Legends say the Crown of Life chooses its bearer — a relic forged by the Seven Gods to judge both kings and their hearts. It shines only for the worthy.
For generations, it passed from father to son in the royal bloodline of Osric, until the rule of King Godric — when destiny broke tradition.
Queen Eadgyth bore twins that night: a boy and a girl. The kingdom rejoiced at first, then whispered in fear. Two heirs meant divided fate — and a divided crown.
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King Godric summoned his ministers to the great hall, the light of the sacred crown flickering above them.
"We will watch them," he declared, voice heavy with doubt. "And the one who proves worthy shall rule."
The decision carved a silent wall between the twins.
Years passed. Prince Gerald grew proud, sharp-tongued, and impatient for power. Princess Hilda, in contrast, was gentle and wise, the people's joy. Even the priests whispered that the crown pulsed brighter in her presence.
At the choosing ceremony, King Godric placed his hand on Gerald's shoulder, but his gaze lingered on Hilda.
Then, breaking centuries of tradition, he said, "The crown shall rest upon her head."
The court gasped. Gerald's face turned pale with rage.
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When the king died, Hilda ascended as Queen of Osric. Yet peace was short-lived. Rumors festered — that a woman's heart was too soft to rule, that a crown on her head would bring ruin. And Gerald, lurking in the shadows, fed those rumors like wildfire.
Then, one fateful dawn, the queen awoke to a strange stillness in her body. Her pulse fluttered with unease.
She had never known a man, yet life stirred within her.
The royal physician confirmed it: she was with child.
"How?" she whispered, trembling. "How can this be?"
"Your Majesty," the physician said carefully, "this is beyond mortal cause."
But secrets rot quickly in royal walls. Soon, the kingdom buzzed with scandal.
"The Queen has taken a lover."
"She betrayed the crown."
"A curse for defying the gods!"
Gerald seized his chance. In smoky chambers and secret councils, he poisoned the ministers' minds.
"Would you trust a crown to one who cannot even guard her honor?" he hissed. "Osric needs strength, not softness."
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Six years later, Queen Hilda gave birth to a child — Princess Olivia, with eyes like dawn breaking through mist.
Her laughter warmed the palace, reviving Hilda's spirit and courage. She swore that no darkness would touch her daughter or the sacred crown.
But far beyond the palace walls, Gerald's ambition festered. He sought a power no mortal should touch.
He journeyed to the Devil's Dungeon — a place sealed beneath the world after the fall of the Seven Gods. The air burned with ash and despair.
A monstrous figure sat upon a throne of blackened bones.
"Who dares disturb my slumber?" the creature's voice thundered.
Gerald knelt, trembling. "My lord… I seek power."
"I have no servants," the Devil rumbled, his laughter echoing through the abyss. "But I may make one."
"In return," Gerald said, raising his head with a desperate sneer, "I'll give you a mortal soul."
The Devil's eyes gleamed crimson. "So be it."
Dark energy coiled like serpents around Gerald, tearing through his veins. His screams echoed through the dungeon as he was remade — not human, not immortal, but something in between.
When he emerged, he carried with him an army of shadows — five Dark Lords, fifty Dark Knights, and legions of cursed warriors bound to his will.
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That night, the earth trembled as fire rained upon Osric.
In the palace, Queen Hilda held Olivia close when Leofric, her most loyal guard, burst through the doors.
"My Queen," he gasped, sweat dripping down his brow, "Prince Gerald has raised the dark armies. They march for the palace!"
The Queen's eyes blazed. The temperature in the throne room rose as power rippled from her body.
"So it begins," she whispered, her voice both sorrowful and fierce. "The crown will test us once more."
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