The Eternal Sovereign

The moment the crown touches your brow, cold fire erupts through your skull — not burning, but erasing. You feel yourself receding like ink washed from a page, the careful handwriting of your life dissolving into something older and far more terrible.

The dead kings rise around you, their hollow sockets gleaming with approval. Their voices no longer whisper — they are you, and you are them, a throne built from centuries of buried will. Valdenmoor's enemies will shatter against an army that cannot die. The kingdom is saved.

Somewhere deep and unreachable, the scribe who loved dusty archives and careful cataloguing watches from behind glass, pressing wordless hands against the dark. No one hears. The figure on the throne straightens, ancient and merciless, and Valdenmoor kneels.