Rain fell like silent tears on the black stone of the royal mausoleum. The wind, thick with the scent of wet ashes and broken foliage, howled through the onyx columns of Elsareth, the Crown City. Everything seemed to bow before the death of King Tharen, Lord of the Thirteen Marches, guardian of the Azure Throne, and—at least on the surface—father to an unblemished lineage.
But beneath the veil of official mourning, the kingdom was no more than a living body deprived of a heart. The king had been dead for only two days, and already silence weighed heavier than the funeral songs.
That night, even the moon seemed to flee the sky.
In the lower chambers of the palace, where nobles never deigned to tread, the torches burned dimly. High Priest Elvaran, cloaked in obsidian robes, was finishing the ancient prayer of the Midnight Seal—a ritual forgotten by most, but preserved in the Nocturnal Annals, a tome banned for three generations.
He placed a final drop of royal blood on the king's black coffin. The ancient rune etched into the marble flared with a violet light—painful to behold.
"May the darkness keep its secret…" he whispered.
But as the seal closed, a strange vibration rippled through the chamber. A shiver. As if something had just been broken.
Or released.
Aboveground, the turmoil took another shape. The bells had barely ceased ringing when whispers began crawling through the slate walls.
"The crown is gone!" shrieked a pale-faced servant before the guards of the Sanctuary.
The soldiers exchanged bewildered looks. The Royal Treasury was protected by ancient enchantments, reinforced for centuries. The crown of Elsareth could only be moved by the rightful heir or under sealed royal decree. Yet the king had named no successor.
"Impossible," said Captain Gheron. "No one entered. The doors remained shut."
But he was wrong.
In the East Wing of the palace, Lady Ysara of Elsareth, the king's only daughter, stood frozen before her mirror. Her mourning dress flowed over her shoulders like a veil of night, but her eyes blazed with a fire older than grief.
Someone had dared to steal the crown. On the very night of the Midnight Seal.
Coincidence? She didn't believe it.
"What are you seeking, Father? Even in death, you scatter riddles," she murmured, voice sharp as glass.
The princess was not loved by the people—too proud, too cold, they said. But in her chest raged a storm. She understood the meaning of the theft: chaos, conflict, and ancient pacts now awakening to claim their dues.
In a forgotten tavern in the slums of Lysandre, a hooded man stared into a flickering fire. His name was Kael, and he knew nothing of his lineage. Nothing of the palace or the secrets inscribed in his blood. But that night, his sleep was troubled.
He dreamed of a living throne, woven of shadow and whispers. Of broken chains. Of a faceless king… and a crown shattered between two bloodstained hands.
When he awoke, his palms bore a strange symbol—three interlocked crescents, like the phases of a dead moon.
And a voice still echoed in his mind.
"The throne calls. The blood answers."
At that very moment, in the gilded chambers of the High Court, the High Council met in secret.
Around the black marble oval table sat the Great Ones: Duke Aramon, brother of the late king and head of the Gray Flame clan; Countess Malaviel, witch of the Mists; and Chancellor Belvar, keeper of the Forbidden Archives.
"The crown is missing," Belvar announced. "And without it, no heir can be proclaimed."
"Then we shall forge legitimacy," growled Aramon. "My blood is royal. If the ancient rites are no longer enough, the people will learn to kneel."
Malaviel smiled without joy.
"The people do not like to kneel. They prefer kings who bleed for them, not ones who wield the blade."
Silence fell. Then Aramon stared into the fire.
"So be it. Let them bleed. All of them, if need be."
In the days that followed, official mourning gave way to a hunt for traitors. Servants were arrested. Mages were executed without trial. The shadow of fear grew—as if the king's death were only the beginning.
And in the heart of the storm, the legend of the Throne of Shadows returned.
They said an ancient artifact slumbered beneath the Palace, born of a pact between the first king and the Dark Gods. A living throne, which only those who had "known the night" could approach. Only it could recognize the true sovereign.
But that legend, once dismissed as myth, began to draw attention.
And some began to whisper a name—a name King Tharen had tried to erase.
Kael.
In an abandoned crypt beyond the city walls, the Watchers of the Shadow gathered.
They were seven. Seven survivors of an order thought long dead. Their leader, a woman with a gravelly voice and silver eyes, spoke softly:
"The seal is broken. The throne has awakened. The Hidden Blood must be found."
"And if he refuses?" asked one of the Watchers.
She studied him for a long moment.
"Then he dies. For if he does not take the crown, someone else will. And the kingdom will fall."
The Midnight Seal was not merely a mourning rite—it was a barrier.
A millennia-old protection sealed to prevent the reawakening of ancient pacts. But in breaking it to honor the king with forgotten traditions, Elvaran had unknowingly stirred far more than a memory.
In the black mountains of the North, the Wolves of Askar howled at the moon. A shadow crept through the ruins of the old fortress. A red eye opened in the dark.
The North had heard the call. And it answered.
Kael, meanwhile, heard only silence. The mark on his hands burned. Strange dreams haunted him night after night: a throne, a weeping princess, flames, and always that voice:
"The kingdom needs a king… not an heir."
He thought he was losing his mind. Until the day three dark-cloaked figures came for him.
"You are Kael. Son of Tharen. You carry the blood of the throne."
"I'm just a blacksmith's son…"
"Your father was a king. And you are his final secret."
Kael tried to flee. But the Watchers surrounded him.
"This is not an offer. It's a summons."
And so, the forgotten child of the king was drawn toward a fate he had not chosen.
Meanwhile, Ysara wandered the royal crypt. Alone. Guards stepped aside as if she carried the plague.
She knelt before her father's tomb.
"You ruined everything," she whispered. "Dying without naming an heir. Leaving us a kingdom rotten to the core."
But deep in her heart, she knew. Her father had prepared something. Someone. He had kept her away to protect him. To protect Kael.
She rose slowly, her fingers resting on the cold stone.
"Very well, Father. If he is your choice… I will find him. And I will break him."
Because she did not want a king. She wanted a kingdom. And for that, all heirs—bastard or not—had to fall.
Even if she had to love him before betraying him.
Thus begins the era of doubt, where crowns are stolen, names betrayed, and shadows forgive nothing…
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