The royal court had fallen silent. No one spoke the words, but the scent of death hung thick in the air, like the bitter tang of ash after a fire. For weeks, whispers had circled the halls of the palace like vultures waiting for the carrion to fall. Today, the vultures were fed.
It was done.
The King was dead. Struck down in his sleep by a poisoned blade, his body left to rot under the weight of his own failure. The throne was vacant, and the kingdom held its breath, waiting for the next soul to ascend, to claim the power that had once belonged to the fallen monarch.
But the path to the crown was never simple.
The throne was the prize, yes, but its price was steep. The crown wasn't just gold and jewels—it was a symbol of authority, of domination. But that symbol had grown twisted, and those who sought it were no longer the noble heirs of old. There were whispers of darker things at play now, ancient forces that had long been buried beneath the weight of time.
And one of those forces had a name. The Crone.
No one remembered when she first arrived in the kingdom. Some claimed she was as old as the hills, others whispered she was something else entirely. A specter. A shadow. A creature who had never known the warmth of the sun. Her age was as much a mystery as her origins. But her influence was undeniable.
The Crone had served the royal line for centuries, a trusted advisor, though not one of the court's nobles would ever admit it. Her true power lay not in her age or her words, but in her knowledge—arcane and forgotten, the magic that lived in the cracks between worlds. She knew the secrets of the kingdom's rulers, their bloodlines, their weaknesses. And she knew one thing above all others: the crown was cursed.
It was not a secret shared openly, not among the courtiers or the king's men, but those in the know—the ones who whispered in shadows, the ones who had seen things not meant for mortal eyes—knew that the crown would demand a price. And that price was always blood.
The Crone had told them all this in her cryptic way, though few had listened. Now, as the blood of the dead king stained the very stones upon which the court had once stood, the truth was undeniable.
So the question lingered, like the chill of the coming night:
Who would wear the crown next?
The palace, once teeming with life and opulence, now lay in a deathly silence. The nobles gathered in secret corners, their eyes narrowing as they considered their options, their ambitions. Each of them would make their move, and one would rise to power. But none knew what it would cost.
At the center of this web of intrigue stood Kaelis Vaen, the only one whose name was whispered with both fear and respect. The throne could be his. The blood of his ancestors ran through his veins, and the Crone had hinted at his future more than once. But Kaelis was not a fool. He knew that power came at a price—and he was not so sure that the crown was worth it.
Yet, the pull of destiny was a hard thing to deny.