Prologue
The world was not always broken. Long before kings and banners, long before the earth had tasted the iron of war, there was only the Song of Creation. The gods sang it into the void, their voices weaving mountains from silence, raising oceans with a single note, and scattering stars into the heavens to burn for eternity. But no song endures forever. The last voice faltered, the melody fractured, and silence fell where harmony had once lived. Out of that silence was born the Crown of Asterra, forged from the heart of a fallen star and bound with seven shards of the shattered song. Whoever wore it could bend existence to their will, command storms and stone, even twist life and death themselves. For centuries, kingdoms bled for its promise. Empires rose and fell in fire, and the earth drank oceans of blood in the name of the crown. At last, when too much death had been sown, the crown itself shattered, its seven shards scattering across the world, lost to time and memory.
But myths linger where truth fades. For a thousand years the crown's fragments lay hidden, pulsing faintly in the dark corners of the earth, whispering in dreams, waiting for hands bold—or foolish—enough to claim them. The empire of Veythar, once a realm of gold and glory, now staggered toward its twilight. Its emperor was old, his sons at war, and rebellion smoldered in the provinces. Beyond its borders, rival kingdoms sharpened their swords, ready to devour what remained. It was in this dying age that a boy of no name stumbled upon destiny, and the world began to tremble once more.
Act I – DuskvaleKaelen Deyrn was not born to greatness. His father, a soldier, had died in the Emperor's endless campaigns against the southern clans, leaving his family nothing but a scarred shield and a rusted helmet. His mother had tended the fields until a fever carried her away the winter before, leaving Kaelen alone in a crumbling hut on the edge of Duskvale. He was seventeen, lean from hunger, with calloused hands from swinging a wooden sword at the great oak tree that stood beyond the fields. Every morning he rose before the sun, striking until his arms ached and blisters bled, imagining himself a knight standing against armies, a hero whose name would be sung in taverns and courts. To everyone else, he was just a boy chasing shadows.
"Still beating that poor tree?" came Mira's voice one gray morning. She was the blacksmith's daughter, hair the color of fire, hands already rough from hammer and anvil. She tossed him a crust of bread, smirking. "You'll never win against it, Kael. Try fighting something that hits back."
Kaelen grinned, brushing sweat from his brow, though there was fire in his eyes. "One day I'll wield a real blade. I'll leave this village and carve my name into the world."
"Or carve it onto a gravestone," she shot back, though her voice softened with worry.
It was an ordinary morning in an ordinary village, and yet, before the sun set, Duskvale would be marked for ash.
That evening, as the sky bled crimson behind the hills, a lone rider appeared on the road. His horse stumbled, foam spilling from its mouth, hooves caked with mud. The man wore no banner, only a cloak torn and ash-gray, and at his side hung a satchel bound with chains. His eyes were wild, fevered, as if he had outrun death itself. The villagers stared as he slid from his saddle and collapsed by the well. Kaelen, who had lingered with Mira, rushed forward instinctively. The rider seized his wrist with bloodied fingers, his voice a broken whisper.
"Find… the shard. The song must not die."
Before Kaelen could speak, the man shoved the satchel into his arms. With a final rattling breath, he went still.
A hush fell over the square as the villagers muttered, some crossing themselves, others backing away. Kaelen's hands trembled as he unfastened the chains. Inside lay a fragment of crystal, jagged and luminous, pulsing faintly as though alive. It glowed with a rhythm like a heartbeat—or perhaps the breath of the world itself. The boy's breath caught, for in that instant he felt something vast press against his soul, a whisper threading into his veins.
Mira's eyes widened. "Kael… what is that?"
He had no answer.
Far above the mist, unseen by any in Duskvale, a shadow vast and black-winged stirred, eyes like twin suns swallowed in night opening after centuries of slumber. The shard had awakened, and so too had those who sought it.
The village argued through the night. The elders demanded the satchel be burned, buried, or taken to the governor in Ravenholt. Some claimed it was cursed, others muttered of omens and demons. Kaelen kept silent, the shard heavy in his lap as though it weighed more than the world itself. He barely slept, and when he did, visions came: battlefields drowned in fire, a crown of starlight broken into shards, and shadows spreading wings across the sky. He woke before dawn, sweat slicking his skin, the shard's glow seeping through the leather satchel.
By evening, the nightmare came.
