Literature
The Minstrel Prince
Anselm raised a hand to calm the outburst of cheers and cries. His eyes flitted across the crowd in the City Square, thousands of every age gathered all the way to the lapping waters of Westlake. From the rooftops of the buildings wide around, green-and-gold banners of Sythra hung heavily in the still morning, as if waiting. It was some moments before there was anything near quiet.
Lord Nicholas looked up at Anselm, his hand resting on the golden-horned hilt of his sword. It was time, surely. At a word from Sir Rolfsun, the rebel banner of the Crown of Thorns was unfurled overhead.
“People of Nidaros, I am Anselm, son of Alboryn!” He raised his voice, high and clear across the Square. A breathless hush fell over the crowd, as all eyes rested on him.
“I am rightful heir to the crown of Ferastyr–a crown seized unjustly by my father’s steward Gunthar. He is not only a traitor, but a murderer. I have come to reclaim that which was taken, that the
