Far beyond the familiar maps of maesters and sailors, where the Sunset Sea darkened into endless blue-black depths, there lay a realm spoken of only in half-forgotten whispers. Ships that strayed too far southwest of Westeros often vanished, their crews swallowed by fog and fear. Few knew that beneath those veils of mist existed a kingdom older than the First Men, patient as stone and sharp as thorn.
This hidden land was the Dominion of Nightbloom, a sovereign realm of Dark Fae concealed by ancient glamour and living shadow. Its forests were silver-barked and black-leaved, its rivers gleamed like obsidian under moonlight, and its skies shimmered with stars that seemed closer than they were anywhere else in the world.
The Dark Fae were not the fair, delicate spirits of songs sung to children. They were proud, dangerous, and bound to old laws written before crowns were forged of gold. Beauty and terror walked hand in hand among them, and mercy was a choice, not a weakness.
Upon a throne grown from living ironwood and crystalized shadow sat Queen Maleficent Darkthorn, ruler of Nightbloom. Her presence bent the air itself, wings of dark magic folded behind her like a slumbering storm. Horns curved elegantly from her brow, crowned with faint green fire that never burned, yet never faded.
Her reign had endured centuries uncounted, her will unbroken by time or war. She had seen empires rise and crumble across the seas and had chosen, again and again, to remain hidden. The world of men was loud, hungry, and blind to the cost of power.
Yet even an immortal queen could not outrun destiny forever.
Aurelian Darkthorn stood at the foot of her throne, the sole heir of Nightbloom and Prince of the Dark Fae. Though young by his people's standards, there was something ancient in his gaze, as if the shadows themselves listened when he breathed.
His hair fell like spun night down his back, streaked faintly with silver that glimmered when moonlight touched it. His eyes, a piercing emerald edged with gold, reflected both his mother's sorcery and something uniquely his own—an ember of will that refused to bow.
Power coiled within Aurelian, restrained but restless. The fae winds answered his call, thorns bent away from his steps, and shadows clung to him like loyal hounds. He did not yet command his gifts fully, but Nightbloom already recognized him as its future.
Maleficent watched her son with a gaze that few ever saw—measured, protective, and quietly proud. To the court she was an unyielding queen; to Aurelian, she was mentor, shield, and the storm that taught him how to stand unbroken.
The lands of Nightbloom lay southwest of Westeros, hidden beyond treacherous currents and spells woven into the sea itself. Sailors felt the pull but never saw the shore, their compasses spinning as if the world itself refused them entry.
Ancient wards guarded the borders, fed by ley lines older than Valyria and colder than the Wall. These enchantments bent sight, sound, and memory, ensuring that even dragons flying high would see only endless water below.
In Westeros, the hidden kingdom had become little more than a rumor—an excuse for lost ships, a tale used to frighten unruly children. Maesters dismissed it as nonsense, preferring ink and reason over magic they could not measure.
Still, the world beyond Nightbloom stirred. Thrones shifted, banners rose, and fire-blooded beasts once more cast shadows across the land of men. Even the Dark Fae could feel the tremor of change echo through the roots of their forests.
The Queen's council gathered beneath crystal arches, their voices low and cautious. Signs and omens had appeared—stars misaligned, shadows stretching where they should not, and dreams shared among seers who had never dreamed alike before.
Aurelian trained each day beneath the moon, blade in hand, magic humming through his veins. His sword was forged of star-iron and fae silver, a weapon that sang softly when danger neared, eager to taste destiny.
Magic came to him as instinct rather than study, though Maleficent demanded discipline above all else. "Power without control," she warned, "is merely destruction waiting for permission."
One night, a storm unlike any other gathered over Nightbloom, clouds spiraling unnaturally as if drawn by a single will. The air crackled with prophecy, and even the ancient trees leaned inward, listening.
A lone messenger arrived through the wards, bloodied but alive, bearing news from the far edges of the sea. The world of men was changing faster than expected, and some had begun searching for powers long thought lost.
Maleficent read the signs and felt the future tighten around her like a snare. The age of hiding was nearing its end, whether she willed it or not.
She called Aurelian to her side and spoke not as queen, but as mother. "The shadows will no longer be enough," she said softly. "Soon, you will be seen."
Aurelian did not falter. Fear brushed him only briefly before resolve hardened in its place. If the world was coming for Nightbloom, then Nightbloom would meet it on its own terms.
Beyond the wards, currents shifted and unseen eyes turned toward the southwest. Westeros, divided and burning, stood unaware of the ancient prince who would one day walk its shores.
The name Darkthorn had not echoed through history by chance. It was a promise, a warning, and a legacy sharpened by time.
As the storm broke and moonlight pierced the clouds, Aurelian looked out over his kingdom, shadows bowing in silent allegiance. Chapter one of his fate had begun, and the world would soon remember the cost of forgetting the Fae.