Screams tore Kaelen from his sleep. Fire licked across thatched roofs, villagers fled into the night, and armored riders thundered through the streets. Their armor was black, etched with runes glowing crimson, their faces hidden behind snarling visors. They cut down anyone who stood before them, blades glinting in the firelight. The air reeked of blood and smoke. Kaelen burst from his hut, clutching the satchel, nearly colliding with Mira, who carried her father's hammer in both hands.
"They're searching for it!" she cried. "For the shard!"
One of the riders turned, helm locking on the faint glow from the satchel. With a hiss, he advanced, his blade rising. Kaelen froze, terror pinning him, but the shard pulsed violently in his grip, and the world slowed. He saw the arc of the enemy's blade in unbearable clarity, every falling ember frozen. Guided by instinct, he lifted his wooden sword. When steel met wood, a flash erupted like a star exploding. The rider was hurled back, armor shattering, his body crumpling against the ground.
Silence fell around him. Kaelen stared at the unbroken wooden blade, his breath ragged. Mira's face was pale, her eyes wide with awe and fear. "Kael… what did you just do?"
He had no answer, only the certainty that nothing would ever be the same.
They fled into the forest as Duskvale burned behind them. The shard pulsed like fire in his chest, guiding his steps, whispering faintly at the edge of his mind. By dawn, the screams had faded, and only smoke remained above the horizon. Kaelen stood at the edge of the trees, staring at the ruins of his home, hollow as though his heart had been turned to ash. Mira placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice steady despite the grief in her eyes.
"We can't stay. Whoever they are, they'll hunt us until they find it. We need to leave. We need to find someone who knows what this shard is."
Kaelen nodded numbly, though the weight in his chest grew heavier with each beat. He had dreamed all his life of leaving Duskvale, of wielding a blade that mattered. Now fate had thrust power into his hands, and all he wanted was to go back to the nameless boy he had been. But there was no going back.
The shard had chosen him.
And the world was already stirring in its wake.
Act II – Flight and PursuitKaelen and Mira left Duskvale behind with nothing but the clothes on their backs, Mira's hammer, and the satchel with the shard pulsing like a second heart at Kaelen's side. They traveled by deer-trails and game-paths, avoiding the roads, for fear the black-armored riders still scoured the countryside. At night, Kaelen dreamed of wings blotting out the stars, of a broken crown scattered across an endless battlefield, and of himself standing in the center, clutching shards that burned his hands raw. He told Mira little of the visions, though she noticed the shadows beneath his eyes grow darker each morning.
The land beyond Duskvale was rough and wild. Rolling hills gave way to forests thick with pine and oak, rivers cut through valleys, and villages clung to the edges of farmlands, wary of strangers. Everywhere they passed, Kaelen heard whispers—villages burned, riders in black armor seen on the horizon, travelers gone missing. More and more refugees crowded the roads, families fleeing with carts piled high, mothers clutching children, men carrying whatever tools could serve as weapons. The empire's borders were unraveling, and fear hung over every town like smoke.
On the third week of their journey, they reached the river Veyna, broad and cold, its waters churning beneath a sky of gray. Across its far bank loomed the fortress-city of Ravenholt, walls of black stone rising like jagged cliffs. Ravenholt had once been a proud outpost guarding the northern provinces, but now it was swollen with merchants, refugees, and soldiers deserting the emperor's wars. The gates were choked with people, guards barking orders as they searched carts and questioned travelers.
"Stay close," Mira muttered, tightening her cloak. "Cities have sharp teeth. And we're walking in with blood on ours."
Kaelen adjusted the satchel against his side, the shard's faint glow hidden but restless. He kept his hood low, though the press of the crowd made him feel suffocated. When they finally passed through the gates, the sheer noise of the city struck him like a blow—vendors shouting, smiths hammering, horses neighing, beggars crying for coin. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, and too many bodies crammed together. Kaelen's head swam, but beneath the noise he sensed something deeper: a tension, a coiled unease, as if Ravenholt itself waited for a spark to ignite it.
They found lodging in a tavern called The Broken Stag, a leaning structure of timber and smoke-darkened stone near the lower market. Its innkeeper, a barrel-shaped man with a broken nose, asked no questions as long as they paid in coin. Mira had salvaged a handful of silver from her father's shop, but it would not last long. They ate bread and stew by the hearth, listening as voices around them spilled news and rumor.
It was here Kaelen first heard the name The Order of Ash.
"They came again last night," whispered a thin-faced merchant at a nearby table. "Black armor, eyes like fire. Took half the village outside Hallowmere, left the rest in pieces. They call themselves the Order of Ash, and they're hunting something. A relic. A jewel."
