Bound To The Dead: The Deceptive Class-E Farmer-Chapter 67: The Coronation

The sound of drums echoed softly through the grand hall.

Each beat felt like a pulse in Aiah’s chest, steady, rhythmic, almost calming.

She took a slow breath as her feet touched the crimson carpet, the rich fabric flowing gently beneath her sandals. Her ceremonial robe, a blend of deep crimson and gold, rested lightly on her shoulders. It was heavier than she expected. Not because of weight. But because of what it meant.

Queen.

The word still felt distant.

She didn’t glance behind her, but she could feel their presence. Didi at her back, followed by Mira, Ben, Putol, Nai, and Elder Peter. Broner and Corpuz walked beside them now, the two warriors standing as her sworn protectors.

Aiah’s hands stayed by her side, fingers slightly curled. She kept her chin up. Her heart low.

The hall was quiet except for the drums.

Rows of nobles stood along each side. They watched her, some with awe, others with cold calculation. A few bowed respectfully as she passed. Most simply stood. Silent.

She didn’t take it personally. But she didn’t forget their faces either.

This wasn’t a moment of celebration for everyone. For some, it was the beginning of a new threat.

Her gaze drifted forward, to the end of the hall where the crown waited on a black cushion. The Bulcan Priest stood beside it, holding the ceremonial scroll with both hands. His eyes met hers briefly, calm, unreadable.

’Is this what Father dreamed of?’ she wondered. ’Would he be proud, or worried?’

She didn’t know.

A quiet breath escaped her lips. She didn’t try to hide the nerves in her chest. The fear. The pressure. It was all there, but she walked anyway.

One step. Then another.

The throne loomed at the center of the royal platform. Not Geoffrey’s twisted seat of dominance, but a simpler one, reforged from darkwood and steel. Built by the people. There was no gold. No gemstones. Just strength.

Just purpose.

When Aiah reached the final step before the platform, she stopped.

The drums ceased.

Silence.

She felt Didi’s hand touch her back softly, then withdraw. Mira gave her a small nod, lips pressed together.

This was it.

She stepped forward. Alone.

And lifted her gaze to meet the eyes of the people she would now serve.

Aiah stood before the basin.

The flames danced gently, cradled in a stone bowl shaped like a lotus. It was ancient. A forgotten tradition, revived not for show, but for meaning.

The Rite of Fire.

The air shifted. Warm. Dry. Still.

She was a firmage, born of heat, raised by flame. But the rite didn’t care.

This was not a measure of magic, but meaning.

Even fire mages had failed before. Their power didn’t matter if their heart wavered. The flame did not burn skin, it burned truth.

She looked down at her hands.

They trembled, only slightly. She didn’t try to stop it. This moment wasn’t about pretending. It was about choosing.

She stepped forward. The flame’s soft crackling filled the space, mingling with the silence of the hall.

Behind her, no one spoke.

The nobles watched. Some are skeptical. Others are curious. A few with barely veiled disdain.

She lifted her hand.

Her breath slowed.

’I will not flinch.’

She pressed her palm gently into the flame.

There was no scream. No smoke.

But the glow was real.

Red light spread up her arm, delicate and slow, like ink in water. Her face didn’t change. Not even a twitch.

The room held its breath.

A low gasp echoed from somewhere in the crowd.

Then stillness.

Mira, standing among the escorts, exhaled softly.

Ben leaned toward her, he whispered. "If it burned her, would we still call her Queen?"

Mira didn’t look away from Aiah. "We’d call her ash."

A pause followed.

And then, a subtle shift in the room. freeweɓnøvel.com

Respect. Hesitation. Acceptance.

Even those who hadn’t bowed earlier were now watching with new eyes.

Aiah withdrew her hand.

The flame still flickered peacefully. Her palm was unmarked, except for the faint red glow that lingered, fading slowly.

She stepped back, shoulders straight. Her hand curled into a fist behind her ceremonial robe, not to hide pain, but to feel the warmth still there.

’I’m not afraid,’ she told herself.

’Not anymore.’

Aiah returned to the center of the platform, standing before the priest in silence.

The priest, Father Andreas stepped forward. His voice was calm, but not soft.

