The Decision of a Coward’s Heart
When our kingdom fell, silence swallowed us whole.
Not a single voice cried out in protest. Not a sword was raised.
And I, too, could not conquer the cowardice in my heart enough to speak aloud.
So now, to ease my soul—and to know that I did at least one thing more than the rest of my kin—I write the truth.
The truth of how Derdelen vanished from maps, but more tragically, from the hearts of its people.
And So We Lost Our King…
Derdelen had everything.
A realm of peace.
A young king, wise beyond his years.
No plague troubled us.
The fields gave generously.
Our herds multiplied with unnatural abundance.
We hadeverything.
So why not leave well enough alone?
Ah—but then came pride.
That cursed human weakness. Pride, and vanity.
Kenderlan, our neighbor to the north, came to us with an offer: an alliance against Dusughbarah.
The terms seemed fair. Should we win, both kingdoms would share control of Tishilca, the rare herb that had safeguarded the island empire for centuries. Tishilca—the bane of poisons. The key to immunity. The reason no one had ever truly conquered Dusughbarah.
But Kenderlan had grown stronger. Its fleets were vast. Its hulls held more men.
And in the last two battles, they believed they could overwhelm even Tishilca’s legacy.
They failed. Twice.
And we failed with them.
Fishermen were the first to bring word: no ships returned.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
None.
That could only mean one thing.
The king was dead.
Long live our last King!
And Derdelen—left behind without an heir—was now a kingdom without a crown.
A Kingdom for a Crust of Bread…
It took only fourteen days.
Fourteen days from the moment we confirmed the king’s death—
before factions rose, each with their own claim to the throne.
But none of them would act in time.
Because someone else did.
Kenderlan arrived again, this time with soldiers—not allies.
They claimed to offer peace. Stability.
A quiet transition to a new ruler.
Instead, they brought intrigue.
Whispers behind curtains.
And before long, a new figure was chosen.
Not a king.
Aterritorial steward.
A man who answered not to us—but to Kenderlan’s court.
And with his rise came fire.
Fields burned.
Barns collapsed in smoke.
Granaries turned to ash.
Cattle found dead in their pens.
Famine took hold.
The steward, in exchange for grain and supplies, traded away power—little by little.
Kenderlan men took over our offices. Our defenses. Our land.
The nobility could have acted.
We gathered. We spoke.
But we had no army.
No food.
No king.
And worst of all—no one to rally behind.
Had the king left a son, or even a cousin of his line, we might have marched.
Might have fallen for our banner.
But with no heir… no symbol… there was no flame left to stoke.
Only ash.
Kenderlan arrived like water poured over a dying hearth.
No roar.
Just smoke.
And silence.
The Unwanted Kendelen
The final death of our kingdom came quietly.
The steward—our last hollow figurehead—knelt before the King of Kenderlan.
He swore fealty.
He received no crown. Only a title.
Duke of the Northern Territories.
Not ruler.
Not sovereign.
A servant with no land of his own.
Our homeland was rebranded.
Derdelen and Kenderlan merged in name only—Kendelen, they called it.
A symbol of unity, they said.
But we knew better.
It was not unity.
It was consumption.
An empire built from the bones of another.
The crown vanished.
The banners were taken down.
The soul of Derdelen—extinguished.
And the people?
They accepted it.
They traded names for full bellies.
Liberty for order.
Now, Derdelen exists only here—in these pages.
The official chronicles speak lies.
Kenderlan’s scribes—and now Kendelen’s—write of a noble king who brought peace and prosperity to his weaker neighbor.
But I remember the truth.
And I swear it by these words.
What is written remains.
—Lord Delmar of Dunareth
A coward, just like the others.
