Once, there was none above her. The Autarch reigned supreme, a sovereign whose authority was unquestioned and whose dominion spanned beyond horizons mortals could dream of. Kingdoms bent their knee, worlds aligned in her name, and her crown was said to gleam with the brilliance of a thousand suns. It was not merely a symbol of power, but of absolute order — the embodiment of her will made manifest.
Her presence alone commanded reverence. Armies marched at her whisper, nations flourished or withered at her decree, and her people believed her rule eternal. To them, she was not simply a ruler but a truth, a fixed law of existence itself. And yet, for all her might, the Autarch was blind to the shadows that lingered closest to her throne.
Envy is a patient serpent. It does not strike when eyes are watchful, but coils and waits, whispering venom into ears unguarded. Those who once swore loyalty began to dream of freedom — or worse, of wearing the crown themselves. Friends became conspirators, allies became traitors, and in their hearts grew the conviction that she had ruled long enough.
The betrayal came swift and merciless. The Autarch, surrounded in her moment of triumph, was struck not by armies or distant enemies, but by those whose hands had once sworn fealty. Her crown — the very sigil of her sovereignty — was shattered before her eyes, its fragments scattered like broken stars.
The empire she had built with iron resolve unraveled in a single breath. Loyalists were silenced, provinces declared independence, and those who once basked in her radiance now cursed her name. In the echo of treachery, the Autarch was no longer a sovereign but an exile, stripped of title, throne, and dominion.
Yet even as she was cast beyond the borders of her broken realm, her eyes burned not with despair, but with something deeper. Rage. Resolve. The betrayal had shattered her crown, but not her will. And in the silence of exile, the first embers of transformation began to stir.