The Shattered Crowns

P.O.V. Daenys

The house was alive with motion as Daenys stepped inside. Her father grunted, shoving a few heavy boxes aside, the sound of his back popping drawing a raised eyebrow from her.

"Throw your back out again?" she teased, folding her arms.

A booming laugh filled the air. "No, just getting old," he said, rubbing his lower back. "How did my little girl enjoy the festival?"

Daenys rolled her eyes, even as a warm smile tugged at her lips. He pulled her into a tight hug. She huffed and whined, "Father, I'm sixteen."

"And I'm forty-two," he shot back with a grin. "I've still got a few years on you, little one."

Small, rapid footsteps pattered across the wooden floor, and Daenys felt a tiny body slam into her leg.

"Big sister!"

"Nalla." Daenys bent down, pinching the little girl's rosy cheeks.

"What did you get at the festival?" she asked. Nalla's face lit up as she twirled, showing off two ornate hair clips, their designs catching the light in brilliant spirals of gold and crimson.

"Oh, those are beautiful," Daenys said, beaming. "Now I can style your hair just how you like it."

The little girl giggled, her joy infectious.

Across the room, their father shifted more boxes, calling over his shoulder, "Your mother wants to see you. She's in the study."

Daenys straightened, patting Nalla's head. "I'll be back soon, then we can play all you want. Deal?"

"Deal!" Nalla chirped, skipping back toward her room, humming a festival tune.

Their home, larger than most in the village, reflected her parents' importance to the community. Her fingers brushed along the intricately carved wooden railing as she ascended the stairs, marveling at her father's craftsmanship. It always grounded her, these small reminders of his work.

The study lay at the farthest end of the hall, a room designed to oversee the comings and goings of the village. Pausing at the door, Daenys exhaled a soft sigh. Her mother's presence always felt heavier in this room, more like the stern leader of the village than the gentle scolder who once patched up skinned knees and braided hair.

From inside, she heard the faint scratch of a quill on parchment, broken by low murmurs of frustration.

Daenys rapped lightly on the door.

"Come in, Daenys," her mother's clipped voice called.

She stepped inside to find her mother hunched over the desk, pen racing across paper. She didn't look up.

"Mother?"

"Daenys." Her mother's voice was sharp and efficient, an acknowledgment and little more.

"You called for me?"

Her mother finished writing before folding the parchment neatly. She gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit."

Daenys obeyed, sinking into the chair. The silence between them stretched, taut and suffocating, filling the room like smoke. It wrapped around Daenys' throat until she was sure she'd choke on it.

Finally, her mother's low voice cut through. "I heard there was trouble at the festival."

Daenys winced. Of course. Akash. And the fainting. She stilled her expression, deciding it was better to say nothing.

Her mother pressed on. "Daenys, what is the first lesson I taught you?"

"That a leader must put the village before any one person," Daenys recited, the words coming automatically, "or the village will burn."

"And your friend," her mother said pointedly, "caused another problem."

"Mother—"

"No." Her mother's voice was sharp as she folded her hands on the desk. "This has been coming for a long time, Daenys."

"I don't want to have this conversation again," Daenys snapped, standing abruptly.

"Sit," her mother commanded, her tone cold and immovable. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of someone who had led a village through hardships. Not the tone of a mother speaking to her daughter.

And, as always, Daenys sat.

"You stubborn girl," her mother said, her words like ice. "Your friend is not of this village. I've tried to overlook his missteps, but at the Midsummer Festival, no less, he causes another incident. Even Iriel's passing won't shield him forever."

Daenys muttered under her breath.

"If you wish to speak," her mother snapped, "speak loudly and with conviction, or don't speak at all."

Daenys' jaw tightened, but she squared her shoulders. "It doesn't matter. Akash, Mirak, and I are leaving the village. The sorceress, Winter Blackwood, has asked us to travel with her. We'll be out of your way in a week."

Her mother's brow arched, her gaze piercing, but Daenys didn't flinch.

Finally, her mother spoke. "If that's the case, there's something you need to learn first." She rose, sweeping past Daenys in a flurry of authority. "Come, daughter."

Daenys followed, struggling to reconcile the cool, commanding figure before her with the woman who had once wiped away her tears.

They stepped out of the largest house in the village, the warm hum of chatter fading as Laenys strode forward with purpose. People moved aside as they passed, her mother's presence parting the crowd like the prow of a ship through water. Daenys struggled to match her mother's long strides, nearly tripping on the uneven dirt path as her bow shifted awkwardly on her back.

