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The Blade of the First Queen

Author: Tyson Roy
last update Last Updated: 2025-08-25 05:34:39

The ruins of Caladrith Hold were not drawn on any map.

Even in the old days, when the moon hung fat and orange above the border wilds, no one could say precisely where the ridgeline began or ended. The witches of Emberhold called it a wound in the world, a place the earth refused to heal, where stones steamed even in deepest winter, and the stars bowed lower than they did for any king or queen.

It was said that the Hold drifted, that its mouth might open on a different hillside with each dawn, and vanish by the time dusk touched the grass. It was a myth, a fever story told by firelight. But Lucien, who had survived more legends than most, found it by instinct, guided not by maps, but by an ache in the bones, a longing that could only be described as memory’s echo.

He brought Saphira with him, though she didn’t need persuading. There was something about the air around him, thinner, charged, as if a storm waited inside his skin. Neither of them spoke as they entered the ridge’s broken m
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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Burning Letter

    The shrine stood in solitude atop the Emberspire ridge, a stone hollow pressed against the sky like a scar carved from time itself. No banners fluttered here. No guards patrolled. The wind was its only witness, and even it tread softly.There were no offerings, no idols. Only memory.And memory did not sleep.Around the shrine’s base, moonflowers grew in scorched, colorless spirals, flowers that should have bloomed under moonlight, but never did. Too close to fire. Too close to grief.The path here was steep. Unmarked. Forgotten by maps, remembered only by those who had loved, and lost, and learned to live with both.Seren walked it alone.No entourage.No wolves.Just a folded piece of parchment and a single match tucked into her cloak’s inner pocket.It had been weeks since the fall of Dustspire, and still the ash hadn't settled in her chest. Not fully. Not even halfway. Emberhold stood steady behind her, still whole, still lit, but Seren had begun to feel like she no longer did.Sh

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Sirelia’s Dreamworld

    Sirelia had always been afraid of silence.Not noise. Not stillness. Silence.That breathless hum between thoughts where nothing moved and everything waited.As a child, before prophecy, before ash, before Elara, she feared it the way others feared shadows. Because in silence, truths spoke without permission. And truths, real ones, did not flatter.So she learned to speak over them.She built walls of sound, fortresses of command, cathedrals made of battle hymns and royal decrees. If the world echoed with her voice, it could not echo with doubt.But after the fall of Dustspire,There was nothing to say.And so she slept.Three days. Three nights. No movement. No dreams.Or so they thought.In the Bone Court’s glass-veined sanctum, Sirelia lay beneath a vaulted dome of marrow-laced obsidian. Her breath was slow. Eyes open, unblinking. The light filtering through the stained boneglass painted her in shifting golds and sickly reds.The healers whispered trance.The witches muttered poiso

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Siege of Dustspire

    Dustspire was never built to protect.It was built to haunt.A monument carved from obsidian and screamstone, its jagged silhouette rising crookedly from the ashplains like the splintered fang of a buried god. Blood-veined roots twist through its base, pulsing faintly with residual magic, old, wild, and spiteful. It doesn’t simply loom.It leans.As if listening.Once, they said it was a refuge. A place for the Moonbound exiled by their own prophecies.Now?It reflects nothing but loss.And Seren knows.This is not conquest.This is exorcism.She plans the assault with cold clarity, fire-dancer whispers, disposable maps, oaths made in silence and sealed in silver. Every footfall of the Ashborn is a vow.They do not chant.They do not pray.They move like dusk falling over a grave.Wolves in the front, low to the earth, fangs bared. Witches line the flanks, cloaks swirling with runic ash. Hybrids, half-magic, half-myth, move at the rear, arrows lit with silverflame and names carved int

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Kael’s Return

    He awakes at dusk.Not with a gasp.Not with a cry.But with a whisper.A breath shaped by memory, not pain.“Seren…”The name hovers in the quiet, fragile and resonant. It carries no demand, only recognition. Only need.For weeks, Kael has lingered in a kind of stillness that defies healing. Not alive in the way wolves should be. Not dead in the way warriors deserve. A breathless tether. A body that would not break. A soul that no longer howled.Some say the Plague took him. Corrupted him from the inside, like rot blooming behind the eyes. Others whisper that the blood oath cost too much, that the gods marked him long ago, and now the debt comes due.But only Seren believed he’d return.Only she waited.But not like this.Outside, the sky bruises red and black. The clouds hang low, streaked like open veins, and the stars are too quiet. A wind moves through Emberhold’s upper halls, hot and wrong. As if something beneath the earth has exhaled.Inside the healing chamber, the rune-walls p

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Vessa’s First Kill

    They spot the Dustborn scouts just as twilight begins to bleed the sky.Long shadows slip through the lower ashgroves, past the outer ridge lines and the collapsed ruins of the old watchtowers. Quick and quiet, like cinders caught in wind. They don’t number many. But they’re bold. Close enough to glimpse Emberhold’s outpost torches. Close enough to send whispers back to Sirelia.Close enough to mean danger.The message arrives as the sky deepens to bruised purple. Seren, still fresh from her communion with the Dustmother, stands in the high chamber of the keep, skin faintly touched with lingering silver from the altar runes. Her hair glows faintly where firelight catches it, and her voice, though quiet, draws silence around it like a spell.“Send a unit,” she says.“But not the Ashguard.”Her gaze moves through the room and lands on Vessa.“You lead.”The words strike like blade against anvil.Vessa stiffens.She’s commanded skirmishes. Held lines. Protected thrones and faces and flan

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Dustmother’s Curse

    The moon hangs low and heavy over Emberhold.Not an omen.A remembrance.Its red light stains the towers, pools in the corners of stone windows, drips across banners like dried blood newly wet. It does not rise, it lingers. As if waiting to be seen, or remembered, or feared again.The gods are no longer silent.They are watching.Some whisper.Some wait.But none have turned away.It happens just past midnight.The Ashborn camp lies in gentle quiet, the hush of unity settling like balm after a day of names spoken and banners sewn. Wolves sleep in crescent shapes beside witches who once feared their breath. Vampires perch in high alcoves, unmoving but ever alert, their eyes casting moonfire over the courtyard.There is no fear tonight.Only readiness.Only the hum of something coming.Then,The torches dim.Not extinguished.As if something older than flame exhaled across them, soft and long and final.On the cliffs above, where wind cleaves the stone and the stars feel nearer, Seren s

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