Chaos and tragedy were running wild through the realm. Just how she had planned.

From her perch atop the obsidian spire of Mount Iridal, Queen Maelira watched the city burn. Rivers of molten fire cut through the once-proud streets of Virethia, and the screams of nobles echoed like a symphony over the thunderous roar of collapsing towers. Above it all, storm clouds boiled with her fury, lightning flashing like the exclamation marks of vengeance.

She stood draped in black and silver, her crown of bone humming with arcane power. Each bolt of lightning that struck the city below fed her strength. This was no accident. This was no rebellion. This was her long-awaited retribution.

Once, Maelira had walked the very streets now reduced to ash. Daughter of a seamstress, loyal apprentice to the Royal Arcanist, and then — cast out. Betrayed by the High Council, framed for a fire she didn’t start, her magic sealed, her mother executed. They thought they’d buried her. They had only planted a seed.

For twenty years, she gathered fragments of forbidden knowledge, unlocking secrets of bloodstorms and soul fire. She carved sigils into the bones of the earth, whispering to shadows and striking bargains with forgotten gods.

Now, her enemies were ash.

A crash shook the tower as part of the city’s central palace collapsed, sending a plume of dust and glowing embers into the stormy sky. Maelira smiled. Virethia’s cleansing had begun. But she knew this was only the first step.

The realm would need a new order — one born not from bloodlines and bribes, but from power and purpose. And she would be its storm-forged queen.

Below her, from the outskirts of the ruined city, resistance was stirring. A young knight, barely more than a child, raised a glowing sword against the darkness. The blade shone with ancestral fire — a remnant of the old world.

Maelira narrowed her eyes.

“Let them try,” she whispered to the storm. “This was only the beginning.”