Crown of the Cursed King

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The World Grows Distant

Across the fractured continent, a cold silence had replaced curiosity.

In the first few years of the conflict, every minor kingdom and trade city turned its gaze toward the Riverlands War — a war that had once been wrapped in grand words: "A righteous campaign," "a war to restore balance," "a battle of succession."

But years passed. Treaties were signed and broken like children's promises. Grand alliances rose only to dissolve in bitterness. New kings replaced fallen ones, and generals became martyrs no one remembered.

The war, once vibrant in the minds of foreign courts, now tasted bitter — old wine left in the sun too long.

They gave it a name now.

"The War of Three Brothers."

It no longer carried weight. Not to the people of Velmoor, or the steel traders of Talros, or the desert emissaries from Khiran's Edge. To them, it was just a family feud drenched in blood and magic, a once-noble line tearing itself apart over the echoes of grief, guilt, and ambition.

No one remembered Meesha anymore.

No one but the ones who had bled for her.

And those who bled because of her.

---

In Talros, merchants who once bartered Vaitharan silks and Nordraki furs now sealed their vaults tighter. Their council chambers echoed with one phrase:

"Trade no longer flows from the river. Only corpses."

They raised tariffs, reinforced trade routes, and tightened city gates. Their warriors stood in gold-laced armor not to fight, but to guard coin.

In Velmoor, a kingdom that once sent peace envoys and herbal aid to Svarlokh, the Queen ordered the Gray Sentinels to guard the eastern highroads. Every caravan from the warfront was inspected, every refugee turned away.

"Let their kings die in pride," she told her council. "Their blood is no longer our concern. We will not spill ours beside theirs."

Even in far-off Draveth, a city of scholars and seers, the crystal towers that once held scrolls of Meesha's lineage now hosted debates on "how history forgets fools."

And in the darkest corners of the continent, the whispers grew colder:

"Let them all die… Let the river run dry with their sorrow. When their bones turn to dust, we'll pick from the ashes and write the world anew."

---

The Cycle Tightens

Back in Vaithara, beneath the overcast sky of early frost, a lone raven beat its wings through the wind and smoke.

It flew over crumbled towers and fields scorched by the latest siege, dodging sparks that drifted even in the still air. Its wings cut through sorrow, silent and swift, until it reached the Citadel of Stoneveil, the war command post of King Vivaraj.

The raven landed upon the central balcony, where a warscribe waited with shaking hands and tear-lined eyes. He took the scroll tied to its leg — the seal broken before he even entered the war chamber.

Lord Eshan. Dead.

His name was etched in blood on the parchment — "Killed in skirmish near Redfang Ridge. Enemy remnant ambush. No survivors."

The chamber fell still.

Vivaraj, seated beneath a faded map of the Riverlands, took the scroll with hands that no longer trembled. The names of the fallen had become part of his daily prayer — unspoken, uncounted, infinite.

But Eshan was different. Eshan had trained beside Meesha. He was one of the last who remembered her laughter, her archery stances, the way she used to braid her hair during campaign marches, saying "if I die, at least I'll die tidy."

He walked slowly to the center of the chamber, the scroll still in hand, and looked up at the massive war banner that hung from the ceiling — Meesha's banner, a deep indigo cloth bearing the broken silver bow she once carried.

Every soldier in Vaithara now wore that symbol across their chest. Some wore it in mourning. Others wore it for rage. For most, it had become something else — a justification for violence they no longer understood.

Vivaraj stared at it for a long time.

Finally, he turned to his commanders.

His voice was low, hoarse — not from sorrow, but from resolve.

> "Prepare for the next push."

They shifted uneasily.

> "Before the frost settles. We move on Svarlokh's gates. One final time."

One general stepped forward. "My King… the men are tired. Supply lines are slow. Revansh's remnants are regrouping at the Frost Line. If we push too early—"

Vivaraj raised a hand. Silence fell again.

> "The gates of Svarlokh will not see another summer."

And the decision was made. The wheel turned once more. The war continued. Not because it had to… but because it could not end now. Not when the pain was still unfinished.

---

A Storm Yet to Come

Far beyond the flames of Vaithara, across oceans silvered by moonlight, stood the ancient sanctuary of Isle Araylen — untouched by war, suspended in time, embraced by nature and old lore.

At its heart stood the Moon Tree — a towering silver blossom, glowing faintly in the dark. It was said to bloom only under celestial alignment, but for Saeyra, it had bloomed the night she arrived.

It was under this tree that she now knelt, palms trembling above a dying hawk brought by the elder priestess. Its wing was shattered, blood matted against feathers, its breath shallow.

The priestess stood behind her, silent.

Saeyra closed her eyes. She wasn't a warrior like her sister. Not a soldier like her cousins. Not a tactician like the kings who spilled ink and blood on maps.

She was something else.

She was a riverlight.

She placed her fingers softly upon the hawk's chest. Her energy flowed — not in bursts of power, but in slow ripples, like gentle waves reaching a wounded shore.

The hawk's wing shimmered faintly — sinew realigning, bone knitting. And slowly… it breathed deeper.

The elder priestess finally spoke.

> "Your strength grows."

> "But the world you must return to… bleeds still."

Saeyra stood. The hawk fluttered once, twice — and soared into the sky again, circling the Moon Tree before disappearing into the starlit wind.

She did not smile. Her eyes followed the hawk until it vanished.

> "I'm not just learning to heal," she said softly.

> "I'm learning what my sister never had the chance to master."

The priestess placed a hand on her shoulder. "And what will you do when the world asks you to choose between healing and war?"

Saeyra looked toward the east, where smoke from distant shores colored the skies red.

> "Then I will show them there's a third path."

---

The Prophecy Awakens

That night, as stars aligned above the Moon Tree, and wind rustled the sacred leaves, a voice echoed from the sacred pool nearby — an ancient spirit, rarely heard, only speaking when fate turned.

The priestesses gathered, robes trailing, eyes wide.

From the pool rose a soft chant, carried by wind and water:

> "When the last child of the healer returns,

The river's blood shall flow in reverse.

Kings shall fall not by blade or flame,

But by the truth buried beneath their names."*

The High Priestess whispered in awe.

> "The old verse… it returns. After twenty generations."

One novice whispered, "What does it mean?"

But Saeyra already knew.

> It meant the war wasn't meant to end by steel.

> It meant her return would change everything.

> It meant… the world had forgotten what Meesha truly died for.

And soon… they would remember.