"A jewel?" his companion scoffed. "Men don't burn villages for a jewel."
"They do if it was forged by the gods," the first said grimly.
Kaelen felt the shard pulse once inside the satchel, as though answering. He lowered his eyes, but Mira was already watching him, her expression taut with worry.
That night, Kaelen could not sleep. The shard glowed faintly in the dark, spilling light through the seams of the satchel. When he touched it, warmth spread through his veins, and he swore he heard music—faint, broken notes, fragments of a melody older than the world. The sound filled him with both awe and dread, as though he were holding a living piece of eternity. His eyes drifted shut, and visions came: a throne of black stone, a crown of starlight breaking apart, shadows with wings stretching across battlefields. And at the heart of it all, a figure cloaked in ash, reaching toward him with hands of fire.
He woke with a cry, sweat soaking his shirt. Mira sat up, hand on her hammer. "Another dream?"
Kaelen nodded, his voice hoarse. "It's not just power. This shard… it's a piece of something greater. Something terrible."
In the days that followed, Kaelen and Mira searched for knowledge. The city held libraries, temples, and guilds, each clinging to scraps of history. At the temple of Auren, they found a priest who, upon hearing their cautious questions, paled and shut the doors. In the market, a bookseller muttered of ancient wars fought over shards of heaven, but he too refused to say more. At last, in a dim scriptorium tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, they met Eryndor, a scholar with ink-stained fingers and eyes that gleamed too sharply for a man of books.
"You ask of shards," Eryndor said, leaning close over the table where dusty tomes lay open. "Few dare speak of them. Fewer still believe they are real. But I have read the old chronicles, hidden by kings who feared the truth. The Shards of Asterra were fragments of the gods' song, broken when the Crown fell. They hold pieces of creation itself. To touch one is to touch the bones of the world. To keep one is to invite ruin."
Kaelen felt the shard's weight against his chest, a silent contradiction. "If that's true," he asked, "why now? Why are they being hunted again?"
Eryndor's smile was thin and knowing. "Because the Order of Ash has risen. They were once the emperor's secret hand, forged of sorcery and blood-oaths. But now they serve no throne. They serve only the shadow that waits beyond. They believe the shards will restore the Crown—and whoever unites them will command the world."
Mira clenched her jaw. "Then we destroy it. We bury it. If this shard brings ruin, it has no place in the world."
The scholar's eyes flicked to Kaelen. "And yet it chose you, boy. That is no accident. The shards do not lie quietly in any hand. They seek, they whisper, they shape. Perhaps you are their vessel. Or perhaps you are only the first step to their master."
Kaelen left the scriptorium shaken, his thoughts churning. The shard pulsed warmly against his chest, and he could not tell if it was comfort or chains tightening.
Trouble found them soon after.
One evening, as they returned to the Broken Stag, a cloaked figure rose from the shadows of an alley, blocking their path. His voice was rough, touched with the accent of the eastern provinces.
"You carry something that does not belong to you."
Mira's hand tightened on her hammer. Kaelen reached for the satchel. The figure's cloak shifted, revealing black armor beneath, faintly glowing with crimson runes.
Order of Ash.
The man moved faster than thought, a blade singing from his scabbard, striking toward Kaelen. But again, the world slowed, the shard flaring like fire in his chest. Kaelen's wooden sword rose as if guided by unseen hands, catching the steel with a flash of light. Sparks burst across the alley as Kaelen pushed back, the impact shattering stone at his feet. Mira swung her hammer, striking the armored man's side with a resounding crack, but he only staggered. His helm turned toward her, eyes glowing like embers.
"Give it to me," the rider hissed, his voice echoing inside Kaelen's mind. "Or burn."
Kaelen felt the shard surge, a flood of power demanding release. Without thinking, he struck again, and light exploded outward, slamming the rider against the wall. Stones cracked, dust filled the air. When it cleared, the alley was empty.
They fled into the night, breath ragged, hearts racing. When at last they stopped in the shelter of a ruined chapel, Kaelen's hands shook as he stared at his wooden blade, unmarked despite clashing with steel.
Mira's voice trembled. "Kael, this thing—it's not just dangerous to them. It's dangerous to you. I saw your face back there. You weren't yourself."
Kaelen swallowed hard. She was right. In that moment of battle, the shard had filled him with such power, such terrible exhilaration, that he had not wanted to stop. It had felt like the world was his to command, and part of him still hungered for more.
