Chapter 1 : Indrayan

  Eighteen years had passed since the cataclysm of the Third Great War, a conflict so ruinous it shattered the world’s mightiest nations. The earth lay scarred, its rivers poisoned, its fields barren. Trust in leaders crumbled; democracy, once a beacon, faltered under the weight of chaos. From the ashes, an ancient order rose—monarchy, forged not by consent but by steel and will. Seven Great Empires emerged, their rulers uniting fractured lands with brute strength, heedless of the people’s voice.

  In the continent of Aelrio, where fertile valleys defied the war’s desolation, the Empire of Indrayan flourished. Its founder, Rudra Vorn, once Commander-in-Chief of a fallen nation, had carved this realm with an army of a hundred thousand. Proclaiming himself Emperor, he united the south and central reaches of Aelrio, his banner—an elephant’s head wrought in gold—flying over lands reborn.

  Miss Anna closed the leather-bound tome, her voice fading into the stillness of the classroom. The children, rapt in the tale, blinked as if waking from a dream.

  “Was it long ago, Miss Anna?” piped a girl, her braid swinging as she leaned forward.

  Anna smiled, her eyes crinkling. “Eighteen years, my dear, since His Majesty forged this empire.”

  “How many years?” another child blurted, kicking his chair.

  “Eighteen,” Anna repeated patiently. “A long time, but not so long that we forget.”

  “Is the Emperor old?” a boy asked, wide-eyed.

  “He is seasoned, yes,” Anna said, her tone reverent. “But let us pray he rules many years yet, bringing prosperity to Indrayan.” She clapped her hands. “Enough questions. History is done for today. Off with you!”

  The children erupted into chatter, grabbing their satchels with gleeful smiles. They spilled out of the room, their laughter echoing down the stone corridors of Crownhold’s lower halls. Anna waved as the last child vanished, then gathered her belongings, her shadow lingering briefly on the sunlit wall before she, too, departed.

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  High above, on the balcony of the Hall of Governance, a man stood silhouetted against the amber sky. Darius Faulkner, Governor of the Empire and one of thirteen, was lean, his small beard framing a pale face that masked sharp ambition. He waved to the visitors approaching the gate, his smile practiced, betraying nothing. The Yearly Crown Summit drew near, and Crownhold buzzed with anticipation.

  Soft footsteps approached from behind, deliberate and uneven. Cedric Vale, Governor of Justice, moved with the weight of years, his face etched as if he’d witnessed the world’s dawn. One of Rudra’s original thirteen generals, his presence commanded respect, though his knees betrayed his age.

  “Master Vale,” Darius greeted, his voice smooth. “You fare well, I trust?”

  “Thanks to the gods’ mercy,” Cedric replied, his tone dry. A faint chuckle passed between them, though their eyes remained guarded.

  They turned to the gate, where banners of distant provinces fluttered in the breeze. The visitors—rulers of towns and cities—streamed toward the Hall, their retinues trailing like shadows. The Grand Bell tolled, its deep chime rolling across Crownhold. The tenth hour had come. The Summit would begin.

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  The Grand Hall of Governance was a monument to Indrayan’s might. Towering pillars, carved with the sigils of its provinces, bore the weight of the vaulted ceiling, each a testament to the rulers who upheld the Empire. Thirty-six seats faced the throne, occupied by the Lords and Ladies of cities and towns—men and women of lesser power, yet vital to the Empire’s machinery. Before them, twelve chairs flanked the dais—six on each side—for the Governors, stewards of justice, finance, agriculture, and more. Above, on a platform raised twelve steps, sat the Governor of the Empire’s chair. Three steps higher loomed the Throne of Indrayan, hewn from rare sandstone, its edges spiked, an elephant’s head crowning its back. Behind it, two colossal statues of elephants reared, their tusks gleaming in the torchlight.

  The rulers settled, their murmurs fading as the Governors entered one by one. Cedric Vale limped to his seat, his staff tapping the marble floor. Others followed—stern-faced men and women, their cloaks bearing the elephant sigil. At the hall’s heart stood a woman, poised and elegant, her dark hair bound in a silver clasp. This was Lysa Marrow, the Imperial Secretary, her voice clear as a bell.

  A single chime rang out, and silence fell. “It is my honor to welcome you to the Yearly Crown Summit,” Lysa began. “May your journeys have been swift and safe. Rise, all, for His Majesty, the Emperor and Founder of Indrayan, Conqueror of Aelrio, Bearer of the Elephant’s Might—Rudra Vorn!”

