Embers of the Fallen Crown

In the shattered realm of Vareth, where sunlight no longer pierced the ash-colored skies and the rivers whispered the names of the dead, tyranny reigned. For over two decades, High Sovereign Draxen had ruled with an iron grip, drawing power from an ancient relic—the Obsidian Throne—rumored to be carved from the heart of a fallen god. Under his rule, magic was outlawed, history rewritten, and fear became the currency of control.

Villages once known for music and color now lived in whispered silence. The skies rarely changed, and the days felt longer than the nights. Hope, some said, had fled the realm altogether.

But it had not. It had merely gone underground.

In the twisting catacombs beneath the ruins of the once-prosperous city of Elvaris, a resistance stirred. Calling themselves The Kindled, they were scholars, thieves, warriors, and exiles—each with a scar carved by Draxen’s cruelty. They were united not by strength, but by purpose. Among them was Lyra, a former palace guard who had once protected the tyrant’s son. After witnessing the prince’s execution for defying his father, she turned against the crown. Her fire was quiet, but unyielding.

The rebels’ plan was desperate: they would infiltrate the capital during the Festival of Obedience—a dark parody of the ancient solstice celebrations. Under the cloak of pageantry, they would ignite a rebellion from within.

What they hadn’t anticipated was the awakening of an ancient force buried beneath the throne—a remnant of the old gods, whose slumber had been disturbed by centuries of blood magic. Draxen, in his arrogance, believed he could control it. But darkness does not serve. It devours.

As chaos consumed the capital, Lyra and her companions fought their way through crumbling halls and flame-slick streets. Their mission shifted—from toppling a king to sealing away the ancient evil threatening to finish what Draxen had started.

In the final moments, Lyra stood before the Obsidian Throne, her blade slick with the blood of monsters and men alike. Draxen, now little more than a vessel for the god he thought he controlled, offered her a choice: power beyond imagining, or oblivion. She chose neither.

With a whispered incantation—passed down from a forgotten age and spoken by a voice that was not entirely her own—she shattered the throne.

The light returned slowly. Like an ember catching wind, it grew—first in the capital, then in the outer provinces. Crops began to sprout where only dust had remained. The rivers ran clear. And the stars, hidden for years, blinked back into the heavens.

The Kindled disbanded, their work done. But legends of their courage spread like wildfire. In taverns and temples, they were remembered not as warriors, but as the ones who dared to believe that darkness could end—not with vengeance, but with sacrifice and unity.

Thank you for reading. May your days be brave, your heart steadfast, and your own light never forgotten.