*multiple kingdoms, noble houses, political tension, ancient dragons, and the sense that something old is waking. It's original rather than set in that universe. The bells of Blackspire Keep rang thirteen times. Not for a wedding.

Not for a coronation.

For a king's death.

Across the continent of Eryndor, ravens erupted from towers carrying sealed messages to every kingdom and noble house. The High King Aldren Valecourt had died without naming an heir. By dawn, every lord and lady would claim they had known it was coming. By dusk, half of them would already be preparing for war.

The realm was divided into seven great kingdoms, each bound to the Crown by old oaths that suddenly felt far less permanent.

In the frostbound north, House Frostmere ruled over endless forests and snow-covered mountains where warriors were said to laugh at winter itself.

To the west, House Ashbourne controlled the richest gold mines in the realm, their wealth buying as many swords as loyalty.

The eastern coast belonged to House Tidecrest, masters of the largest fleet ever built, whose banners flew wherever the sea touched land.

The southern kingdoms flourished with vineyards, deserts, and fertile plains, where alliances were sealed with smiles that rarely reached the eyes.

And beyond them all lay the ruined volcanic islands known as the Ember Reaches.

Once...

Dragons had lived there.

Most believed the last dragon died over a century ago. Children still heard stories around fireplaces, but no one truly believed them anymore.

Until three nights ago.

Fishermen claimed they saw something enormous blotting out the moon.

A shepherd found an entire hillside scorched to glass.

And somewhere beneath the smoking peaks of the Ember Reaches...

...a large beast moved somehow unnoticeable for a too long of a time

The Small Council gathered in silence around the empty throne. Outside, nobles arrived with armies disguised as escorts.

Old rivalries resurfaced.

Marriage proposals became political weapons.

Assassins were paid in advance.

Some sought the throne.

Others sought revenge.

A few sought only survival.

None yet realized the greatest threat wasn't sitting in any castle.

The year is 842 After the Founding. The High King is dead.

The throne is empty.

And every choice from this moment onward may decide who wears the crown... or whether there will be a kingdom left to rule at all.*