The wind howled through the bones of a dead city.
Once, the Kingdom of Kyros had stood as the jewel of the continent — its golden towers piercing the clouds, its people known for honor and steel, and its crown worn by a bloodline that claimed descent from the gods themselves. Now, the towers were ash. The throne was buried under rubble. And the bloodline?
Hunted. Scattered. Forgotten.
Except one.
Far from the ruins, hidden in the shadow of the Mournfang Mountains, a lone figure stood before a circle of stone pillars, his breath misting in the cold morning air. He was shirtless, barefoot, and bleeding from the fists — fists that had pounded stone for the last hour without rest.
This was not penance. It was training.
His name was Darius, though no one here called him that. In the monastery of Stone Hollow, where warrior-monks raised him since boyhood, names were earned, not given. Most simply called him Ash — not out of affection, but memory.
He'd been found in the ashes of a burning village, a toddler barely breathing, the only survivor. Wrapped in silk marked with the royal seal.
Only the Grandmaster had seen it. And only once.
It was burned before anyone else could. Including the boy.
"Your stance is broken."
The voice cut through the wind like a sword. Deep, cold, unimpressed.
Darius didn't turn. He lowered his bruised fists and exhaled slowly. "I held it longer than yesterday."
"Yesterday, you were weak. Today, you are just slower to admit it." The speaker stepped forward — Master Kael, the oldest of the monks. Blind in one eye, limp in one leg, yet faster than most warriors half his age.
Kael circled Darius like a vulture.
"The stone does not yield," he said, tapping one of the pillars. "And neither must you. But your anger weakens your strikes. You fight the stone. You do not become it."
Darius said nothing.
Kael leaned closer. "What do you see when you close your eyes?"
Darius didn't want to answer. But he knew Kael wouldn't leave until he did.
"Fire," he muttered.
"And?"
Darius clenched his jaw. "A throne. Broken. Covered in ash."
Kael nodded once. "It is time."
Darius blinked. "Time for what?"
Kael turned and began walking toward the monastery. "To leave."
Inside the monastery, silence reigned. It always did.
The monks of Stone Hollow spoke rarely, trained daily, and worshipped no gods — only the discipline of the body and the silence of the soul. They were warriors of balance. But even here, legends crept through cracks in the stone.
Legends of the Crownshard, the ancient artifact that once gave the Kyrian kings their power. A piece of a god's essence, shattered and forged into a crown. It was said to whisper to those of royal blood. And drive mad any pretender who dared wear it.
Darius had never seen the Crownshard. He didn't even know if it existed.
What he did know was this: every time he bled, the blood came brighter than it should. And every time he dreamed, he saw a golden throne turning black.
That night, Kael summoned him to the highest tower.
There, by a fire that burned without smoke, the old monk sat cross-legged. On the table beside him lay a rolled parchment, sealed with wax and marked with a symbol Darius had never seen.
It wasn't Kyrian. It was older.
"I trained you harder than the others," Kael said. "Not out of cruelty. But because of what you carry."
Darius frowned. "What do I carry?"
Kael reached for the parchment and held it out. "Your fate."
Darius hesitated, then took the scroll and broke the seal.
Inside was a map.
Not just of Kyros — but the entire continent. Cities long thought ruined were marked. Hidden passes through cursed mountains. Symbols etched in gold near ancient ruins. At the center of the map, circled in red, was a place Darius had never heard of:
Varynth Keep.
"What is this?"
Kael's eye gleamed. "The last outpost loyal to your blood. And the place where your father's final orders were sent, on the day the crown fell."
Darius stared at him.
"You knew my father?"
Kael didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand and removed a ring from his finger.
It was plain iron — except for the gem embedded in its center. A small, jagged shard. Black as obsidian. Glowing faintly with red fire beneath its surface.
Darius's heart pounded.
It whispered.
"You feel it, don't you?" Kael said. "It calls to your blood."
Darius swallowed hard. "What is it?"
"The last piece of the Crownshard not stolen by the invaders. The rest is in the hands of the High King of Lirath, the man who betrayed your family."
Darius's fists clenched.
Kael held the shard out.
"This ring is your birthright. But it will not give you a kingdom. It will give you a curse. One you must earn the right to carry."
Darius took the ring — and the whispers grew louder.
That night, he could not sleep.
He sat by the monastery cliff, the shard glowing faintly on his finger. He stared at the stars above — the same stars that once watched over a kingdom that no longer existed.
He had no army. No allies. No name.
But in the distance, smoke rose from a southern valley. And he knew, somehow, they were searching for him.
The bloodline was not forgotten. It was being hunted.
And now, it would fight back.
Four Days Later – The Wilds of Namarra
The cold came sharp as knives at this elevation. Darius moved swiftly through the pines, each breath forming clouds that disappeared into the dawn. He had left the monastery before first light, nothing but a pack on his back, a monk's blade on his hip, and the ring on his finger.