He unrolled the scroll. The scent of old ink reached her faintly.

Then, his words filled the air.

"Do you, Aiah Aretha, swear to rule not with greed, but with honor? To bleed before your people do? To burn, if it means they rise from the ashes?"

Aiah looked straight ahead.

She thought of her father.

She thought of being with the refugees.

She thought of the faces in the crowd who had not bowed.

And those who had.

She didn’t hesitate.

"I do," she said, voice steady. "Let my reign begin in fire. Let my enemies choke on its smoke."

No cheers followed.

But something changed.

A silence deeper than before settled over some nobles. A shift in air. In breath. In posture.

Father Andreas closed the scroll, not with haste, but reverence.

The oath had been spoken.

The ceremonial sword was brought forward, carried with both hands by a silver-haired knight dressed in black and crimson armor. He bowed, presenting the blade to Father Andreas, who received it with slow, solemn grace.

Aiah stood still.

The sword touched her right shoulder. Then her left.

It wasn’t heavy, but she felt the weight.

Not of the steel, of the promise it represented.

I will bleed before they do. That’s what the rite meant. That’s what the sword asked of her.

Then, the sword was taken away.

And in its place came something older.

Father Andreas stepped toward the pedestal where the crown waited, wrapped in red silk, cradled like a relic.

The Phoenix Crown.

Melted from the old king’s circlet. Reforged with fire. Reshaped for change.

Twisted metal, no longer clean or pretty, but true.

Aiah lowered herself slowly to one knee.

Her heart was loud. But her hands didn’t shake.

She closed her eyes.

She heard the silk being unwrapped.

She felt the air shift as the crown was raised.

And when it touched her head, when the weight finally settled, every torch around the area flared to life.

The flames danced higher, brighter, just for a moment.

Then faded back into a quiet glow.

There was a beat of silence.

Until...

Someone’s voice from the crowds broke the stillness, low but firm.

"All hail Queen Aiah."

Mira echoed it, louder.

Then Ben, without hesitation.

"Queen Aiah!"

One by one, it spread. A ripple of voices, rising and layering.

"Queen Aiah!"

The throne stood behind her. But Aiah didn’t sit.

She turned to face the crowd. The weight of the Phoenix Crown pressed against her forehead.

She took a quiet breath.

She raised her hand, and the murmurs fell away.

Her voice came softly, trembling just a little, not from fear, but from the weight of everything left unsaid.

’I... I thought I’d see him here.’

Her eyes wandered across the crowd, searching, for Isaac. The space where he should’ve stood was empty.

She held the silence for a beat longer, then lowered her gaze with a faint smile.

’Then again... maybe that’s just like him.’

A breath.

"I didn’t come here to take a throne. I didn’t dream of crowns or palaces when we were running barefoot through mud and rain, hiding from soldiers, scraping by with half a meal between us."

"But we made it. Not because I’m royal. But because of the people behind me."

She turned slightly, glancing at Mira. At Putol, Nai, Ben, Broner, Corpuz. At Didi, quietly wiping a tear.

"To those who ran with me. Who starved with me. Who fought with me. Who chose to stay even when there was no reason to, I owe everything to you."

A pause.

"And to my father... wherever you are, I hope I made it far enough for you to rest."

She looked forward again.

"This crown is not mine alone. It belongs to everyone who refused to give up. Everyone who chose hope when it made no sense."

Then, her voice steadied.

"And for them... my first decree as Queen: Geoffrey’s private vaults are to be opened. The food and gold hoarded during our suffering will be returned to the people. Today."

At the farthest edge of the crowd, Isaac’s arms crossed loosely, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

When the crowd erupted with cheers, he didn’t join in. He simply nodded once, as if to himself.

—-----

Mikaela didn’t cheer either.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because she couldn’t look away.

The girl in crimson and gold was someone new, shaped by everything she’d lost, and everyone she had refused to leave behind.

Aiah didn’t rule from above. She stood among them. Because she remembered what it felt like to be forgotten.

Mikaela bit her lip softly.

’That kind of strength... doesn’t come from training. It comes from pain.’

At that moment, Mikaela realized, Aiah didn’t win the crown.

She became it.

And somewhere in the dark, the man who helped shape her rise... was already walking away.