Far from the dusty villages and bustling city alleys Ethan explored, Caelum Highridge, the prestigious heir of House Highridge and Ethan's declared rival, sat in a marble-floored study nestled in a noble estate surrounded by pristine forests. Where Ethan walked the dirt roads and listened to the heartbeat of commoners, Leonhart stood above—quietly observing the world from the towers of power.
The candlelight flickered as Leonhart penned the final lines of his manuscript. His writing desk was cluttered with crumpled drafts, torn research notes, and imported ink bottles, each hand-blended for clarity and permanence.
His book was titled "Throne of Legacy: The Anatomy of Nobility."
Unlike Ethan's warm tales of struggle and hope, Leonhart's work was a political and philosophical exploration. It dissected the noble class—its duty, its burden, and its historical significance. It was bold, structured, and commanding—much like the writer himself. His chapters explored:
The bloodline as a symbol of order.
Power as a responsibility earned through discipline.
The hidden education and sacrifices of aristocrats.
The unspoken loneliness of ruling from the top.
To him, the peasantry were statistics—necessary, but distant. His story was a mirror of what nobles wanted to believe about themselves: that they were born to lead, to bear the world's weight, and that emotion was a weakness the lower class could afford.
As he finished, he leaned back in his chair. His butler approached with a respectful bow.
"Shall I prepare the manuscript for the guild, young master?"
Leonhart closed the leather-bound tome and nodded.
"Yes. The academy will see what true literature looks like. Let's see if that 'boy writer' still thinks emotions win over intellect."
And so, two books—two visions—set out on their journey to capture the hearts of a kingdom.
The Writers' Guild — Where Ink Becomes Immortality
The stone-carved edifice of the Royal Writers' Guild stood at the heart of Inkstone City, its ivory towers rising above even the tallest minarets. Inside, the scent of ancient parchment and burning wax mingled in the air as hundreds of manuscripts from students all across the kingdom arrived—each a voice longing to be heard, to be remembered.
Two packages arrived sealed in wax and wrapped with care, carried by guild-certified messengers under armed escort, not for protection—but prestige.
One bore the name: "A Kingdom in Ink: Stories Written Between the Stones" – Ethan Verne
The other: "Throne of Legacy: The Anatomy of Nobility" – Caelum Highridge
(The Moment the Guild Unsealed Them)
In a chamber lined with spell-woven bookshelves, the Guild's senior editors gathered with ritual reverence. When the seal of Ethan Verne was cracked, the first few pages were read aloud in silence.
His words were humble, yet evocative—woven from dusty roads, hungry children, old storytellers, and pond reflections. It spoke of a kingdom often ignored: the people beneath the marble, the hands that held up castles, the voices that history forgot.
Moments later, Caelum Highridge's work was opened. The room's tone changed—stoic, poised, regal. His style was sharp and assertive, filled with rhetorical flourish. He wrote not for empathy, but understanding—of the structures that upheld the kingdom, of tradition, and the lonely burden of leadership.
"Two books, two sides of the same mirror," whispered Master Scribe Feronin. "This year will be unlike any we've seen."
(Printing Magic and Distribution)
At the Guild's Replication Hall, ancient quills floated midair, surrounded by rings of crystal glyphs. These were Spell-Script Arrays—magic-mechanical systems that copied handwriting with perfect precision. The original manuscripts were placed on pedestals while Replication Scribes guided the magic, aided by ink drawn from ethereal wells.
Stacks of Ethan's book began appearing—softbound, with textured covers that resembled village stone walls, painted with blue ink illustrations of a fish leaping skyward.
Stacks of Caelum's book emerged leather-bound, with golden filigree around a noble crest, symbolizing the Highridge house and the ideal of aristocracy.
Meanwhile, books by other students—magical fables, local legends, romantic tragedies—were also processed, but fewer copies were made per title. The Guild made its priorities known.
(Distribution Across the Kingdom)
Couriers mounted on wind-horses and rune-powered wagons departed from the guild's courtyard in waves, each one carrying crates tagged with regions:
Ethan's book was sent to public schools, town centers, marketplaces, and libraries.
Caelum's book was dispatched to noble estates, government offices, military academies, and university salons.
Posters were pinned in every city and town:
( ANNOUNCEMENT FROM THE ROYAL WRITERS' GUILD)
The Royal Literature Academy's Summer Showcase Has Begun!
Featuring:
"A Kingdom in Ink" by Ethan Verne — A raw and heartfelt journey through the overlooked corners of our realm.
"Throne of Legacy" by Caelum Highridge — A masterful discourse on the nobility's ancient role and sacrifice.
Available now at:
Guild-affiliated bookstores
City libraries
Magical broadcast readings (available via Whisper Crystals on full moons)
Support your favorite author!
