The Crown of Valdris

Prologue

The High King is dead, and with him dies the last thread holding Valdris together. Three nights ago, during the Feast of Crowns, an assassin's blade found its mark in the royal chamber. By dawn, the kingdom had fractured. The Council of Lords convened in emergency session, but unity crumbled within hours. The Northern Lords demand a warrior-king. The Merchant Consortium whispers of profitable compromise. The Arcane Collegium speaks of sorcery and ancient threats. The Church of the Eternal Flame insists on divine sanction. And somewhere in the chaos, agents of each faction comb the kingdom, searching for the Crown of Starlight—the sacred relic that vanished from the royal vault the very night of the assassination. But the Crown is more than a symbol. It is a seal. And those who know the old truths understand that the kingdom's stability rests not on politics or blood, but on magic far older than any throne. Whispers speak of dark cults, corrupted mages, and forces gathering in shadow. The realm has one lunar cycle before the seal weakens beyond repair. Before something imprisoned beneath Valdris's foundations begins to wake. In taverns and temples, on lonely roads and in fortress halls, those with courage—or desperation—answer the call. The Crown must be found. The truth must be uncovered. And a choice must be made that will determine not merely who sits upon the throne, but whether Valdris survives the night.