They sat in silence as the night deepened, the shard glowing faintly between them, a fragment of creation and destruction both. Neither spoke, but both knew the truth: the Order of Ash would not stop. And Ravenholt, for all its high walls and soldiers, could not protect them.
If the shard had chosen Kaelen, then their flight was only beginning.
Act III – Allies and SecretsThe ruined chapel where Kaelen and Mira sheltered was little more than broken walls and a crumbling altar, open to the wind and rain. Once it had been a temple to Auren, god of light, but like so much in the empire, it had been abandoned when the wars dragged on. Kaelen sat slumped against the cold stone, the shard glowing faintly in his lap. Mira had dozed at last, her hammer clutched tight in both hands, her head resting on her arm. He envied her the ability to sleep, even lightly.
For Kaelen, sleep brought visions. He saw himself standing upon a battlefield of ash, where broken banners smoldered and the cries of the dying rose like a tide. Above him hung the shattered Crown of Asterra, its pieces drifting in the air like burning stars. Voices whispered in a dozen tongues, some pleading, some commanding. And always there was the figure cloaked in ash, its face hidden, its hand outstretched.
Give it to me, the voice echoed. You were never meant to bear it. You are only a vessel. Surrender, and you will be free.
Kaelen woke with a start, heart pounding, sweat chilling his skin. He looked down at the shard and, for a moment, thought he saw it pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
When dawn came, Mira roused him with a shake of the shoulder. "We can't stay here," she said, her voice hoarse from the night's cold. "If the Order tracked us once, they'll do it again. We need help—more than books and whispers. We need someone who can fight them."
They left Ravenholt before the city gates fully opened, slipping out with a crowd of traders. Their coin was nearly gone, and they had little direction but Eryndor's warning: the shards would draw enemies as carrion draws wolves. Kaelen felt the truth of it in every step. The shard weighed on him like both burden and beacon.
For three days they traveled east, following the old road through marshland and stunted woods. On the fourth evening, as rain lashed down in silver sheets, they found themselves ambushed.
From the reeds on either side of the road, figures rose with bows drawn and knives flashing. Mira cursed, dragging Kaelen behind the cart they had been walking beside. An arrow thunked into the wood inches from Kaelen's ear.
"Bandits," Mira spat. "Just what we needed."
But these were no starving highwaymen. Their cloaks were black, their faces half-hidden by masks of bone and iron. The same crimson glow traced their armor, faint and sickly.
Order of Ash.
Kaelen felt the shard flare like fire against his chest, but before he could rise, a voice cut through the storm.
"Hold your fire."
A tall man strode forward, rain dripping from his ragged cloak. He wore a mismatched set of armor scavenged from half a dozen battlefields, and at his hip hung a curved sword nicked and battered but sharp. His hair was dark, streaked with silver at the temples despite his youth, and his eyes were a pale, cold gray.
"Stand down," he told the masked figures. To Kaelen and Mira, he added, "If you want to live, follow me."
Mira bristled. "And if you're lying?"
"Then you die here, slowly," the man said simply.
Something in his voice carried iron. Against all instinct, Kaelen nodded. He and Mira followed as the stranger led them off the road and into the marsh, where the reeds grew taller than a man. Behind them, the Order's figures melted back into the storm, as if dismissed.
When they reached a patch of dry ground beneath twisted pines, the man finally turned to them.
"My name is Rhydan Veyr," he said. "I was once captain in the emperor's guard. Now I fight against the Order, though I don't always win. You carry something they want, something I've been hunting for a long time." His eyes flicked to Kaelen's satchel. "Show me."
Mira moved instantly between Kaelen and the man, hammer raised. "You'll have to kill me first."
Kaelen hesitated. The shard pulsed faintly, as if urging him to be revealed. At last he drew it out, holding it up. Rain and firelight from their camp flickered across its jagged surface, the glow within rising and falling like breath.
Rhydan's eyes narrowed. "So it's true. A shard of the Crown." He stepped closer, but when Kaelen flinched, he stopped. "Relax, boy. If I wanted it, I'd have let my men take you. The Order isn't the only faction hunting these things. Some of us would see them destroyed before the world burns again."
Kaelen studied him. There was no hunger in Rhydan's gaze, only weariness, as if he had carried too many burdens for too long.
"Why help us?" Kaelen asked.
"Because you're in over your heads. And because the shard chose you." Rhydan's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. "For better or worse."
