The clash of ice and water rang through the sacred amphitheater of Aqua Basin, where the holy waters shimmered with ancient power. The ceremony of the Crown of Aqua—a rite older than the Kingdom of Asiah itself—was not merely spectacle, but judgment, and the realm had gathered to witness history unfold.
Nagara Veldorys stood at the center of the arena, cloak billowing with every breath of the cold sea wind. The moonstone sigil on his chest glinted, a cruel reminder of what once marked him as heir. Across from him stood Luthien, the shining star of the court, chosen by the elders after years of rising favor. His sapphire armor gleamed beneath the sun, his every movement a portrait of precision.
The two had trained side by side as children. Once, they laughed beneath the training ground, swore oaths of loyalty not to a throne but to each other. But the tides had shifted. Whispers of Nagara's instability, of his foreign birth mother, of the supposed curse upon his bloodline had fueled the court's suspicion. When the time came to name the crown-bearer of Aqua, the tide turned against him.
The battle was beautiful—and brutal.
Nagara wielded ice and water with fluid grace, weaving spirals of frost with every strike. But Luthien was relentless. Every parry was clean, every strike calculated. He fought like a man certain of divine backing.
Iceblades met, magic flared, and finally—with a sweep of his glaive, Luthien shattered Nagara's guard. The crowd roared as Nagara hit the stone ground, breathless, blood at the edge of his lips.
The holy water, sentient in its purity, rose from the basin. It shimmered between them, its voice silent yet undeniable. It passed over Nagara.
And chose Luthien.
The crown materialized in the water's glow, floating gently to rest upon Luthien's head.
Silence gripped the air. Then cheers. Then proclamations. The people hailed Luthien—their new Prince of Aqua. Their chosen one.
Nagara knelt alone, frozen not by magic, but by shame.
Guards approached. With ceremony and cruelty, they stripped him of his sigil and crown. His title. His name. All gone.
The crowd that once bowed to him now looked with narrowed eyes and pitying smirks. Nobles whispered like vultures over carrion. The court had spoken. The holy waters had judged. And the boy who was born to be king was now just a shadow.
Beneath the weight of disgrace, Nagara stood. His face was cold, unreadable, but within him burned humiliation. Rage. Sadness so vast it felt like drowning.
As he turned his back on the crown that should have been his, something deeper cracked within.
This was the day Nagara Veldorys fell.
But it would not be the last time the realm would hear his name.