, Vagrant.” He smiles.

“I thought you were dead!”

“As long as you still breathe, Vagrant, there’s life left in all of us.”

The title of Vagrant turns from an accusation in Seskone’s eyes to sarcasm. A tease. An encouragement. Maybe that’s what it was the whole time.

They run up to the palace steps, but Seskone hesitates. “Wait!” he yells, looking to the gate to the right. It is open and unmanned, and no one fights in front of it. He could run and be gone from this place forever.

But Toben, standing at the foot of the steps leading to the palace, looks down. “Vagrant,” he says. “These people are with you, but they are dispersed.” He nods behind Seskone.

Seskone follows the gaze of the dissenters rushing through the crowds of guards and militia still loyal to the ruling council. They are a fervent bunch but they are unskilled. They hack into Seskone’s captors, but only until the armored faithful ones to the ruling council get their wits about them and slice into the dissenters. Guards gather in legions and attempt to control the legions. Far off, a fire blazes.

“They are leaderless,” utters Seskone.

He feels Toben’s hand on his shoulder. “So?” he asks. “Care to show them?”

The heart of the Vagrant King pounds, the open gate like a final offer of freedom. He can run and separate himself from the chaos, the fighting, the corruption, and the failures forever. He can crawl across the Scaling Dunes again and forget about all this.

He doesn’t want to bring on another failure, but he knows that no matter where he goes, he will wear failure like a shadow. Everyone does. He knows he will fail a hundred times—a thousand times.

Yet, this isn’t about him at all. It is not even about what he wants anymore. It’s about needing, taking control, and leading when you’re the only one who can.

Seskone runs with Toben, not out of the open gate but up to the palace steps, to the throne room, now in shambles. The ruling council members grapple against everyday citizens emboldened by Seskone, but they quickly cut them down.

This makes it easier for Seskone.

He grabs Toben’s blade from its sheath and Toben lets him. One by one, Seskone dodges their swipes, parries their attacks, and sinks their blades into each of them, skewering them and pushing their bodies to the floor. His arms ache with every strike, the weight of the blade almost too much after weeks in chains. His legs threaten to give out beneath him, but each time he stumbles, he forces himself back up. He has no choice—this is his fight, and he won’t fail again.

He steps over the bodies when it’s done and takes his place at the vista overlooking Crystalline, his sword moist with the blood of corruption across it.

He raises the sword, and when he does, his kingdom responds.

“Rise!” they cry. “Hail our Vagrant King!”