Over the following days, Kaelen and Mira traveled with Rhydan. He moved with the ease of a man long hunted, always choosing paths through hills and valleys that kept them hidden from the main roads. At night by the fire, he told them pieces of his story: how he had served the emperor until the wars turned to slaughter, how the Order of Ash had risen from the emperor's secret guard, and how he had deserted when he saw what they had become.
"They aren't men anymore," he said grimly, staring into the flames. "They bind themselves with blood-oaths and sorcery. Their armor is grafted to their flesh, their will to their master's. The longer they serve, the less human they remain. And their master…" He shook his head. "The one cloaked in ash. No one sees his face. Some say he is a god returned. Others say he is only a man too far gone. But whatever he is, he wants the Crown restored."
Kaelen listened, the shard warm against his chest. "And if he succeeds?"
"Then the world kneels, or it burns."
Mira spat into the fire. "Not if we smash the damned thing first."
Rhydan gave her a long look. "Easier said than done. The shards can't be destroyed by any smith's hammer or soldier's blade. They are creation itself. To unmake them is to unmake the world around them."
That thought chilled Kaelen to the bone.
They reached the foothills of the Graven Peaks by the end of the second week, jagged ridges rising into clouds. There, Rhydan led them to an outpost hidden in a cave—a refuge of rebels and deserters who opposed the Order. The place smelled of smoke and steel, with racks of weapons lining the walls and maps spread across tables. Men and women in patched armor moved about, some missing limbs, all scarred by battle.
Among them was Seliora, a healer and lorekeeper, who examined the shard with cautious hands. Her hair was white though her face was young, her eyes clouded but sharp.
"It is one of seven," she murmured. "I feel the others through it, faint as echoes. If the Order gathers them all, the Crown will rise again. But there is still time."
"Time for what?" Kaelen asked.
"For choice," Seliora said simply. "The shards do not only seek masters—they test them. You are bound to it now. The question is whether you will master the shard, or it will master you."
That night, Kaelen dreamed again. This time, he stood before a mirror of black glass. In its reflection, he saw not himself but a figure clad in shadow, the shard burning in its chest like a heart of fire. The figure raised its sword—his sword—and when it struck, Kaelen felt the blow tear through him.
He woke with a cry, Rhydan's hand on his shoulder, Mira crouched nearby with worry etched deep.
"The shard is speaking to you," Rhydan said softly. "It shows you what it wants. Power. Dominion. You must resist, Kaelen. Once you yield, even once, you will never take yourself back."
Kaelen nodded, but inside he wondered if it was already too late. The shard's warmth was constant, seductive. In every danger, it promised safety. In every fear, it promised strength. And part of him wanted to accept.
The Order struck just before dawn.
A scream echoed through the cave, followed by the clash of steel. Flames erupted at the entrance as masked figures poured in, armor glowing crimson in the half-light. Chaos erupted—rebel fighters rushing to meet them, Rhydan cutting down two with his curved blade, Mira swinging her hammer with a roar.
Kaelen drew his wooden sword, heart pounding. The shard blazed against his chest, and suddenly the world slowed. He saw every motion—the arc of blades, the spray of sparks, the shimmer of heat from burning oil. When an armored warrior lunged at him, Kaelen moved before thought, his sword intercepting the blow with a crack of light that sent the man sprawling.
Power surged through him, intoxicating. He struck again and again, each blow ringing with unnatural force. The Order's warriors fell before him like grain before the scythe. Around him, rebels cheered, emboldened by his fury.
But when the last foe fell, Kaelen realized his hands were trembling, his breath ragged. The shard burned against his chest, its glow fierce and hungry. He looked down—and saw that his wooden blade was no longer wood at all, but gleamed like silver, edged with starlight.
The rebels stared in awe. Mira's eyes were wide, her face pale. Rhydan alone looked grim.
"You see now," the former captain said. "The shard does not give without taking. Every time you draw on it, you step closer to losing yourself. You must decide, boy—are you its master, or its thrall?"
Before Kaelen could answer, another figure stepped into the cave—tall, armored in black, helm crowned with jagged horns. Unlike the others, his presence filled the air like smoke, suffocating. His voice was a rasp, but carried with terrible clarity.
"You are Kaelen Deyrn," he said. "And you have what belongs to my master. You will come with me."
The rebels drew weapons. Mira raised her hammer. But Kaelen knew, with a sinking certainty, that this was no ordinary knight of the Order. This was a lieutenant of the Ash, one of the shadow's chosen.
And he had come for Kaelen.