Ep 2: Echoes of the Throne

Shadows Over the North:

The icy winds of the northern highlands sweep through the halls of Frosthold, the ancestral seat of House Valenvar. The towering fortress stands as a beacon of strength amidst the snow-covered cliffs, its stone walls etched with sigils of wolves and ice.

Inside, Selyne Valenvar huddles by a crackling hearth. Her hands clutch a silver pendant shaped like a wolf’s head, a gift from her late mother. Her father, Lord Hadric Valenvar, paces the room, his face grim.

*“We cannot wait any longer*,” Hadric says, breaking the silence. His voice carries the weight of loss and urgency. “The council is broken. The southern houses will use Kaelion’s death as an excuse to seize power. We must secure our borders before they bring their fire to our doorstep.”

Selyne looks up, her emerald eyes gleaming with determination. “But who killed the High King, Father? The assassin didn’t come from the south. You saw the blade—it was forged in shadow, not steel.”

Hadric’s expression darkens. “Dark magic has no allegiance, child. It corrupts all it touches. But if we wait for answers, we risk losing everything. Prepare yourself, Selyne. The time for questions is over. The time for survival has begun.”

...****************...

Zerath’s Fury:

Far to the south, in the fiery deserts of Drakfyr, Zerath Drakfyr stands before his gathered warriors. The meeting takes place in the Hall of Flames, a cavernous chamber illuminated by rivers of molten lava. The air is suffused with heat, the walls adorned with the skulls of fallen dragons.

*“Kaelion’s death is a gift to us*,” Zerath declares, his voice echoing against the stone walls. “The throne is no longer shackled to weakness. Eryndor needs strength, and we are strength incarnate.”

The warriors roar in approval, their fists pounding against their dragon-scale armor.

But not all are convinced. **Kael Drakfyr, **Zerath’s younger half-brother, steps forward. His golden eyes reflect both courage and caution. “Strength without unity is chaos, Zerath. If we march north now, we’ll face resistance from every house. Is that what you want?”

Zerath’s gaze hardens. “What I want, Kael, is to take what is ours. The throne belongs to Drakfyr. And if the others resist, they will burn.”

Kael doesn’t back down. “You’re blinded by ambition. The assassin wasn’t one of us. Whoever killed Kaelion is still out there, watching us tear ourselves apart.”

Zerath steps closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over Kael. “And you, little brother, would have us sit idle while the others grow stronger? No. If you lack the stomach for war, stay behind. But do not question my command.”

Kael clenches his fists but says nothing. As Zerath dismisses the gathering, Kael glances at the dragon sigil on the walls, a silent vow forming in his mind: I won’t let you destroy what remains of this realm.

...****************...

The Crow’s Flight:

In a forest shrouded in mist, a lone figure sprints through the underbrush. The Crow, a young woman cloaked in black feathers, clutches a leather satchel to her chest. Her breath comes in short gasps as she glances over her shoulder, her sharp eyes scanning for pursuers.

Behind her, the sound of hooves grows louder. A group of mercenaries crashes through the trees, their leader shouting, “Find her! The satchel must not leave the forest!”

The Crow skids to a stop at the edge of a cliff. Below, a roaring river churns against jagged rocks. She has no choice. With a deep breath, she leaps, the satchel held tightly against her body.

The mercenaries stop at the edge, cursing as they watch her disappear into the mist. Their leader, a scarred man with a blackened spear, snarls. “She won’t get far. The Sovereign demands that satchel. Spread out and search the riverbanks!”

Far below, The Crow surfaces, gasping for air. She clings to a piece of driftwood, her satchel still secure. Her thoughts race: They can’t have it. If they find this... the realm will fall.

...****************...

The Gathering Storm:

Back in Veltharion, the ruins of the palace smolder under a gray sky. The Throne of Ashes remains untouched, its faint embers glowing like dying stars.

In the shadows of the city, a hooded figure moves silently through the rubble. Archmagister Nael Caerys studies the throne from a distance, his eyes narrowed. He murmurs to himself:

“The prophecy is unfolding. The assassin’s blade has struck true, but the game has only begun. The Sovereign’s return is inevitable.”

From the shadows, another voice emerges—a soft, mocking tone. “And what will you do, old man? Stand by and watch the world burn?”

Nael turns to see a cloaked figure with piercing silver eyes. He smiles faintly. “I will do what I must. And so will you, Seraphine.”

The cloaked figure steps closer, revealing a dagger glinting at her hip. “Then let us begin. The realm won’t save itself.”

...****************...

As night falls across Eryndor, the pieces move into place. Selyne prepares to defend her homeland, Zerath rallies his forces, Kael struggles with his brother’s ambitions, The Crow evades her pursuers, and Nael Caerys watches from the shadows.

High above, a single crow circles the ruins of Veltharion, its caw piercing the silence. In the depths of the ruined palace, the faint whispers of the Dark Sovereign grow louder.

"The Throne is mine. And with it, the world will kneel."

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