Chapter 1 - Ashes Of The Hollow Crown

Prologue: The Fire Beneath the Blackened Sky They say the sun once rose over the continent of Virelia, but that was before the gods were murdered. Now, the world is cloaked in endless twilight, the sky choked with the ash of ancient wars, and the stars above are veiled by the black wings of the Hollow Crows — carrion birds said to carry the whispers of the dead. Virelia was once ruled by the Archons, wielders of High Magic — a force gifted by the Divine Flame, source of life and order. But when the Flame flickered and died, so too did the balance. The Archons turned on one another, and their spells tore mountains from the earth and burned oceans to steam. What rose from the ruin were not kings but warlocks, necromancers, and monsters in flesh and soul. And in the shadows, something older stirred — a power thought buried in myth: The Black Tongue, a magic that feeds on death, pain, and the unraveling of names. In this broken world, kingdoms are made of bones, and oaths are carved into flesh. This is the story of Kaelen Morvane, a boy born with no name, marked by fire, hunted by those who fear what he might become — and what he already is. Chapter One: The Branded Child Kaelen didn't remember his mother's face. Only the scream. It echoed in his mind every night — high, sharp, then suddenly silent. He remembered fire, too. Not warm like hearthfire, but searing, unnatural — a black flame that burned blue at the edges, leaving no smoke, only silence. He had been found in the ruins of the village of Thorneby, the only survivor. The Inquisitors called it a "cleansing," though the ash that covered the ground smelled not of sin, but sorrow. He was five winters old, branded with a sigil no scholar could name: a jagged spiral carved into his chest, surrounded by scorched veins that pulsed with faint violet light whenever he was near death — and he had come close many times. The monks of the Pale Order raised him on salt bread and silence. They taught him the Old Wards, symbols of protection once used in the time of the Archons. But the wards burned under his touch, flaking into ash like dead leaves. They called him cursed. Demonspawn. The Brandborn. At seventeen, Kaelen had already killed. Not out of malice — but because something inside him wanted to. A voice, ancient and cold, whispered in his dreams, urging him to speak words in the Black Tongue. He never remembered them upon waking, but the results were always the same. Dead things moved. And living things screamed. Chapter Two: The Witch of Hollowmere The first time Kaelen saw the Witch, she was standing atop a field of bones, barefoot, her eyes glowing like the moon behind storm clouds. They said she was a thousand years old, that her veins ran with wyrm-blood, and that her heart beat only once a year. She was known only as Maerith, and the people of Hollowmere left offerings of teeth and hair at the edge of her forest. Kaelen found her by accident — or perhaps fate — while fleeing from the Black Priests of Vaul, who had finally discovered what he was. She did not kill him. Instead, she fed him raw heartroot and told him stories. Of the ancient city beneath the world, of the Flame's last flicker hidden deep in the Obsidian Vault, and of the Crown of Hollow Kings — an artifact that could bend death to will. "You are not cursed," Maerith told him. "You are the key that was never meant to be turned." Would you like me to continue this into a full novel-style progression? I can expand the world, develop Kaelen's powers, introduce factions (like the Black Priests, Flamebound Knights, or Necroseers), and unfold a dark, magical plot full of betrayals, forbidden magic, and shattered empires.