Aetheris — an expansive realm divided into seven great regions, each bound to one of the mythical crystals that once formed the Crown of Life.
The land itself breathes with ancient power — its mountains hum with the echoes of gods, its rivers shimmer with fragments of celestial light. Every ruin whispers a legend. Every city stands upon prophecy's bones.
Kingdoms rise and crumble according to the will of fate.
At the heart of the realm stands Osric, the first kingdom blessed by the Seven Celestial Gods — the creators of the Crown itself.
From Caelumspire Castle, a towering fortress of ivory and gold that overlooks vast, fertile lands, the royal family has ruled for generations.
Yet beneath its sacred walls lingers a curse — whispers of betrayal, of a prophecy that foretold Osric's destruction through the blood of its own heirs.
Across the seven regions lie the resting places of the mythical crystals — the Temple of Eternal Flames, the Underworld Abyss, the Oceanic Depths, the Celestial City of Light, the Skyward Spire, the Cavern of Roots, and the Frozen Crown.
Each holds the breath of its divine creator — the remnants of the Seven Gods who once walked among mortals.
Long ago, before the gods' ascension, they wielded these crystals to shape creation itself. But when they left the mortal plane, their gifts became both blessing and curse.
The Crown of Life, forged to unite divine will and mortal strength, instead sowed greed, envy, and ruin.
In despair, the Heavenly Lord sought to destroy it, fearing that mortals would turn its light toward darkness. Yet the shadows endured, waiting for another hand — another heir — to awaken their power again.
And now, history repeats itself.
---
The battlefield outside Caelumspire was a sea of devastation.
Smoke curled into the heavens, blackening the sky; the once-green plains had turned to ash and molten stone.
The Crown of Life had shattered. Its fragments scattered like fallen stars across the land.
Armies lay in ruin. The clash of gods and mortals had ended — leaving only silence and the bitter scent of death.
Two figures remained amid the wreckage: Hilda, Queen of Osric, and her brother, Prince Gerald.
Their armor was broken, their bodies bloodied. Hilda's form barely clung to life, her radiant aura dimmed, her crown reduced to dust.
Gerald staggered forward, every breath a battle. His eyes searched desperately through the smoke until they found her — lying still, her golden hair matted with blood, her eyes open and lifeless.
"Hilda!" His voice cracked through the emptiness. "Hilda!"
He dropped to his knees beside her. For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence between them was colder than any blade.
Then, softly, almost in disbelief, he whispered, "She's dead…"
The words trembled, caught between grief and triumph.
He reached out, closing her eyes with blood-stained fingers. "You brought this upon yourself," he murmured.
But even as he spoke, there was no satisfaction in his tone — only exhaustion. The thrill of victory was gone. The price of power had stripped him hollow.
He looked around at the desolation — at the shattered land that once sang with divine life.
"The crown…" he muttered bitterly. "Gone. My one chance… gone."
His voice faltered as tears slid silently down his cheeks. "Our father caused this," he said to no one. "He should never have chosen you."
Then, gathering what strength remained, Gerald turned and limped away — heading toward the western cliffs of Osric, where the entrance to the Dark Dungeon lay hidden beneath the mountain's roots.
---
Far from the battlefield, Leofric and Edith carried the unconscious Princess Olivia northward through moonlit forests.
The journey was harsh, yet the stars seemed to guide them, weaving light through the branches like a divine path.
By dawn, they reached Sylvan Reach — a tranquil forest known among travelers as Heart's Rest, where silver-leaved trees shimmered and rivers flowed like melted glass.
Here, for the first time, silence did not bring fear. The child would be safe — for now.
But in the depths below Osric, peace was a foreign word.
---
The Dark Dungeon pulsed with life — a terrible, ancient rhythm that echoed through its black stone halls.
Chains clinked in the distance; shadows breathed; the air reeked of ash and decay.
At the far end of the abyss stood a towering throne of obsidian and bone, upon which sat a being shrouded in eternal night — the Devil Lord, bound yet conscious, his crimson eyes glowing beneath his hood.
Gerald knelt before him, trembling.
"So…" The Devil Lord's voice rolled like thunder through the dungeon. "You mean to tell me… you lost all my armies?"
The words slithered through the air, heavy and sharp. The temperature rose; the walls themselves seemed to quake in fear.
Gerald bowed his head lower. Sweat rolled down his temples.
"I didn't destroy them!" he cried. "It was my sister! She annihilated everything — the armies, the generals, the crown itself! I only wanted the throne — I only wanted what was mine!"
The Devil Lord paused mid-step. His head tilted slightly, shadows deepening around him.
"The… Crown of Life?" His voice grew quiet, almost amused. "So, the relic still existed after all…"
Gerald hesitated. "You know of it?"
A low laugh rumbled through the darkness. "I forged the shadow that haunts it."
Gerald's breath hitched. "Centuries ago," he began quickly, "when King Geralt — my ancestor — was still a prince, he found an ancient map left by the God of Flames. It revealed the locations of the seven mythical crystals that could defy heaven's will.
He gathered them and created the Crown of Life — a crown that made him Overlord of all Aetheris. But now it's gone, destroyed in battle. My sister was chosen to inherit it — not me!"
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then the Devil Lord leaned back, laughter spilling from his lips like smoke.
"Ah… what irony. The gods' chosen bloodline brings me my freedom."
Gerald's eyes flickered with sudden hope. "Then… you'll forgive my failure, my lord? I can serve you still. I can craft you a vessel strong enough to walk among mortals again."
The Devil Lord chuckled — low, cold, unhurried. "No need," he whispered. "I already have one."
Before Gerald could react, a tendril of black flame burst from the throne, coiling around his body like a serpent.
He screamed — the sound raw, inhuman. The shadows devoured him, fusing light and darkness, flesh and spirit.
Two voices cried out in unison — one mortal, one eternal.
Then silence.
The Devil Lord opened his eyes — crimson, burning, alive.
"Rise, Gerald of Osric," he said with a wicked smile. "You are mine now."
The realm shuddered as darkness returned to the mortal plane.
And thus began the second age of shadow — the Age of the Broken Crown.