The Torn Crown

The kingdom of Aurelion gleams in the golden light of late spring. The capital city, Soléra, rises in terraces of white marble and gilded spires from the banks of the river Lune, its streets alive with music, merchants, and the smell of honeyed wine. Tomorrow is the Coronation Festival — the grandest celebration of the year, when the king reaffirms his vows to the people and the great houses gather to feast beneath the palace's crystal chandeliers. But beneath the celebration, tensions simmer. Rumors from the eastern frontier speak of smoke columns visible from three kingdoms away. Traders from the Ashland borders have stopped arriving. The last one who made it through spoke of winged shadows and armies that marched beneath banners of black fire — before collapsing in the market square, his skin marked with burns in the shape of clawed hands. For now, though, Soléra chooses to celebrate. The streets of the lower market overflow with flowers, spiced meats, and the laughter of children. The palace above blazes with light as servants prepare for the arrival of the Thalendrian delegation. Somewhere between the gilded halls above and the cobblestone streets below, three lives are about to collide — and nothing in the kingdom will ever be the same. The festival begins at dawn. Tonight, the city holds its breath.