Who hasn't heard of Graven? The name of this city resounded like an echo of thunder: powerful, ancient, absorbing years of victories and sorrows. The dynasty that ruled Graven bore its power not as a burden—it bore it as a sign, a brand: mighty, unwavering, legendary. Of the entire line, only two truly entered the annals of the people—and their memory lived longer than the stone walls of the castle.
Corvus was born the king's second son and grew up motherless. In the palace, where titles decided destinies, he was considered "insignificant"—not destined for the throne. And perhaps that's why he experienced a taste of freedom the firstborn had never known: he ran with commoners, listened to their jokes, and learned to understand their fears and hopes. But blood never forgets its roots: the family stood as a united front, and when the test came, that unity was fully revealed.
Corvus and his brother George—dueling shadow and light, two blades of one fist—twice emerged victorious in clashes with K'arkh. Those victories spoke volumes: of bravery, of shrewd calculation, of Graven's unyielding will. But their happiness proved fragile: George fell, groaning under the weight of a curse cast by a certain necromancer. His death was more than just a loss—it was a sacred stain on the fabric of the family. Suddenly, Corvus found himself where he had never imagined himself: he became heir, then king.
Fate didn't smile upon him immediately. But soon he found happiness—a powerful, beautiful duchess whose hand became his support. Life gave them a daughter, Morrigan. The castle filled with the child's laughter, and it seemed as if the bitterness of the past had receded. However, every gift comes with a price: the duchess died, leaving Corvus and the baby alone. The king did not lose heart: he did not waste his grief on empty tears or gaze into the void with hopes of consolation. He acted—for his daughter's sake, he hired the best teachers, the best craftsmen, the best minds, so that Morrigan would grow up worthy of the crown.
During these years, a threat loomed over Graven's borders: the centaurs, led by King Meron, rebelled. Meron and Corvus tried to maintain the shaky peace with words, ambassadors, and promises, but the flames of war flared faster than the diplomats could change their masks. The battle raged with such ferocity that the sky seemed to darken under a hail of arrows and the clash of blades.
Two great kings died that day.
Meron was buried with honors: he was carried through the weeping of the people, beneath banners and flaming torches, as befits a true ruler who has departed this world in honor. And Corvus—the son of a wounded, cast-off world—was carried to the temple at the direction of Morrigan herself. His body was stained with blood, his face frozen in an expression that defied memory: a gaping abyss between life and death.
Morrigan couldn't accept the loss. She wouldn't let the king go alone, not because she feared loneliness, but because she sensed that the warmth of the old treaties still lingered in her blood, and to give them up without a fight would be to betray the very essence of Graven. She locked herself in the marble halls of the temple and began a different path—a long, painful search for a way to bring her father back.
Her path was not a righteous one. Morrigan walked where shame and fear forbade nobles to tread: into dark libraries beyond the kingdom's borders, among hermits, peddlers of forbidden knowledge, and sorcerers whose names were whispered. She read ancient scrolls, studied rituals that terrified priests, and made servants' hearts clench with fear. Money and titles weren't enough—she needed sacrifice, time, and will, and she gave it all.
For years, Morrigan searched, and ironically, she became what she sought: shadows touched her; her skin grew pale, her movements less animated, her eyes deeper than those of ordinary mortals. First, she "resurrected" herself—not in the full, familiar sense, but in such a way that life itself became an artificial pulse, dark and persistent. With her, Graven's army came to life: those warriors who fell on that fateful day rose from their graves—not as ghosts of the past, but as shadows in service to the crown. Their footsteps sounded different; their laughter was the scraping of steel. This was not a victory over death, but a victory over rules, and the Dominion heard its whisper before it saw its form.
When Morrigan returned to the Temple, she prepared everything for the great spectacle. The candles burned with a strange, blue flame, and the air was filled with the scent of incense mingled with something ancient and decaying. The old priests of the incantations shuddered at the words the princess spoke; some left, unable to bear the shuddering truths. But she was persistent and cold as a blade, and on the night of the royal banner's return, what remained of the former faithful gathered.
When Corvus was raised from the temple, the city stood still. He stood before the people—the same height, the same features, but his voice was heavy and rigid, and something alien gleamed in his gaze: a hint of eternity without warmth. His body knew no such retreats; it was an instrument of his daughter's will. The army that followed him was not the one Graven loved; it was an army resurrected at the cost of something human.
News of the king's return spread across the Dominion like smoke through a dry forest. Some rejoiced: a ruler had returned, albeit a different one—who could argue with the power that had saved the city? But many clutched crosses to their chests and prayed in fear: necromancy is a dark and insidious thing; the return of the dead meant that the laws the world had followed for centuries were being disturbed. Priests of other temples uttered curses; neighboring kingdoms pressed their swords to their scabbards and whispered warnings.
Corvus had returned—but with him came a new time: a time when the price of salvation was measured not only in gold and blood, but also in what had been taken from life itself. Morrigan stood in the shadow of the throne, her face pale, her smile like the reflection of the moon in murky water. Graven had found a ruler, but lost a part of his soul. And though there were celebrations, a long trail of anxiety followed: for when a ruler returns through the realms, no one knows what the world will become, what remains after him.