The rain had been falling since dawn.
It drummed against the slate roofs of the palace, traced silver trails down the carved gargoyle faces, and pooled into black, rippling mirrors along the courtyard stones. The scent of wet earth and the sea clung to the air, heavy and sharp.
Aria stood alone beneath the archway, the hood of her cloak pushed back, her hair damp and clinging to her cheeks. She had woken that morning expecting another day of quiet council meetings and endless scrolls of trade agreements.
Instead, she was staring at a thing that should not exist.
It sat on a velvet cloth inside an open chest, carried in by trembling guards.
A crown — though to call it a crown was almost an insult to its craftsmanship. It was forged from gold so bright it seemed alive, yet its structure was unlike any coronet she had ever seen. Ten tiny thrones, each no larger than a coin, formed its circlet. Every throne was different — some jagged like shards of ice, some carved in swirling vines, some sharp and angular like the teeth of a beast. And from each one came its own light: frost-blue, ember-red, deep-sea green, shadow-black, sun-gold, storm-silver, molten copper, jungle-emerald, pale bone-white, and a faint violet glow that seemed to hum in her bones.
It was beautiful. It was terrible. It was wrong.
The High Priest, draped in silver robes, stood beside her. His voice was low, as though speaking too loudly might draw something unwanted into the room.
"Your Majesty… this is no gift. This is a summons."
Aria's gaze did not leave the crown.
"From who?"
The Priest hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the great hall doors as if expecting them to burst open.
"From the Ten Kings."
Her breath caught.
"That's not possible."
"And yet," the Priest murmured, "it is here."
Legends in Blood and Ash
The Ten Kings.
Even their name was a warning whispered in childhood bedtime stories. Her nursemaid used to hush her cries with tales of them — not because the stories were comforting, but because fear kept her quiet.
Ten rulers from ten realms that touched no borders — each too dangerous to stand side by side without spilling blood.
There was the King of the Frostlands, whose breath could freeze a man's heart mid-beat.
The Desert King, who ruled shifting sands that swallowed entire armies.
The Sky King, who rode storms like steeds.
The Shadow King, whose assassins could kill a man before his shadow knew he was gone.
The Jungle King, crowned with vines that dripped venom.
The Sea King, sovereign of waters deeper than fear.
The Fire King, whose anger could turn stone to glass.
The Sun King, said to be born of light itself.
The Bone King, who claimed dominion over death.
And the Storm King, wild and untamed as thunder.
They were the destroyers in the histories. The reason some maps ended in blank spaces marked Here Be Kings. They did not share land, language, or law. And they certainly did not share queens.
Council in Chaos
By the time the crown was carried into the great hall, word had spread. Her council chamber was packed — lords in damp cloaks, ladies clutching jeweled fans, generals smelling faintly of wet steel.
Lord Veyren, the eldest of her advisors, slammed his palm against the table.
"It is a trap. Ten kings do not call in peace. If this crown is worn, it will bind you — and through you, our kingdom — to every one of them."
Lady Sira, sharp-eyed and always too calm, leaned forward.
"Perhaps that is the point. A united rule among the ten could end centuries of war."
"Or start a new one," Veyren growled.
Aria let them speak, though her own thoughts twisted darkly. What frightened her most was not the threat of war… it was the quiet pull in her chest every time she looked at the crown.
It was as if the thrones were not just carved gold, but seats waiting to be filled — each one watching her, waiting for her to choose.
The First Claim
By nightfall, the first messenger arrived.
The gates clanged open to admit a rider clad in white armor crusted with frost, his steed steaming in the damp air. He dismounted slowly, his boots splashing in the puddles. His eyes, pale as winter skies, found her throne, and without hesitation, he went to one knee.
"My king bids you to come," he said, his voice crisp and cold. "He claims the crown belongs to his queen — and that queen is you."
Aria's fingers curled against the carved wood of her throne.
"And if I refuse?"
A faint smile ghosted the man's lips.
"Then my king will come for you himself. And he does not come alone."
Before she could respond, the great hall doors opened again.
A second messenger entered — this one in desert leathers, his skin sun-burnished, his cloak still dusted with fine gold sand despite the rain. His eyes were molten amber. He knelt without waiting for permission.
"The Desert King sends word. You are to be brought to his city. He will take you as his queen."
Her pulse quickened. Two kings. Two claims. And the night had barely begun.
Ten Messengers in the Rain
By midnight, there were ten messengers standing in her hall.
Each one looked as if they had stepped out of a legend: a man with skin like polished onyx and hair woven with flowers that glowed faintly; another whose armor bore scorch marks as if kissed by lightning; another whose scent carried the salt and wildness of the sea.
Each one swore the same thing — that their king would claim her, or burn the world to ash trying.
The court murmured in panic. Some lords whispered of alliances, others of war. Aria said nothing. Her eyes kept returning to the crown. The ten thrones glowed brighter now, their lights pulsing as though in answer to the messengers' voices.
The High Priest leaned close.
"This is not mere politics, Your Majesty. The crown chooses. And if you wear it…"
"If I wear it?" she pressed.
"You will belong to them all. Body. Soul. Kingdom."
Storm Over the Sea
She dismissed the court at last, her voice calm despite the thundering in her veins. The messengers did not leave. They stood like statues in the shadowed hall, watching her as she walked away.
In the quiet of her chambers, Aria stared out at the storm-lashed sea. Somewhere beyond those black waters, ten kings had risen from their thrones and set their eyes on her.
She had never asked for a crown. She had never asked for them.
Yet the crown whispered still, its lights flickering in the corner of her vision even when she turned away. She could almost hear voices in the hum — ten voices, low and deep, promising love, power, ruin.
A Shadow's Warning
A knock sounded at her door.
Her hand tightened on the dagger hidden in her gown.
"Enter."
The door opened, and one of the messengers stepped inside — not the Frostlands rider, nor the desert emissary, but a man cloaked in shadow, his face hidden by a hood.
When he spoke, his voice was a velvet rasp.
"My king bids me to warn you, Queen of None. The others will come in daylight. He will come in darkness."
Before she could demand his meaning, he was gone.
And Aria knew — sleep would not find her that night.