The Shadow of the Crown

The skies over Cindralore bled red.

Ash fell like black snow upon the cobbled streets as bells tolled in chaos, not ceremony. The once-golden spires of Emberkeep-a palace carved from dragonstone and flameglass-were now crumbling towers belching smoke into a storm-wracked sky.

The scent of burning parchment, iron, and blood choked the air. Screams echoed across the city like a dirge, and yet above them all rose the sound of wings-great leathery wings, the last of the king's sky-dragons shrieking in their death throes.

At the heart of the dying palace, beneath a ceiling of stained glass shattered by thunder, King Elandir Vael stood alone. His armor, once resplendent in flame-gold, was now scorched and dented, streaked with his knights' blood. His crown was gone. His sword-Brightfang-was broken.