They were heading north. Daenys glanced around, taking in the surroundings as they entered a part of the village she rarely visited. The hunters' district. The elevated homes here were equipped with sturdy lifts, a testament to Mirak's ingenuity. Thick ropes and pulleys stretched like webs between the houses and the towering trees. These lifts allowed hunters to haul heavy game into the treetops, protecting the spoils from the jungle's predators and the oppressive humidity.

Next to the hunters' quarters were the gardens, a patchwork of greenery basking in the rare shafts of sunlight that pierced the jungle canopy. Rows of crops swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves glinting with dew. Villagers bustled back and forth, harvesting, sorting, and packing produce. Machines whirred and clanked nearby, aiding the workers in their tasks.

"What do you see, Daenys?" her mother asked, her tone measured. "And don't answer with a question. You know I hate that."

Daenys frowned, studying the scene. Her gaze lingered on the villagers moving in practiced unison. One harvested, another carried, a third fed the produce into a machine that whisked it away. Everything was seamless, purposeful.

"It's… efficient," she finally said.

Her mother tilted her head. "How so?"

"The villagers each have roles. They work together to make the process faster, and the machines help carry the load," Daenys replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

Laenys nodded once. "True, but not the answer I'm looking for."

Daenys sighed. "Then what is the lesson, Mother?"

Laenys reached over and ruffled her hair, her hand heavy but not unkind. "Patience, Daenys. A wrong answer is still an answer, and admitting what you think deserves respect. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."

"Mother!" Daenys groaned, swatting her hand away.

"Daughter," Laenys replied dryly, her lips twitching with the faintest hint of amusement. She began walking again, her pace brisk.

A weathered man paused his work as they approached, his tanned face breaking into a broad smile. "Laenys! It's been too long."

"Jerald," her mother greeted, nodding.

"And young Daenys! By the gods, I haven't seen you since you were no taller than my waist!" he said with a chuckle, wiping his hands on his tunic.

Laenys cut through the pleasantries. "Not the time for reminiscing, Jerald. I came to check on the crops."

The man sobered instantly. "Aye, I figured as much. The rain's been scarce. Most of the rice will hold, but it's not the best yield. As for the mangoes… they'll need another few months before they're ready for harvesting."

Laenys pursed her lips, her expression tight as she digested the news. "We'll have to send hunters south, then. The rainfall is heavier there. We'll need fruit from deeper in the jungle to sustain the village."

Jerald frowned. "That's a dangerous gamble, Laenys. The southern jungle is crawling with predators this time of year."

"A necessary risk," Laenys said firmly. Her tone left no room for argument.

Daenys puffed up her chest, emboldened. "Why not deal with the mikar by the streams? If we clear them out, we'd have enough water to support the crops."

Her mother shot her a sharp look. "No. You know as well as I do the mikar would slink back and pick off our hunters before we gathered even a drop of water."

"It's not without merit," Jerald offered cautiously.

But Laenys shook her head. "The risks outweigh the rewards. We can't afford the losses."

Daenys bit her tongue, the sting of dismissal burning in her chest.

The conversation was cut short by the blaring of hunting horns. Heads turned as a group of hunters emerged from the jungle, their worn armor glinting dully in the fading sunlight. Some bore scrapes and minor wounds, but all were alive—a small victory in itself.

But it wasn't the hunters that held Daenys' attention. It was the creature they carried.

The massive corpse was slung across a thick wooden stretcher, its muscled body still twitching in death. Its black-and-red fur glistened with sweat and blood, and its four powerful arms hung limply, each ending in massive claws. The creature's face was twisted into a frozen snarl, its sharp teeth bared even in death.

Daenys' stomach churned. A four-armed ape. These beasts weren't common in the northern jungles of Morgoi. The hunters usually brought back mikar or buffalo—nothing this dangerous, this monstrous.

The hunters hoisted the beast onto one of the lifts, its massive weight straining the ropes as the contraption carried it into the treetops. Injured hunters followed, their faces pale but determined. Below, villagers swarmed the carcass with blades and tools, their movements precise and coordinated.

Every cut had to be perfect. A single mistake could poison the meat or ruin the valuable fur. Nothing would go to waste. The hide would be traded, the meat salted and stored, and the bones turned into tools or weapons.

