The Tale of Roswalt

The sound came first.

Skrr-bump-bump-bump.

Feet thundered down the stairs with reckless confidence, the kind only children possessed, the kind that believed bones would always hold and gravity could be negotiated with. The noise tore through the quiet of the house and spilled into the kitchen.

“Be careful, you’ll fall!” Marzy shouted, turning from the stove, a wooden spoon raised like a warning flag.

The warning was ignored.

Edwin and William burst into the lounge, breathless and grinning, their socks sliding against the floor. William clutched his stuffed toy, a misshapen brown bear worn thin from years of comfort. Edwin’s eyes were already searching.

“Uncle Andy!” he called. “Uncle Andy!”

A door creaked open.

A man stepped out slowly, as if sleep still clung to him. He wore a wrinkled shirt and loose pajamas, a brass hat perched awkwardly atop his head like an afterthought. His yellow eyes flicked to the boys, sharp despite the exhaustion behind them, and then softened. A crooked grin spread across his face.

“What is it now,” he said, lowering himself onto the sofa with a tired sigh, “Edwin… William?”

“It’s time,” Edwin said boldly, planting himself on the opposite sofa. “You promised. An epic story.”

William nodded in solemn agreement, hugging the bear tighter.

Andy rubbed his face. “Already? Why don’t you eat first?”

“You can tell it while we eat,” Edwin replied, already winning.

Marzy arrived with two orange bowls of stew, setting them gently before the boys. The smell of vegetables and meat filled the room. The house settled into that quiet moment between hunger and comfort.

The boys ate, but their eyes never left Andy.

That stare, that silent insistence, finally broke him.

Andy leaned back, exhaled, and let his gaze drift somewhere far older than the walls around them.

“I believe it was thirty-one years ago,” he began, his voice slower now, heavier. “Back when this capital wasn’t what you see today.”

The capital had been starving.

Not just of food, but of certainty. War had a way of hollowing places out, leaving buildings standing but breaking the rhythm of life inside them. Armies came and went like storms, sometimes weeks apart, sometimes days. Each one took something. Grain. Livestock. Sons.

The market still stood, because markets always did. It sprawled across the central square, loud and chaotic, pretending to be alive. Stalls leaned into one another like tired men sharing secrets. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, rot, and spice. Meat hung in strips far too thin to be honest. Coins changed hands so quickly no one asked where they came from.

People shouted prices that meant nothing anymore.

Andy was small then. Hungry. His ribs pressed against his skin like they wanted to escape. His eyes moved constantly, trained by necessity, measuring pockets, hands, hesitation.

Survival had taught him efficiency.

He saw the old man before he saw the money.

Bent nearly double, moving with the help of a crooked cane, the man shuffled through the crowd with painful patience. Each step was deliberate. Each pause invited danger. Andy followed him without thinking, slipping through bodies like water through cracks.

The purse hung loose at the man’s side.

Andy hesitated. Just long enough to feel the weight of it.

Then he took it.

The old man stumbled, more from surprise than force. Andy didn’t look back. He never did. Guilt was a luxury that required a full stomach. He ran until the market noise swallowed his breath, until the coins were hidden and his hands stopped shaking.

That was when the sound began.

Thud.

Metal against stone.

The market stilled, not out of fear, but recognition. Heads turned as one toward the great gate embedded in the capital wall. It had stood there longer than anyone remembered, towering, scarred, but never broken. Fifty meters high. Fifty years undefeated.

Thud.

People didn’t scream. They didn’t scatter. Some moved away, yes, slipping into alleys and doorways. But many stayed.

Andy stayed.

Because everyone knew how war worked.

If the gate fell, the city was already lost. Running changed nothing. Sometimes, conquerors slaughtered first. Sometimes they looted. And sometimes, rarely, they brought order. You learned which by watching.

Thud.

The gate shuddered violently now.

Then—

Boom.

The metal door collapsed inward with a scream of tearing iron. Dust swallowed the square. People fell. Andy felt bodies crash over him, boots crushing his ribs, panic trampling the weak. He curled into himself and waited for death to choose him.

It didn’t.

Light pierced the dust.

Andy opened his eyes.

Cavalry rode through the broken gate, banners snapping in the wind. Men in armor sat tall on their horses, faces unreadable. Andy braced himself.

But no one raised a blade.

Instead, the riders dismounted.

They brought out bread.

Loaves were handed out. One by one. No questions. No chains. No blood.

Andy didn’t understand it. Not then. He only remembered the weight of the bread in his hands. The smell. The way his stomach stopped hurting for the first time he could remember.

He ate and cried at the same time.

“That,” Andy said softly, his voice returning to the present, “was the day Rozwalt entered the capital.”

The boys were silent now. Stew untouched. Eyes wide.

“It was also,” Andy finished, “the first time in my life I felt full.”

Edwin leaned forward, eyes bright. “What happened after that? Did Rozwalt stay? Did the wars stop right away?”

William opened his mouth to speak, but a yawn betrayed him instead. He pressed his face into the worn fur of his toy, fighting sleep with stubborn loyalty.

Andy smiled despite himself. He drew breath, ready to continue.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Marzy said gently, already standing. “Tomorrow comes early, even for heroes.”

“But—” Edwin began.

“Tomorrow,” Andy echoed, softer now.

Reluctantly, the boys rose. Edwin lingered at the doorway. “You’ll finish it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Andy nodded. “I promise.”

Marzy ushered them down the hall, the soft sound of footsteps fading, followed by murmured protests and the quiet ritual of bedtime. Soon, the house settled into its nighttime shape.

Andy remained on the sofa, staring at nothing.

“Thank you,” he said at last.

Marzy paused while clearing the bowls. “For what?”

“For letting me stay,” Andy replied. “I know I’m not… simple.”

She set a bowl down and looked at him. “They laugh more when you’re here,” she said. “And they sleep easier.” A small smile. “So if anyone should be thanking anyone, it’s me.”

Andy nodded, accepting that as final.

A while later, he stepped outside.

The night air was cooler, sharper. Lanterns burned low along the street, their light stretching thin across stone. The capital was quieter now, but never asleep. Andy pulled his coat tighter and walked with purpose, his posture shifting back into something older.

He stopped before a small shop wedged between two larger buildings. Its sign was crooked. The light inside was warm.

The old man behind the counter didn’t look up immediately.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “I was starting to think you’d run off with my coins again.”

Andy huffed a laugh. “You still walking fine without them, I see.”

The old man finally met his eyes, the ghost of a smile creasing his face. “My men brought word,” he said, his tone changing. He slid a folded paper across the counter with two fingers.

Andy opened it.

The words were plain. Almost careless.

"Rozwalt has passed away in his sleep."

For a moment, the shop felt too small. The warmth from the lantern pressed against his skin, thick and suffocating. His stomach tightened, not with hunger this time, but with something colder.

Outside, a bell rang.

Then another.

The sound tore through the night, metal crying against metal, urgent and wrong. Doors opened along the street. Voices rose in confusion. Somewhere farther off, a bell began to answer, then another, until the city itself seemed to shudder awake.

Andy stepped outside.

The bells were no longer counting time. They were warning it.

He looked up at the darkened sky, and for the first time in decades, the peace Rozwalt had carved into the world felt thin. Fragile. Temporary.

Andy clenched the paper in his fist.

If Rozwalt was truly gone, then the crown was empty.

And empty crowns never stayed that way for long.

The days of peace, he knew with a sick certainty, might already be over.