Legends whisper that the Crown of Life does not serve men—it chooses them.
Forged in the dawn by the Seven Gods, it shines only for a heart uncorrupted. Some say its light burns lies into truth; others, that it listens to the soul itself.
For generations, it crowned the kings of Osric, passing from father to son like a vow of eternity.
Until the night destiny broke its pattern.
Queen Eadgyth screamed through storm and thunder, and two cries echoed instead of one. A boy. A girl.
The kingdom rejoiced… then whispered.
Two heirs meant divided blood. Divided fate. Divided crown.
---
In the Great Hall, torches bent toward the sacred crown hovering above the throne, its white flame wavering as though in doubt.
King Godric's voice rumbled through the chamber.
"We will watch them," he said. "And the one who proves worthy shall rule."
A simple decree, yet it carved a silent wall between the twins.
---
Years turned.
Prince Gerald grew proud and restless, a blade that longed for war.
Princess Hilda, by contrast, carried calm like sunlight in her hands. Even the priests swore the Crown glowed warmer when she passed.
At the choosing ceremony, incense thickened the air. King Godric's hand rested on Gerald's shoulder—but his gaze lingered on Hilda.
"The crown shall rest upon her head."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Gerald's eyes burned with disbelief.
That moment split more than a kingdom—it cracked a brother's soul.
---
When the king's body turned to dust, Queen Hilda ascended the throne.
But peace was a fragile dream.
Rumors coiled through Osric's streets like snakes.
"A woman's heart is too soft to rule."
"The gods are displeased."
And in shadowed corridors, Gerald's whisper became their voice.
---
Then came a dawn unlike any other.
Queen Hilda woke to stillness—and the faint flutter of life beneath her hand.
She had never known a man, yet her womb stirred.
"How?" she whispered.
The royal physician knelt, trembling.
"Your Majesty… this is no mortal doing."
But secrets in a palace rot quickly.
By nightfall, scandal devoured the realm.
"She lies!"
"She has sinned against the crown!"
"A curse for defying the gods!"
And Gerald, lurking among the doubters, fed their fear like fire.
"Would you trust a queen who cannot guard her honor?" he whispered. "Osric needs strength, not softness."
---
Six winters later, a child was born—Princess Olivia, her eyes gleaming like dawn through mist.
Her laughter rebuilt what fear had broken. The Queen looked upon her and vowed,
"No darkness shall touch you, my child… nor the crown you will one day bear."
But darkness was already walking.
---
Far beyond the palace walls, Gerald's hunger had outgrown jealousy.
He journeyed to the Devil's Dungeon, where the air reeked of ash and the stones moaned with trapped souls.
A figure sat upon a throne of bones—its voice a growl of eternity.
"Who dares disturb my slumber?"
Gerald knelt. "My lord… I seek power."
"I have no servants," the creature said. "But I may make one."
Gerald lifted his head, lips curling.
"Then make me yours. In return, I'll offer a mortal soul."
The abyss trembled. Eyes of crimson flame opened in the dark.
"So be it."
Darkness rose like a tide and wrapped Gerald whole. His screams became laughter as mortal veins turned to shadow.
When he emerged, five Dark Lords bowed behind him. Fifty knights of ash followed. And in their wake came legions—souls damned by choice, bound by his will.
---
That night, the earth screamed.
Fire poured from the skies.
In the royal hall, Queen Hilda clutched her daughter close as Leofric, her loyal guard, burst through the doors.
"My Queen!" he gasped. "Prince Gerald has raised the dark armies—they march for Osric!"
The Queen's eyes flared with divine light. Power surged through her, ancient and radiant.
"So it begins," she whispered. "The crown will test us once more."