Claimed By The Tyrant King

The first years of Alaric’s reign were filled with fear and although Eryndor remained standing strongly beneath him, there was something colder about the kingdom that had not existed before.

The streets were safer than they had once been, crimes were punished harshly, corrupt officials disappeared quickly and enemy kingdoms no longer dared to provoke Eryndor carelessly because Alaric ruled with a terrifying grip that made people think twice before crossing him.

Yet despite all of that, whispers still lingered quietly among nobles and older servants who still remembered another king.

Drystan... Though even his name became dangerous to say openly.

"The kingdom is stable now because of His Majesty," one nobleman said during the gathering.

Another leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Stable... or controlled?"

The first man stiffened at that and quickly looked around the hall. "You better be careful," he muttered under his breath. "You never know who is listening anymore."

The second nobleman immediately fell silent.

That was how Eryndor became under Alaric. People still spoke. Just never freely.

Alaric himself ensured that fear remained stronger than resistance. Military presence throughout the kingdom increased while loyal supporters were rewarded generously and anybody suspected of conspiring against the crown vanished quickly enough to keep others obedient. Messages entering and leaving the palace continued being controlled carefully while ministers who proved useful remained protected beneath Alaric’s favor.

And slowly the kingdom adapted to him.

People within the palace walls no longer remembered Drystan while newer servants only knew fragments of stories about a former king who had supposedly fallen ill years ago. Even among the people outside the capital, Alaric’s face became the only one truly associated with the throne of Eryndor.

Meanwhile Drystan remained alive beneath the palace but he was slowly disappearing from history itself.

Days turned into months and months turned into years until hope itself slowly began slipping from his grasp.

One time when Alaric went to visit Drystan in the dungeon, it was not as if he was going to visit his brother but a prisoner, his face cold as he arrived before the dark cells. Drystan upon seeing him had his brows pulled together.

"Look at you now," Alaric mused with cruel amusement. "One might think you belong here rather than on the throne."

Drystan stared at him and felt a heaviness settle inside him because the person standing before him no longer resembled the brother he once knew.

"I know you’re not here to release me," Drystan answered quietly. "So what are you here for?"

Alaric chuckled darkly. "Aren’t you a strong person," he said while moving closer to the cell. "You cheated death twice."

Drystan’s eyes narrowed at him immediately.

"Since you cannot die that easily," Alaric continued while tilting his head slightly, "I have decided to make good use of you."

At his signal the guards opened the cell and immediately approached Drystan.

"What are you doing?" Drystan demanded as they grabbed him forcefully.

"It will be over before you know it," Alaric answered calmly.

A bowl was brought forward and Drystan’s expression changed the moment he smelled the strange bitterness from it.

They forced his mouth open despite his struggle while the liquid was poured down his throat roughly.

Drystan coughed afterward and collapsed against the cold floor. Tears gathered unwillingly at the corners of his eyes from the force of it and above him Alaric watched with complete indifference.

The laudanum slowly began becoming part of Drystan’s existence after that day.

Every single day.

Without fail.

At first he resisted it. He fought against the guards, refused to swallow it and spat it back whenever he could but that only earned harsher treatment until eventually he grew weaker beneath the constant cycle of confinement and drugging.

And little by little, the effects began settling deeply into him.

Time became harder to understand.

Some mornings he woke unable to tell whether he had slept for hours or days while memories began slipping through his mind. Sometimes he remembered Harold’s face clearly and other times it felt distant and blurred as though he was trying to recall someone from another lifetime.

The drug made him constantly tired and over time even anger became difficult to hold onto for long.

Dreams and reality also began blending together.

There were moments Drystan would swear he heard his mother’s voice calling him softly through the darkness only for him to wake up staring at cold stone walls again.

Meanwhile in the palace, Alaric continued to rule over Eryndor with iron grip. "You have strengthened Eryndor greatly, your Majesty," one minister praised during council.

Alaric sat upon the throne calmly while listening to him.

"Our borders remain secure," another added. "Even Varelos has stopped provoking us."

"That is because fear succeeds where hesitation fails," Alaric answered evenly.

And in truth, parts of Eryndor truly had improved beneath him.

Although, whispers of cruelty surrounded him, the kingdom itself prospered enough beneath his control to silence many who once doubted him.

Still, resistance quietly continued forming underneath the surface.

Some nobles still remained loyal to Drystan in secret while certain soldiers who once fought beside him struggled internally with what had happened after the war.

One of those soldiers was named Cedric.

He had served beneath Drystan directly years ago and unlike many others, he could not fully convince himself that the former king had simply disappeared willingly. Quietly he began trying to gather information while secretly passing small pieces of news down toward the lower dungeon whenever possible.

One evening while delivering food beneath the palace, Cedric finally managed speaking quietly to Drystan through the bars.

"Your Majesty," he whispered urgently.

Drystan slowly lifted tired eyes toward him though they no longer carried the same warmth they once did. "You should not call me that anymore," he answered hoarsely.

Cedric said in a tight voice. "There are still people who remember you."

At those words something flickered faintly through Drystan’s expression though exhaustion quickly swallowed it again. "What year is it?" he suddenly asked quietly.

Cedric froze. "It has been four years, your Majesty."

Drystan stared silently afterward and something about that silence unsettled Cedric because it was not shock he saw upon the former king’s face.

It was emptiness.

Cedric continued visiting him secretly whenever he could, sometimes bringing food and other times bringing pieces of information from outside the dungeon because he knew isolation was slowly destroying the former king.

At first, Drystan barely spoke during those visits but over time Cedric became the only remaining thing connecting him to the world beyond those cold walls.

"The western borders remain stable for now," Cedric said quietly one night while standing outside the cell. "But there has been unrest in Merovia."

At the mention of the kingdom, Drystan slowly lifted his eyes toward him.

Cedric hesitated briefly before continuing.

"A war broke out there months ago..."

Drystan frowned faintly as though trying to follow the information through the fog clouding his mind.

"And the princess?" he asked quietly after a moment.

Cedric looked surprised that he remembered. Then he continued, "They said she disappeared during the chaos. Nobody knows where she was taken."