Daenys watched, mesmerized. Mirak's lifts had changed everything. No more hauling heavy loads by hand. No more straining against gravity or risking life and limb to carry prey into the safety of the treetops. Everything was smoother, easier.

One of the apprentices slipped, their knife catching the edge of the carcass awkwardly. The mistake was quickly corrected, the damaged meat carved out and discarded without breaking the rhythm of the work.

Laenys studied Daenys silently as the scene unfolded.

"What's the lesson, Daenys?" her mother finally asked, breaking the quiet.

Daenys frowned, the question gnawing at her. Efficiency? No, her mother wouldn't drag her here for something so obvious. She wracked her brain, her eyes lingering on the lifts, the hunters, the villagers moving in tandem.

Finally, she murmured, "The lifts?"

"Is that a question or an answer?" Laenys asked, her sharp gaze unwavering.

Daenys straightened. "The lifts," she said firmly.

Her mother didn't smile, but she inclined her head in approval. "Yes."

Daenys furrowed her brow. "I still don't understand. Mirak's idea was brilliant, but what lesson am I supposed to take from this?"

Laenys exhaled slowly, her gaze distant. "You didn't live through the times before these lifts existed. When I became leader, things were… different."

Daenys stayed silent, knowing her mother rarely spoke of those days.

"The village was fragile then," Laenys said. "Hunters didn't live long. Infants died more often than they survived. Life was short, brutal, and uncertain."

Daenys swallowed hard, her mother's words sinking in like stones.

"What changed?" she asked quietly.

"We adapted," Laenys said simply. "We changed how we lived, how we worked. We invented. We survived. The oldest of adults actually grew old and became the elders."

Laenys turned, her sharp eyes meeting her daughter's. "The lesson is this, Daenys: Stagnation is death. Change is the only path forward. If you wish to lead, you must make the hard choices that force change, no matter how much resistance you face."

The words hit Daenys like a blow. Did she want to lead? For years, her answer had been no. But now, with her mother's gaze heavy on her, she wasn't so sure.

Daenys hesitated, her thoughts a storm. Change meant risk, but it also meant survival. Could she shoulder that responsibility? Did she even want to?

Laenys softened as she studied her daughter's furrowed brow, her voice quieter now. "I've taught you many lessons, Daenys. Some you've taken to heart, and others you've ignored. This one will follow you whether you want it to or not. No leader escapes it: to lead is to shoulder burdens no one else will, to make decisions no one else dares to. You will not always be liked, nor always be right. But if you do nothing, those you care about will pay the price."

Daenys blinked, caught off guard by the faint trace of vulnerability in her mother's tone. She wanted to protest, to argue, but the words wouldn't come.

Laenys gave a small, approving nod, as though reading her mind. "You're strong, Daenys. Stronger than you think. And this journey you're about to take…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's good that you're leaving. The world will teach you more than I ever could. Just don't forget what you've learned here."

Daenys bit her lip. She wanted to ask so many questions, but instead, she whispered, "I'll try, Mother."

Laenys didn't respond immediately. Instead, she reached out, brushing an errant strand of hair from Daenys' face. The touch was brief, fleeting, but it carried more affection than any words could.

"Good," Laenys said, straightening her back. The leader in her reasserted itself. "Now, let's go home. Your father will be annoyed if we make him reheat dinner a third time this week."

They walked in silence, the jungle alive with the sounds of nightfall. Crickets chirped, and the faint rustle of leaves whispered through the air. Torches along the path flickered, their golden light chasing away the encroaching darkness.

As the house came into view, Daenys slowed, glancing sideways at her mother. There was so much she wanted to say. Thank you, for one. I'll miss you, for another. But the words felt heavy, unwieldy in her mouth.

Instead, she asked softly, "Mother?"

Laenys turned, her expression unreadable.

"When I come back… will I be ready to lead?"

For the first time, her mother's sharp gaze softened into something warmer, something closer to the mother Daenys had known as a child.

"That," Laenys said with a faint smile, "is up to you."

And with that, they stepped inside, the warmth of the house greeting them like an old friend. Her father's booming laugh echoed from the kitchen as Nalla's giggles carried through the halls. For a moment, everything felt normal. Whole.

But as Daenys sat down to dinner, her mother's words lingered in her mind like the hum of a distant drumbeat: Stagnation is death. Change is survival.

And Daenys, for the first time, began to wonder if her path had already been chosen.