The world beyond the stone walls was louder. Cruder. More dangerous.
He welcomed it.
He had not yet reached Varynth Keep — it lay hundreds of leagues south — but even in these remote stretches, the war was alive. Burned farmhouses. Smoke trails on the horizon. Families on the run. And more than once, Darius had spotted riders in black armor — hunting someone.
He'd been careful. But not careful enough.
It began with a whistle.
High. Shrill. Then came the thunk of an arrow striking bark inches from his neck.
Darius dove behind a mossy boulder, hand gripping his blade. Another arrow missed, then another — three, maybe four attackers. Closing fast.
He counted steps.
Waited.
Then burst from cover.
The first man came from his left — rough armor, a twin-bladed axe. Darius ducked the swing and slammed his fist into the man's throat, spinning and kicking his knee sideways until bone crunched.
The second attacker wasn't so reckless. She wore a hood, eyes cold, short sword drawn.
"You're quick," she said.
"I'm in a hurry."
"Then you'll die tired."
She lunged.
Their blades clashed once, twice, three times. She was trained — better than any bandit. Darius recognized the stance. Military. Lirathi.
One of the king's dogs.
He pivoted, dropping to one knee, and swept her legs. As she hit the ground, he drove the hilt of his blade into her temple.
Two more stepped from the trees.
Before they spoke, he lifted his hand — the ring glinting in the weak light.
They froze.
The shard's glow was faint… but it was real.
"You see it," Darius said. "You know what it is."
The taller of the two, a bearded man in a crimson cloak, stared with wide eyes.
"Impossible."
"Run," Darius growled.
They did.
That Night
He made camp in a cave near a stream. His wounds were shallow, but the encounter had left his heart racing. Not from fear — but from recognition.
They knew the ring. The shard.
And if they knew it… so did others.
Kael's words rang in his mind:
"The ring is a curse. One you must earn the right to carry."
He looked at the shard, and for the first time, he listened.
It whispered not in words, but feelings. Hunger. Pain. Memory.
And then — without warning — vision.
Long Ago – The Fall of Kyros (A Vision)
Flames consumed the palace. Screams echoed through the obsidian halls of the Skyspire Citadel. Darius — but not Darius — saw it through borrowed eyes. A man's eyes. A king's.
King Rovan Kyros fought through corridors, blood on his blade, his crown missing. Beside him, a woman — dark-haired, fierce — carrying a baby wrapped in silk.
"Our son—" she shouted.
"No time!" Rovan roared. "Take him and run!"
The doors behind them shattered as armored invaders burst through — cloaked in the black and red of House Lirath.
Rovan turned.
He did not run.
He charged.
The vision snapped like a thread.
Darius fell to his knees, heart hammering. Sweat dripped from his skin despite the cold.
He stared at the shard.
That baby in the vision… That woman…
His mother.
His father.
The truth slammed into him like a warhammer:
He was Darius Kyros.
The last son of a murdered king.
And the bastard no longer.
Three Days Later – Varynth Keep
He saw the fortress from the cliffs above — and he nearly wept.
It was smaller than the old Kyrian castles, but still proud. Walls of stormstone, banners bearing the sigil of the shattered crown. Guards patrolled its towers — and when they spotted him, crossbows were raised instantly.
"I seek Lord Varyn," Darius shouted.
A pause. Then:
"Name yourself."
He lifted his hand, showing the shard. "Darius Kyros. Son of the Shattered Crown."
A moment of silence.
Then came the order: "Open the gates."
Inside Varynth Keep
The throne room was modest, lit by braziers and draped in faded blue banners. Lord Varyn stood tall and gray-bearded, sword at his hip, eyes wary.
"You expect me to believe you are the king's son?"
Darius removed his ring and handed it over.
Varyn stared at it for a long time. Then looked up.
"I was there the night your father died. I saw this shard fused into his hand as he burned. No one could fake this."
He stepped forward, and to Darius's surprise — knelt.
"My king."
Darius felt cold. Heavy. Unready.
"I'm no king," he said.
"Not yet," Varyn replied. "But war is coming. The High King grows bold. Word of your survival will spread — and men will rally."
"To a bastard?"
"To a flame they thought extinguished."
Final Scene – The Crown That Waits
That night, Varyn led Darius to the deepest vault in the keep. There, beneath stone and silence, lay a box made of blackwood.
Inside… nothing.
But Darius could feel it.
The presence.
The pull.
"Where is it?" he asked.
Varyn shook his head. "The crown was broken. The pieces scattered. You carry one. The High King another. The last… no one knows."
Darius touched the shard.
The whispers grew louder.
He understood now.
The crown was not dead.
It was waiting.
And so was the war.