Crown of the Cursed King

> "When swords speak louder than treaties, the river remembers only blood."

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An Heir Sent Away

The sea winds were soft on the shores of Isle Araylen, where gulls circled above the towering citadel of the Moonstone Court. A place untouched by war, distant and still dreaming beneath silver skies.

The Queen of Vaithara, Lirasha, stood on the port ramparts, draped in ceremonial white, eyes fixed on the departing ship — a royal barge bearing her youngest ward — Saeyra, the daughter of a healer, the sister of the fallen Meesha.

She was only eighteen, slender as a reed, yet her heart carried a storm. For years she had watched blood spill under banners, watched her homeland burn, her people cry, and her mother age faster than time itself.

But now, Lirasha had sent her to Araylen — not just to protect her, but to awaken what Meesha once called "the riverlight within". Healing magic. Old blood. A gift passed only in silence, through women born beneath the lunar bloom.

Saeyra gripped the ship's rail, wind in her braid, her eyes burning with a silent promise — "I'll return when I'm ready… when this war must end."

---

Children of the War Years

Back in Vaithara, in the shadow of broken towers and the echo of marching boots, children no longer played with wooden swords. They carried real ones now — rough-forged, gifted by fathers who bled on battlefronts.

They had watched generals fall, watched fields turn to ash, watched mothers weep in silence.

In the training courtyards, Larin, barely sixteen, practiced with a bow crafted from driftwood and war-iron. He was Meesha's cousin — raised on stories of her strength, now molded by her absence. He had watched her burn on the pyre with the last lotus still braided in her hair.

Now, vengeance was no story. It was his rite of passage.

At the riverfront barracks, Rahil, son of a farmer turned soldier, sharpened blades instead of tilling soil. He had never seen peace — only treaties signed in fear, broken behind closed doors.

And every child growing up in this age now whispered one phrase beneath their breath:

"The war began with a prince's arrow… and it will end with a river of kings."

---

Eighteen Years of Cracks Beneath Diplomacy

Before war screamed into the open, it simmered in silence.

For eighteen long years, the three kingdoms — Vaithara, Svarlokh, and Nordrak — danced a delicate waltz of diplomacy.

Treaties were signed. Envoys exchanged. Markets reopened. Council meetings held under banners of peace.

But peace had no roots.

The death of Meesha, years ago now, had merely planted the first seed of decay. What began as a skirmish along a disputed border turned into veiled hostilities — trade restrictions, intercepted supplies, spies, and secret assassinations.

Every harvest festival was shadowed by suspicion. Every council speech echoed with veiled threats. Even Vivaraj, once a king of tempered judgment, grew colder year after year.

His sorrow became stone. His memory of Meesha — a ghost he carried into every chamber.

And the people knew. War was not a question of if, but when.

---

Two Years of Fire

Two years ago, Vivaraj had finally shattered the fragile veil.

No declarations. No ceremonies. Just fire.

It began with the Siege of Dorak Ford, where Vaithara troops stormed the river junction and choked Svarlokh's lifelines.

Then came The Night of Broken Gates — where Vivaraj's second legion razed the southern walls of Nordrak's outer defenses.

Svarlokh retaliated with Skyfall Rain, a tactic resurrected from old war scrolls — oil bombs hurled by trebuchets, igniting entire plains beneath flaming arrows.

But the river remained the heart of the war — control it, and you controlled the land.

For two years now, armies marched, died, and returned again, leaving only soot and stories behind. Meesha's death, once a tragedy, had become a rallying cry, a curse, and a symbol of everything broken.

---

Adityan Holds the Gates

In the Citadel of Svarlokh, King Adityan still held the capital's outer gates — battered, but unbroken.

Inside the war chamber, his eyes looked older now — the sharpness dulled not by age, but by grief and exhaustion. His generals had dwindled. His heir, Kaaryan, was still in exile after Meesha's death. Some whispered the prince had gone mad, haunted by her face every time he slept.

His most trusted war tactician, Salagar, stood beside him.

"The river is lost again," Salagar said grimly. "Vivaraj cleared Revansh's troops and reclaimed the entire delta. He's choking us, my king. Slowly. Methodically."

Adityan's jaw tightened. "He wants us to die hungry before we die in battle."

"Then we need a blade behind him," Salagar added, darkly. "An old offer… still on the table."

Adityan knew what he meant.

---

The Queen's Homeland

Far across the hills beyond Vaithara, there stood the forgotten homeland of Queen Lirasha — a mountainous realm of old bloodlines and secret tribes. They had stayed neutral during the early years, honoring a pact made in peace.

But now, Salagar suggested calling them — not as allies, but as shadows in the rear. Guerilla war. Surprise assaults. The silent death of attrition.

"Strike Vivaraj where he sleeps," Salagar urged. "Not in open war, but in whispers and blades behind curtains."

Adityan stared at the flame in the war chamber.

"And when it all ends… will anything be left of honor?"

Salagar smiled bitterly. "Honor doesn't win wars anymore. Rivers do."

---

Revansh Watches From Ice

In Nordrak, King Revansh stood atop the frost-rimmed cliffs, his white cloak billowing in storm winds. He had returned from his failed campaign to reclaim the river. Half his forces had perished.

He stared down at the frozen valley, remembering the moment Vivaraj's sword clashed with his own at the riverbanks — two brothers, once inseparable, now strangers wielding blood instead of memory.

"Brother," he had whispered once in battle. "Please… this is not what Meesha would have wanted."

But Vivaraj had only replied, "Then you never knew her heart."

Now Revansh's armies were thinned. His soldiers bitter. His people confused. Some even questioned him — "Why fight at all?"

And he too wondered: Is this my war anymore? Or just a storm I was dragged into by ghosts I failed to save?