Long before history recorded the rise and fall of kingdoms, there stood a mighty realm between the jagged Frostfang Mountains and the endless obsidian sea. Its name was Arkanor—a land of silver towers, glowing lantern streets, and forests that whispered secrets when the wind passed through them.
King Alaric Stormborn ruled Arkanor with strength and honor. He was a warrior king, feared by enemies yet loved by his people. Beside him stood Queen Elowen, calm and intelligent, her wisdom often guiding the kingdom through delicate times. Together, they were seen as unbreakable.
But beneath Arkanor's shining glory slept an ancient curse.
It began on a storm-heavy night.
Without warning, every bell in the kingdom began ringing at once. Temple bells, harbor bells, palace bells—all clanged violently though no one touched them. Thunder rolled across the sky as the full moon slowly turned crimson red.
Citizens ran indoors in fear.
From her balcony, Queen Elowen felt a chill in the air. Lightning flashed—and in that split second, she saw a tall cloaked figure standing on the highest tower of the palace.
Watching.
When lightning struck again, the figure was gone.
Moments later, guards rushed to the royal chamber.
"My Queen! The ancient crypt has been broken!"
Deep beneath the palace lay the Vault of Relics—where forbidden artifacts were sealed away centuries ago. When the king and queen descended with torches in hand, they found the iron doors shattered.
At the center of the chamber, an empty pedestal stood.
The Shadow Crown was missing.
The Shadow Crown was no ordinary relic. Forged from twisted black metal shaped like thorns, it pulsed faintly with a red glow—like a living heartbeat. Legend said it granted unimaginable power to its wearer.
But it devoured their soul.
King Alaric ordered the gates sealed. No one could leave Arkanor. Soldiers searched every home and alley.
But Queen Elowen feared something far worse.
That night, she entered a hidden chamber beneath the royal library—one only queens were permitted to access. There she uncovered ancient scrolls written by the first rulers of Arkanor.
And the truth was darker than she imagined.
Centuries ago, Arkanor's first king had faced certain defeat in a devastating war. Desperate, he summoned a shadow entity from beyond the mortal realm. In exchange for victory, he offered something terrible—the bloodline of his descendants.
The entity bound itself to the royal family through the Shadow Crown.
Every hundred years, under a Blood Moon, it would awaken and attempt to claim a ruler completely.
The prophecy ended with chilling words:
"The crown answers not to theft.
It answers to blood."
Elowen's heart pounded.
Only someone of royal blood could awaken it.
Days passed, and strange changes filled the palace. Servants reported whispers in empty halls. Torches flickered blue. Mirrors reflected shadows that moved on their own.
King Alaric stopped sleeping.
Dark circles formed beneath his eyes. His once steady voice became distant and heavy.
One night, Elowen followed him silently.
He descended into the ruined crypt.
And there she saw him standing in the center of the chamber.
The Shadow Crown rested upon his head.
Its thorned metal gripped his temples. Red light pulsed from within.
"Alaric…" she whispered.
He turned slowly.
His eyes glowed crimson.
"They lied to us," he said, his voice layered with something ancient and hollow. "This kingdom was built on shadow. The power belongs to me."
The ground trembled violently. Black mist rose around him like living smoke.
Under the rising Blood Moon, Arkanor began to fall.
The sea crashed violently against the harbor walls. Crops withered overnight. Creatures with glowing eyes crawled from the forests. Fear spread faster than fire.
From the highest tower, the crowned king raised his hand.
"Witness your true ruler!" the shadowed voice thundered across the kingdom.
Elowen knew time was running out.
If the entity fully consumed him, Alaric would cease to exist.
In his place would rise the Shadow King—immortal and merciless.
There was only one hope left.
Hidden in a sacred chamber lay the Mirror Blade—a sword forged from fallen starlight, capable of severing curses bound by blood.
But striking the crown might kill the king.
Still, she chose to act.
Under the crimson sky, Queen Elowen climbed the highest tower alone, the Mirror Blade wrapped in white cloth.
Wind screamed around her as she stepped forward.
"Fight it!" she cried. "You are stronger than this!"
For a brief moment, Alaric's true eyes flickered through the darkness.
"Elowen…" he whispered weakly.
But the crown tightened, dark energy bursting outward.
"You cannot break destiny!" the shadow entity roared.
Tears streamed down her face as she raised the Mirror Blade.
"I do not break destiny," she said softly.
"I choose it."
With all her strength, she struck the Shadow Crown.
Light collided with darkness in a blinding explosion. The tower shattered. The sky cracked like glass.
And then—
Silence.
When dawn finally came, the Blood Moon had vanished.
The Shadow Crown lay broken in pieces upon the stone.
King Alaric lay unconscious—but breathing.
The shadow entity, severed from the royal bloodline, dissolved into nothingness.
Arkanor was saved.
But the ancient magic that once protected the kingdom had faded forever.
The Mirror Blade was shattered beyond repair.
Peace slowly returned, though scars remained in stone and memory alike.
Years later, King Alaric and Queen Elowen ruled wisely, forever changed by the night of the Blood Moon.
Yet deep beneath the ruins of the broken tower, in darkness untouched by sun or torch—
A tiny fragment of black metal pulsed faintly.
Waiting.
For another century.