Thrones of Shadow

Prologue: The Fire Beneath the Throne There was once a kingdom built on ash, crowned not by blood, but by betrayal. In the beginning, Varelis was nothing but a scar carved into the continent. A land of orphans, deserters, and forgotten warriors who had no name, no gods, and no king. They built their homes from the bones of fallen empires, lit their hearths with the dying embers of fallen crowns. And from that desolation, rose the first ruler: Queen Seraphina the Flamebound, a woman who tamed wild magic with nothing but grief and fury. They say her crown burned her flesh the moment it touched her brow. She created the Flame Pact, bound the bloodlines to fire and oath, and forged an empire that rivaled the heavens. Her name became legend. Her rule, divine. But legends rot, and empires forget. What Seraphina built in fire, time buried in shadow. The magic dwindled. The blood thinned. And Varelis, once the beacon of power, fractured into something colder, darker—a place where power whispered through poisoned goblets, and crowns were stolen in the dark. It is in this kingdom of secrets that two children were born. One, a boy born in the heart of the royal city, raised among blades and blackmail. He learned early that love was weakness, that a crown meant nothing without fear to back it. His name was Lucien. The bastard of a dying king, the shadow prince who would one day rule Varelis not with gold or prophecy, but with a silent hand soaked in blood. The other, a girl born far away, in the quiet arms of a dying woman. She had no name. Only flame. The midwife claimed she saw fire in the babe’s breath—an omen. So the child was hidden. Buried in a life not meant for her. But fate has sharp teeth, and some flames are too wild to smother. Her name would come later. Elara. And with it, everything she had been denied. They grew in different worlds. Lucien in palaces carved of marble and bone, where secrets were taught like scripture. Elara in cottages and fields, where the wind tasted like freedom and the stars told stories no crown could touch. They should have never met. But fate is not fair. Nor is it kind. And while they lived, the kingdom rotted. Beneath the polished stones of the capital, crime ruled with velvet gloves. The aristocracy played games with lives, and those with magic were either enslaved, exiled, or worse. The old flame—the divine power Seraphina wielded—was outlawed, its users hunted down and burned like the heretics the church feared. But not all embers die. Some slumber. Waiting. The first sign came in the western provinces. A noble house slaughtered, their banner set aflame not with oil, but with white fire that danced without smoke. The second sign came with a child found wandering a battlefield untouched by arrow or sword, but ringed in scorched earth. The third, and final sign, came when the sacred vault beneath the royal chapel—sealed for over two hundred years—cracked open on its own. The kingdom did not understand it yet. But the flame had returned. And it came not to restore. But to burn. --- In a private chamber above the chapel of the old gods, a man in black stood before a window, watching storm clouds roll over Varelis. His eyes were sharp, the color of winter steel. Scars lined his neck, reminders of oaths broken long ago. He held a letter in his hand. The wax seal had been broken. The contents read only three words: She is alive. Lucien read the words again, slower this time, as if they might change. They didn’t. The past he had buried with blood and silence had risen. Behind him, the fire crackled. The shadows on the wall twisted. He did not move. "Summon the court," he said at last. "And find her." --- Far beyond the capital, in the quiet fog of the Outer Vale, Elara wiped soot from her hands and stared at the dying hearth. The cottage was cold tonight. Colder than usual. She pulled her shawl tighter and moved to close the shutters. The sky was burning. A streak of flame crossed the stars, painting fire across the heavens. A bad omen, the old woman would have said. But she was gone now. All that remained was silence, smoke, and the strange echo in Elara's bones—a hum she had felt since morning. She didn’t know it yet. But the throne was calling. And her blood, once denied, had begun to remember its flame. --- Thus begins the tale of the girl who would awaken the fire— And the boy who would dare to crown it.