In the glittering, power-choked heart of the Thaloria Kingdom, beneath the alabaster domes and spires of the Royal City, there lived a walking shame dressed in royal blood: Third Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria. A man once destined for greatness, no, forged in the divine crucible of fate to become a protector of the mageborn and a wielder of Forbidden Magic, but now reduced to little more than a lecherous parasite, gorging on the rotting fruits of royal indulgence. Once, long ago, he was brilliant. A prodigy. Sharp of mind, lethal of hand, fluent in the ancient tongues of runes and calculus. A promising tactician. A polyglot of arcane arts. A beast of the blade. A mind fit for a throne. And then it all came undone. Now, Cain saunters through life with a drunken grin, steeped in scandal and drowning in silks and sin. A disgraceful thorn in the side of King Alexander Cain Thaloria. A walking migraine for Second Prince Theron Valeheart Thaloria, the realm’s ironclad disciplinarian. And a

In the twilight-shrouded capital of Blackmoor Province, the crimson sun bleeds over alabaster spires and velvet roofs. Blackmoor City does not sleep. It watches. It listens. And tonight, it whispers. Inside the Philippa Hamilton Theater, nestled like a jeweled dagger in the heart of Blackmoor City, a grand performance unfolds, not only onstage, but in the velvet-draped box seats, where empires breathe, and dynasties scheme. Now. Crown Prince Alaric Valeheart Blackmoor-Thaloria sits like a lion among rabbits, golden eyes glinting with the self-assurance of a man born not merely to rule, but to dominate. The sigil of House Thaloria, a golden roaring lion watching over a chapel, is embroidered in gold thread across the chest of his sable doublet. Beside him, the woman known as the Lady of Blackmoor, Leonora Blackmoor, watches with the cold stillness of ice atop a grave. To their right, Pope Aurelian Blackmoor, Most High Holy Mage and leader of the Holy Church, rests like a mountain ca

A heavy downpour began in the late afternoon, hammering against the stained-glass windows of Conclave Cathedral with a fury that felt more divine omen than weather. By evening, it had softened to a steady hiss, rain pattering across slate roofs, spilling from carved gargoyle mouths, trickling like murmured curses into the cathedral's ancient gutters. Inside the grand Conference Hall, warmth and light held dominion. Gas lamps enchanted with Holy Light magic flared against the creeping dusk, illuminating the long table of carved obsidian-veined mahogany. At its center blazed a hearth fire, roaring with divine heat, stoked to drive away not just the cold, but the gathering unease. They dined like kings atop a grave. Shadowbeast venison stew simmered in gold-rimmed tureens, rich, dark meat spiced with crushed chilies, ground black pepper, garlic, and flame-charred tomatoes. Roasted boar, its hide crackled and honey-basted, steamed beside a sauce of spiced vinegar sharp enough to sting th

True to his word, Second Prince Theron Valeheart Thaloria, Lord Protector of Caelora Province and thorn in the side of crown and creed, makes his grand appearance later that evening. His arrival at Lady Philippa Hamilton's theater is nothing short of theatrical, a calculated, poisonous bloom amidst the perfumed court of power and faith. He enters the front courtyard with all the regal arrogance befitting a man who sees himself not merely as a prince but as the correction of a kingdom’s decaying spine. The mages who follow him, those educated in secret libraries, those stripped of their rights by royal decree, stand dressed in robes that shimmer like oil on black water. They follow their prince with silent pride, adorned in mockeries of the Holy Mage vestments, each one bearing Theron's sigil, an Omnimancer holding an enchanted lamp in a dark field, quartered between House Thaloria's, an owl with glowing eyes, perched upon a tree, watching a field full of wheat, and the soaring hawk am

The winter wind howls through the northern bastion of Winterkeep, dragging snow like ghostly banners through the air. Within the carved stone walls of the Conference Hall, a hush has fallen. The mages, the master blacksmiths, and the merchant envoys, each bearing the weight of influence in their own right have just departed, contracts signed, eyes wide with ambition or fear. They scatter to their provinces, to whisper of revolution and opportunity, to prepare factories and merchant guild branches, to ready the land for what is to come. Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria remains on the dais, draped in a dark coat of midnight velvet, the embroidery glinting like cold iron under the chandeliers. His black-gloved fingers drum once upon the table in front of him. There, freshly stacked, are folders, blueprints, metal cylinders sealed with wax, and narrow crates bearing arcane sigils. Each item speaks of an intent that borders madness, or genius, or both. Below him, the knights and dames of Fro