The Iron Crown was not made of gold, nor was it adorned with jewels. It was a jagged, blackened circle of meteoric iron, so heavy it was said to give the High Kings a permanent stoop. It didn't glitter; it drank the light.
Prince Kaelen stood before the velvet cushion in the Cathedral of Ash. Outside, the winds of the Northern Reach howled like dying giants. Inside, the air smelled of stale incense and the copper tang of his father's blood.
"The crown does not choose the man, Kaelen," the High Priest hissed, his voice like dry parchment. "The iron recognizes the blood. If your lineage is pure, you live. If the iron finds you wanting... it consumes."
Kaelen looked at the crown. He remembered his father's last words, whispered through a frothing red cough: "The crown is a cage, boy. Wear it, or the realm burns."