Chapter 1
1330 — 270 Years Before the Reign of Queen Loriana
The curse is cast. The prophecy is born.
The northern square of Fairwyn was silent under a gray sky. Smoke curled from the ritual candles placed in a half-circle around the stone. At the center stood two women, one revered, the other accused. Morwenna Ignis, once a healer and seer of minds, now stood bound and barefoot. Her gifts had soothed many across the land: soldiers haunted by war, nobles broken by grief, farmers plagued by unseen pain. She had used her power quietly, through thought and touch, never through spectacle. But now the crowd stared with fear. She had crossed a line they could not accept. A boundary never meant to be broken. What her sin was, no one dared say aloud, not in the open. Only that it was a betrayal. A misuse of trust. A love that should never have been.
Her mentor, the Witch of the Northlands, had been forced to choose: save herself by cursing the one she had once called her daughter, or burn alongside her. The Witch stepped forward, grief in her eyes, a vial of salt in her hands. She whispered the spell. The flame on the candles flared. The sky darkened. “I curse you, Morwenna Ignis,” she said. “You shall not die. You shall not rest. Each day, you will wake. Each day, you will watch the one you love fall away from you again. You will carry the weight of immortality, until the flame beneath the monarch is lit.”
Morwenna said nothing. Not a cry. Not a plea. Only silence as the people backed away. Then the Witch turned to the crowd and spoke, her voice strange and distant, as if it came from beyond the world:
“A daughter of Fairbourne will rise. The first of her line to bear the crown in seventy years.
And when she takes her place, the flame beneath the monarch will burn.
Only then will the curse be broken.”
They didn’t understand. Not then. But Morwenna did. And she waited.
---
1600 - The death of the great King Arden
An old man, dressed in a long light blue robe, lies on his bed. Once a proud ruler, the King of Fairwyn feels the weight of the crown slipping from his grasp. His body is failing him, and his fever clouds his thoughts, but his mind remains sharp enough to grasp one undeniable truth: His kingdom will fall.
“No, no,” he mutters weakly, his words barely audible. “Not my daughter...” The King of Fairwyn never imagined his daughter would have to take the throne. Not because he doubted her abilities, no, she was more than capable, but because he knew the prophecy all too well. For seventy years, the kingdom has been led by men. No daughter had ever ruled. And now, the time had come, not by choice but by fate, for Loriana to take the crown.
And with her rise, the myth looms ever closer. The Flame Beneath the Monarch. The very words that foretold her reign would bring about the kingdom’s destruction. He had to warn her before his final breath slipped away. He had never fathered a son. He really wanted to, for her sake, Loriana’s sake. He had wished it. His wife, the Queen, had died young, leaving their daughter motherless and him without the love of his life. He had never loved another.
His love for Loriana was fierce, greater than anything he had known. But not even that love could shield her from the prophecy. Not even he could stop what had been written in the fire of fate.
In his final moments, the king finds a fleeting clarity. With trembling hands, he grasps a pen and paper, scribbling those cursed words: The Flame Beneath the Monarch. He leaves the note on the table, crawling back to his bed. As his last breath escapes him, he is gone. But as his life fades, the paper he wrote on unfolds, and the words he penned, those same words that bound his daughter’s fate, catch fire. They burn to ash, leaving the paper blank.
There’s a knock. “Your Highness? It’s time for your meal.” The maidservant, Tilda, enters the room. “King Alden...?” She sees his lifeless body in the bed, gasps, and drops the tray. The clatter echoes through the chamber as she rushes to his side. “Your Highness, are you all right?” Her fingers find no pulse. She knows. “Oh... our great King Alden...” she whispers, voice trembling. She rises, hesitating only a moment, then turns and hurries out of the room. The others must be told. But more than anyone... his daughter must know.
---
Princess Loriana had just returned from her daily ride with her horse, Joplin.
“Thank you, Joplin,” she whispered softly, patting his neck as the stableboy approached.
“Please make sure he spends the rest of the day in the meadow,” she added with a gentle smile. The stableboy gave a quick nod and led the horse away.
Loriana carried the grace of royalty effortlessly. Golden, blonde hair that caught the sun, clear blue eyes that softened her gaze. She had a natural beauty, charming yet composed, sweet yet strong. Her figure was healthy and unpretentious, not fragile, but grounded, like the land she would soon rule.
As she crossed the courtyard, the peaceful morning shifted. Staff from the court were rushing past, faces tight with panic and urgency. Her brow furrowed. Something was wrong. She quickened her pace toward the castle steps and saw several of her father’s maidservants pouring out the doors, pale and breathless. “Tilda!” she called, stopping one of them by the arm. “What is happening?” The woman halted, eyes wide with grief. “It’s your father... It’s time.” Loriana froze. Her breath caught in her chest. It was too soon. He wasn’t supposed to be this ill. Not yet. “What happened? I have to see him,” she said, already moving toward the doors. But Tilda stepped in front of her. “You can’t, Lori.” “What do you mean I can’t?” “The bells have already told the people. They know the King is gone.” Tilda’s voice broke, but she steadied herself. “The coronation is happening now.” “No,” Loriana whispered, shaking her head. “I have to say goodbye to my father.” Tilda reached out, gently placing a hand on the Princess’s arm. “This is the way it has always been, Princess Loriana. You must show the people that the Monarch endures. That Fairwyn stands strong, even in loss. They need to see their future Queen, before they see a mourning daughter.” Loriana’s heart cracked, but she understood. It was the way of the Monarch.
---
Led by Tilda, Loriana stepped into her coronation gown inside her royal chamber. Outside, the people were already gathering before the castle gates. The royal court had prepared the halls and ballrooms, each corridor adorned with banners and polished stone.
“It’s your time, Princess,” Tilda said, adjusting the fabric at Loriana’s shoulders. “No queen has ruled this land since 1530. You are the first in seventy years.” Loriana offered a small, hesitant smile. “I’m ready, Tilda. I just didn’t expect him to be gone already. I thought I had more time. Time with him... and time to learn.” “You can say goodbye to him once this is over,” Tilda assured her gently. A knock sounded at the door. “Your Highness,” a courtier announced as he stepped in, bowing. “The court is ready.” Loriana took a breath and followed him through the castle’s grand hallways. The court stood waiting in the ballroom, lined up in formal silence, their eyes fixed on the future Queen.
She walked slowly to the ceremonial platform, taking in the faces she had known all her life. Advisors, knights, nobles, those who had watched her grow into the woman she now was. At twenty-five, she was no longer the daughter of Fairwyn. She was its ruler. She had learned everything she could from this court. But now, she would need her own advisor. The King’s Confidant, Lord Elric, had held his post until the end of Alden’s reign. That title would die with him. As Queen, she would need her own. But first came the coronation. Soon, she would no longer be Princess Loriana Fairbourne. She would be Queen Loriana, sovereign and protector of Fairwyn.