The top 3 most beloved books will earn their creators a full week's access to the Royal Grand Library—a treasury of ancient scrolls, forgotten histories, and inspiration itself.
(The Literary Battle Begins)
And so, two visions of the kingdom—one written in stone paths and teardrops, the other in gold filigree and command—began their journey into the hands and hearts of thousands.
Some readers wept at Ethan's gentle portrayals of life and struggle. Others nodded in thought as Caelum's arguments stirred their belief in order and legacy.
In bakeries, on airships, in noble parlors and schoolrooms—people read. Debates began. Opinions clashed. And slowly, a kingdom was divided not by war—but by the power of words.
The bells of the Writers Guild had not yet ceased their echo from the grand announcement, when the marketplace began to shift in an almost palpable way. It began quietly — a ripple rather than a roar. One guild-run stall in Westhall opened its shutters at dawn, revealing stacks of two books so different in binding and soul that they seemed to argue with each other even in silence.
Within the hour, a small line of curious readers, nobles and commoners alike, had formed.
By midmorning, that line became a flood.
From Brighthollow to the stone alleys of Verdance, the air was abuzz with the rustle of turning pages and the chatter of divided hearts. Carriages halted before bookstores, stable boys ran errands with coin purses clenched tightly, and booksellers found themselves robbed of breath. Hands that usually lifted crates of fish or measured bolts of fabric now reached with shaking fingers toward printed words — toward worlds conjured by ink and heart.
Ethan's A Kingdom in Ink sold swiftly. Not in bursts, but in waves — impulsive, emotional, and unpredictable. The book, a collection of interwoven fables written in a voice wise beyond its years, seemed to nestle itself directly into the reader's chest. Each page was like a secret murmured to the soul. An old washerwoman in Miren's Gate wept openly on a bench after reading the tale of the stonecutter and the ghost prince. A veteran guardsman at the eastern wall passed his copy from soldier to soldier, whispering, "It's strange. Like he knows."
Caelum's Throne of Legacy, in contrast, moved with the cold efficiency of nobility itself. His book, a meticulously detailed treatise disguised as a narrative, impressed the minds of the educated elite. It offered dissection rather than immersion, analysis instead of empathy — and it worked. Scholars debated entire paragraphs in candlelit circles; lords recited entire passages to their households, interpreting lineage and legacy with newfound gravity. It became fashionable among aristocratic circles to be seen reading it, to quote it mid-toast at banquets and dinners.
But here was the unexpected: a third wave.
Some buyers — and their numbers grew by the hour — bought both.
It began with a university student in Liones who, after purchasing Caelum's book to satisfy a professor's recommendation, returned for Ethan's out of curiosity. That same night, he scribbled in the margins: "Why does the heart respond here when the mind remains silent with the other?"
Word spread.
The Guild's ledgers began to show strange pairings. In the port city of Avenholt, a sailor purchased both volumes, claiming, "One reminds me of who I am. The other tells me who I might become." In noble houses, young heirs read Ethan's tales beneath silk sheets while their fathers pontificated over Caelum's theories in the drawing room.
Within two days, the Guild's supply wagons ran double routes. Horses sweated beneath burdens of paper and story. Bookbinders worked through the night, hands raw and eyes red, reprinting volumes that had vanished off shelves faster than rain in drought-stricken soil. Scroll hawkers and wandering readers alike debated publicly in town squares — "Is legacy earned through blood or voice?" — quoting both authors, often misquoting both, and passionately defending their chosen champion.
But even the Guild, masters of parchment and policy, had not foreseen what would happen on the third night.
A quiet courtyard in the Royal Capital — the open reading grounds near the Willow Fountain — filled spontaneously. Lanterns dangled from branches. Teenagers gathered with both books tucked under arms. It wasn't a formal debate. It wasn't a contest.
It was something more honest.
They read.
Out loud.
Some by candlelight, others by memory. Ethan's poetic phrases drew gasps. Caelum's rigid clarity drew applause. Then — someone, a girl with ink-stained fingers, read a passage from both in sequence. The crowd grew quiet.
And then: "Maybe," she said softly, "maybe these books aren't against each other. Maybe they're the same river flowing in opposite directions."
That moment would be written about in Quill & Crown, the kingdom's leading literary column, which simply titled the article:"The Storm Between the Stones and the Throne."
Ethan Verne, barely tall enough to reach the podium at the Royal Literature Academy's Great Hall, sat quietly with the latest printing figures before him. He didn't smile. Not yet. His fingers traced the edge of his ink blotter, his mind caught between disbelief and quiet dread.
He had wanted only to write.
Now his words were turning into something far more dangerous.
A movement.
And across the city, Caelum Highridge looked out the arched window of his estate's library, his book open but unread, and muttered, almost to himself:
"So… he can reach them too."