  The hall turned as one. Through the great doors strode a man in his sixties, his frame unbowed by age, his white beard framing a face both stern and regal. His white cloak, embroidered with golden elephants, swept the floor. Four guards, their armor gleaming, flanked him as he ascended the dais. The rulers and Governors bowed low, and with a nod, Rudra permitted them to sit.

  Lysa bowed and stepped aside. Rudra’s voice, deep and commanding, filled the hall. “I am pleased to greet you all. Today, I bring tidings of import.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on the empty chair among the Governors. “The Governor of Corps has retired, seeking peace. In his stead, I name my son, my heir, and your future Emperor—Indra Vorn.”

  Muted whispers rippled through the hall, though none were surprised. The rulers rose, clapping politely. The doors opened again, and Indra entered. In his thirties, he was striking—black hair, sharp nose, and brown eyes that gleamed with quiet intensity. His white attire mirrored his father’s, his cloak flowing like a river of silk. His walk was deliberate, majestic, like the white elephants of legend. He bowed to the Governors, then to his father, ascending the dais with measured grace.

  Rudra stood, a maid presenting a golden ring upon a crimson cushion, its elephant sigil glinting. Indra extended his hand, and Rudra slid the ring onto his finger. Kneeling, Indra swore his oath: “I vow to serve with honor and integrity, for the glory of Indrayan.” The hall erupted in applause, louder now, as Indra rose and descended to take his seat among the Governors. His eyes met Darius’s, and a faint, unreadable smile passed between them.

  Lysa’s voice cut through the din. “The Yearly Crown Summit shall now commence.”

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  For hours, the hall thrummed with the business of empire. Lords and Ladies rose, voicing grievances or proposing schemes for their lands—flooded fields, banditry, trade disputes. Rudra listened, his face a mask, conferring with his Governors to mete out solutions. Darius spoke with calculated precision, while Cedric’s wisdom tempered heated debates. Indra, newly seated, observed in silence, his expression cold but attentive.

  As the fourth hour waned, Rudra stood. “My thanks to you all for your service to Indrayan’s growth. I bid you join me tonight for the Grand Feast before your departure.” The hall rose, bowing as he descended, his guards and Lysa trailing him. As he passed the throne, he leaned toward Lysa, his voice low but edged with irritation. “One seat was empty among the rulers. Who dared defy the Crown’s summons?”

  Lysa’s reply was soft, deferential. “Lord Cascot of Blackwood, Your Majesty. He lies bedridden, struck by illness.”

  Rudra’s jaw tightened, then softened. “Send him my regards and the Crown’s wishes for his recovery.” He swept from the hall, his cloak billowing.

  The rulers lingered, clustering around Indra to offer congratulations. He accepted their words with a nod, his face impassive. The Governors waited patiently, their eyes tracking the younger Vorn. When the rulers dispersed, Cedric approached, his staff clicking against the floor.

  “Indra,” he said, his voice warm but weighted. “The Corps is a heavy mantle. Be just, and beware.”

  “With your guidance, Lord Vale, I shall serve well,” Indra replied, his tone respectful yet firm.

  The other Governors joined, their conversation a low hum of counsel and caution. Darius remained seated, watching from afar, his fingers drumming lightly on his chair. As the hall emptied, he rose, approaching Indra. A hand clapped Indra’s shoulder. “Good luck,” Darius said, his smile thin, before striding toward the exit.

  Indra stood alone, adjusting the sword at his hip. With a final glance at the throne, he departed, his footsteps echoing in the vast hall.

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  Far from Crownhold, beneath the shadowed slopes of Mount Syrus, a different scene unfolded. Six figures, laden with packs and tools, prepared to abandon their makeshift camp. Their equipment—vials, maps, and strange instruments—hinted at a scholarly quest. They stood at the edge of a vast forest, the mountain’s peak lost in mist.

  Thorn, a wiry youth in his twenties, lingered beside the group’s leader, Dante Warrick. A seasoned explorer, Dante’s weathered face bore the marks of countless expeditions. Thorn gazed at the mountain, his voice hushed. “This place… it hums with something divine.”

  Dante’s eyes gleamed, fixed on the path ahead. “That’s what we’re here to uncover.”

  He turned, calling over his shoulder. “Felix! Have you the samples?”

  A boy, barely nineteen, scrambled forward, his pack clinking with vials of soil and water. Felix, a prodigy of science, nodded eagerly. “All here, sir.”

  The group aligned, their faces upturned to the mountain’s shrouded heights.

  Curiosity and hope bound them as they stepped into the forest, the unknown beckoning.