The Ashen Crown

The kingdom of Drakenswylde had once been a beacon of light, its ivory towers piercing the heavens, its sprawling streets alive with the vibrant hum of prosperity. From the Great Hall of Obsidian, King Aldred the Valiant ruled with wisdom, wielding the fabled Ashen Crown—a relic said to bind the loyalty of the land’s ancient, slumbering spirits to the royal bloodline.

But power, no matter how divine its origin, breeds enemies.

For decades, whispers had slithered through the shadowed corners of the realm—tales of a dark covenant, forged in hatred and sealed with blood. The Forsworn, an order of outcasts banished for practicing forbidden magic, had lingered in the eastern marshes, biding their time, their hatred festering like an open wound. On a cold autumn night, their vengeance arrived.

The assault began with a harbinger of unnatural silence. The howls of wolves and chirping of crickets vanished as a dense fog rolled over the capital city of Caelwyn. From within the mist emerged ghastly figures cloaked in black, their faces obscured, their hands aglow with runes etched in blood. Leading them was the Forsworn’s Archmage, Calthis, a towering figure whose voice carried the weight of doom.

“Drakenswylde shall bleed,” he intoned, and his words were both a curse and a promise.

The city fell in hours. Walls that had stood for centuries crumbled beneath torrents of eldritch fire. Soldiers who charged valiantly were reduced to ash, their screams swallowed by the fog. By dawn, the Great Hall of Obsidian was the last bastion of resistance.

King Aldred stood at the apex of the hall’s grand staircase, the Ashen Crown upon his brow. His once-proud visage was gaunt with despair. Around him, his most loyal knights lay slain, their blood staining the alabaster floors. At the foot of the staircase stood Calthis, his face revealed—a visage of grotesque beauty, marred by veins of dark magic.

“You have brought ruin upon us all,” Aldred spat, his voice trembling with both anger and grief.

“Ruin?” Calthis sneered. “No, your highness. I bring balance. For too long, your line has held dominion over this land, binding its spirits to your will, while we—the true wielders of power—languished in exile.”

Calthis raised a hand, and the Ashen Crown pulsed with an eerie glow. Aldred staggered, clutching his head as the voices of the spirits bound to the crown screamed in his mind.

“Yield the crown,” Calthis commanded, his tone venomous. “Or I shall unmake you.”

Defiant to the end, Aldred roared and lunged forward, his sword—a relic named Vengeance—gleaming with the last remnants of divine blessing. But Calthis was faster. With a flick of his wrist, the king was frozen mid-stride, his body encased in tendrils of shadow.

As Aldred’s vision dimmed, he watched in helpless fury as Calthis ascended the staircase and plucked the Ashen Crown from his head. The connection between the royal bloodline and the land’s spirits was severed in an instant, and a tremor shook the very foundations of the kingdom.

Years Later

Drakenswylde was no more.

In its place stood the Dominion of Calthis, a realm of eternal twilight where the sun refused to rise. The once-flourishing fields lay barren, and the rivers ran black with corruption. Ghostly figures roamed the desolate streets of Caelwyn, their wails a constant reminder of the Forsworn’s victory.

In the heart of the ruined Great Hall, Calthis sat upon a throne forged from the bones of the fallen. Upon his head rested the Ashen Crown, its glow dim but insidious. The spirits bound to it no longer served the land—they served him, their whispers fueling his insatiable hunger for dominion.

Yet, even in his triumph, Calthis felt no joy. The power he had sought for so long was a hollow victory, its weight crushing his soul. But there was no turning back. For Calthis, and for the Dominion he ruled, the only path forward was deeper into the abyss.

And so, the kingdom that had once been a beacon of light became a realm of shadows, its legacy buried beneath the ashes of its former glory.