The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Nine: The Assembly Of Echoes

Chapter Nine: The Assembly of Echoes

The amphitheater rose before them like a stone colossus — old as the kingdom, and twice as worn.

Once, it had echoed with laughter and music. Tonight, it would ring with something heavier: the sound of a people choosing their fate.

Thousands crowded the tiers. Peasants from the far fields. Merchants from the city. Soldiers in worn uniforms. Nobles wrapped in silks and suspicion. The common and the powerful, all seated as equals.

Banners snapped in the wind.

On the raised platform stood the council, lined like judges on a ledge. At the center: two podiums.

One for the heir returned.

One for the man who ruled in his absence.

Caelan took his place beside Sareth.

Lyra stood just beyond the edge of the stage, flanked by Garrin and several loyal guards. Her walking stick planted firmly in the gravel. She nodded to him — not as his lover, but as his compass.

And then the murmurs rippled through the crowd like a sudden wave.

The second figure approached the platform.

Lord Vayne.

He wore a tailored doublet of black and crimson, the colors of mourning and conquest. His beard was neatly trimmed, his expression effortlessly kind. But Caelan saw the steel in his eyes.

He smiled as he took his place at the opposite podium.

“Your Highness,” he said smoothly, with just enough irony.

“Vayne,” Caelan replied, not rising to the bait.

Sareth lifted a hand for silence.

“The law grants each claimant a voice. Let the Assembly decide. The floor is yours, Prince Caelan.”

Caelan stepped forward, facing the thousands gathered.

His heart pounded. But not from fear — from the weight of truth.

He didn’t need to win them with charm.

He needed to remind them who they were.

“I was born in the palace,” he began. “But I didn’t become a man there. I became one in the mud and dust, on roads you walk, in homes like yours. I ran from this throne because I was afraid. And in running, I saw how badly we’ve failed you.”

Murmurs of agreement.

“I returned not for power. But because I couldn’t live knowing I let your voices be silenced. You deserve more than fear. You deserve more than being pawns in games played behind stone walls.”

He paused.

“I will never be the perfect king. But I will serve. Not rule. Serve.”

And he stepped back.

A moment of silence.

Then hands began to clap. Slow, uncertain. But growing.

The people of Andar were waking up.

Vayne didn’t flinch. He raised his arms, the picture of calm authority.

“My friends,” he said warmly. “How easy it is to offer dreams. How poetic to speak of service and love when you’ve been gone for a year. But I ask you: who kept your cities fed? Who kept your borders defended? While our young prince wandered, I bled for you.”

A beat of silence. Then some scattered applause.

“I am not your enemy,” he continued. “I am the one who refused to let this kingdom fall. And I will not hand it over to a boy who ran from his father’s crown.”

Now the crowd was torn — murmurs, hisses, pockets of clapping.

Caelan stepped forward again.

“You speak of bleeding for the people,” he said, voice rising. “But you bled them first. You taxed the grain from dying villages. You arrested dissenters. You sent troops to my village in secret — and people died for it.”

A voice shouted from the crowd, “My cousin was one of them!”

Others joined in.

Vayne lifted a placating hand. “Order. You can’t believe every story from a runaway prince and a farm girl—”

That’s when Lyra stepped forward.

No crown. No title. Just blood still healing on her cheek.

She climbed the steps to stand beside Caelan.

“My name is Lyra,” she said loudly. “And I saw your men burn homes. I buried neighbors. I’ve bled more for this kingdom than you ever did behind your velvet curtains.”

The crowd roared.

And then, from somewhere near the back — a figure stood.

An old man. Thin, wiry. Eyes like stone.

“The prince worked in my forge,” he said. “Didn’t say a word about who he was. Hauled iron. Dug trenches. Not for a throne — for me.”

It was Master Halden.

Other voices followed.

A mother from Durn’s Hollow. A border rider. A stonemason.

“He pulled my boy from a river.”

“He helped us bury our dead.”

“He gave away his cloak when my girl was freezing.”

One by one, the people rose. Not in protest — in memory. In testimony.

Vayne went pale.

Sareth raised both hands, letting the voices roll.

“Let it be known,” he shouted above the roar, “that the Assembly has spoken. If you wish Caelan of House Vire to be crowned — raise your hand!”

A sea of arms.

Thousands.

Tears welled in Caelan’s eyes.

He turned — and saw Lyra smiling at him. Garrin nodding with pride. Even Lady Varell looked shaken.

Vayne, meanwhile, stared straight ahead. Motionless.

Defeated.

But not broken.

Not yet.

◇

That night, as Caelan stood on the palace balcony overlooking the fires of celebration in the streets, Sareth approached.

“You did it,” the chancellor said.

“No,” Caelan said quietly. “We did.”

Sareth nodded. “Then sleep well tonight. Tomorrow… the crown.”

He left him alone.

A breeze lifted Caelan’s hair.

And Lyra came up behind him, pressing her head to his shoulder.

“You looked like a king,” she whispered.

“I just hope I feel like one when it’s real.”

She kissed his temple.

And for the first time, Caelan didn’t want to run.