Crownless King: The Heir of the Forgotten Throne
Side Story – Seris: The Girl Who Wasn't Broken
She never intended to steal from the Guild; it wasn't part of her grand design or her carefully cultivated plans for escape.
But when you're born within the imposing stone walls of their esteemed halls, conditioned to obey their every command, and taught from an early age that curiosity is a dangerous trait to possess, you learn to ask your questions, though only in hushed whispers, lest the ever-watchful shadows catch wind of your thoughts.
Seris Vale was just twelve years old when she first stumbled upon that forbidden place:
A sealed archive, cleverly concealed beneath the Mirror Library—a labyrinth of knowledge and illusion where only the guildmasters and select archivists were granted entry.
The heavy door hum buzzed ominously with arcane, forbidden magic, shimmering with a warning that sent shivers down her spine.
And beyond that, she sensed something vast and untamed—something she dared to dream of as Truth.
All her life, she had sensed the Guild's fabrications like a lingering, bitter taste on her tongue. It was an unspoken truth that everyone within those walls shared, though no one dared to voice it openly. Their capacity for deception was legendary. They were not careless liars; no, they were efficient, operating with the precision of a well-oiled machine. They buried their deepest sins beneath layers of elegant words and doctrine, dressing their betrayals in the finery of polished rhetoric.
She could have let it all slide—could have tucked her doubts away into the recesses of her mind, where they could fester harmlessly and remain unexamined.
Until she found the records related to the Ward Program.
Tarin's name, like a dagger lodged in her heart.
His identification number.
His anticipated termination date, looming like a dark shadow just ahead on the treacherous path of life.
Three days later, the decision was made—Seris broke into the archive, driven by a will that had been ignited within her, a fire that could not be extinguished.
It was intended to be a swift operation—a quick in and out. She planned to copy a few crucial scrolls, obtain undeniable proof of the Guild's atrocities, and vanish without a trace, like a wisp of smoke in the wind.
But as her fingers brushed against the surface of the sealed file regarding Project: Crownless, the wards embedded within the archive sprang to life.
The door clamped shut with a resounding thud.
The room erupted into blinding flames, a fierce inferno fueled by ancient spells long since forgotten.
And in that fury, her name was expunged from the Guild's records as though she had never existed, as if she had been erased from the very fabric of reality before she even made it back to the lift that she had once navigated so confidently.
They did not end her life; they did something far worse.
They imprisoned her in the Black Arc, a desolate stronghold carved deep within the unforgiving core of Vel'Therin. Here dwelled the broken and the damned—students who had faltered, rogue mages who had strayed too far, and exiled heirs who had dared to defy their lineage—all subjected to a process they referred to as "reeducation."
There was no light in the Black Arc. No warmth to banish the cold that enveloped her. No names were spoken; only whispers of despair and anguish lingered in the air.
She became merely a disembodied voice lost in that suffocating darkness, forced to recite spell matrices until her tongue bled and memorize ancient runes until her vision dimmed and swirled into a sea of unfocusing shadows.
Days morphed into weeks; weeks melted into months—time itself was a cruel illusion within those oppressive walls.
They systematically broke everyone who entered those depths, reducing them to mere shells of their former selves.
But they could never break her.
On her 103rd day inside the Black Arc, something fortuitous happened.
Seris overheard a hushed conversation between guards. One of them, a handler, whispered that her transfer had been scheduled. "To the Soulforge," they ominously stated.
She had heard the whispers, the dreadful lore that surrounded that place. The Soulforge was a place of nightmares, a place where no one dared to return.
In that moment, she made a fateful decision.
She would not succumb to death caged in darkness.
That very night, she devised a desperate plan. Faking a seizure, she infused her own veins with the residue of blood magic, the remnants of an incantation etched into her palm from the cold, unyielding stone of the floor.
As the guard rushed in, thinking he could play the hero, she turned the tide and used his own channeling rod against him, striking with calculated precision.
And then she ran.
The labyrinthine hallways of the Arc twisted and turned, always threatening to confuse her and lead her astray, but she remembered her maps.
Her memory was a fortress, sharp and unyielding.
Every twist, every creak in the wards was imprinted in her mind like a well-practiced spell.
She reached the lower leyline vents just as the blaring alarms erupted into a cacophony behind her.
Three enforcers pursued her, relentless and focused. She deftly outmaneuvered two of them, slipping between their grasp.
But the third was swifter than she anticipated, cornering her at the very edge of a collapsing dock tower.
At that moment, she was sixteen, with no sword of honor or magic at her disposal—only a stolen dagger, its handle worn smooth from use, and a flickering broken ley battery that pulsed with unstable energy in her grasp.
She caught her breath and leapt into the unknown anyway.
She fell for what felt like an eternity, eight seconds that stretched on endlessly, filling her with the sensation of weightlessness, as if she had relinquished all ties to her earthly existence.
For that fleeting moment, she felt as though she had truly died.
But then, miraculously, she landed on the deck of a skyfreighter that was heading west, barely managing to survive the harrowing impact. Her leg shattered beneath her, a brutality of pain that ignited her senses.
For two grueling days, she crawled, dragging herself forward inch by painful inch until she was discovered by an old scavenger crew.
They found her, wounded but unyielding, and nursed her back to health without asking questions that could draw her into the past.
And by the time she regained her strength and could rise to her feet again—
Seris Vale had vanished, leaving behind nothing but shadows.
Only the sword remained—a ghost of a life she once knew.
And the vow etched into her very being:
"The next time I return to Vel'Therin… it will be to burn it down."
This relentless journey—this unyielding resolve—is why she shuns conversation. It's why she watches everything around her with keen eyes, noting every detail, every change in the wind. It's why she keeps others at an arm's length, for she recalls all too clearly what happened when she allowed herself to trust—when she invited someone in; the cost was nearly her life, almost extinguishing the remnants of her soul.
But then, when she looks at Kael…
When she witnesses his struggles, his brittle moments of defeat, only to see him rise again, time and time again—
Something fragile stirs deep within her, something fierce and untamed.
Something she had believed she buried forever in the darkness of the Arc.
Hope.
-End Of Side Story-