Shadows of the crown

Standing on the eastern balcony of the castle, the winds whipping at his cloak, the gaze of Prince Evans swept over the great kingdom of Astera: the gold fields stretching to the horizon, kissed by the early morning sun, yet beneath that beauty a sense of foreboding lingered. These faraway mountains, once comforting and a natural barrier of protection, now seemed to brood under a thickening layer of mist, as though hiding secrets this kingdom was not ready to face.

Astera had once shone so bright, a beacon of light and prosperity, but over the past year, it had been smothering under an invisible weight, a growing darkness that seemed to seep right from the air. Rumors flew among the people of strange happenings: withering of crops without cause, sickness, and death amongst the livestock, and a chill that had submerged into the bones-whatever the season. And at the hub of all that was the crown, an heirloom passed down the generations, now locked away in the castle's vaults.

It was the crown Evans's father, King Aldrich, had worn. Strong and wise, he had ruled his people, but something in him changed during the months leading up to his death. His mind darkened, and with cruel and erratic decisions, the once-beloved king turned tyrant in mere months. Evans watched, helpless, as his father's descent into madness tore the kingdom in two.

Then, in a flash, it was gone. King Aldrich was dead, taken by some from illness, by others from foul play. But Evans knew the truth-his father had been eaten by the crown.

Aged twenty-four now, Evans found himself thrust into a role he had never sought. The throne was his, but the weight of his father's legacy hung over him like a curse. Yet, the crown was still in the castle, its power in darkness but for the time being. Evans knew it was just a matter of time before it stirred once more. He could feel it there, like some minute pulse at the back of his brain, always present, always waiting.

"Your Highness?"

Evans turned with the sound of Jorin's voice. His oldest friend, his closest advisor, Jorin had been at his side since they were boys, sparring in the castle yards and sharing dreams of adventure. Now those dreams felt very distant, replaced by grim realities of a kingdom on the edge of ruin.

"Jorin," Evans greeted; the weight of distraction carried in his voice.

Jorin stepped forward, his bright blue eyes scanning the horizon as if he too could sense the gathering storm. "The council waits for your decision, Evans. They're growing impatient."

Evans let out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. The council had been relentless in their demands to act-a nagging voice that urged him to take up the crown and wield its power, as his father did. They said that it was the only way to protect the kingdom from the encroaching darkness, but Evans knew better.

"The crown is a poison," Evans said, his voice low and even. "It ruined my father. I will not make the same mistake.

Jorin's face softened. He knew what the crown represented to Evans, knew the fear in his heart. "I understand," he whispered. "But the kingdom is restless. There are rumors. of shadows in the east. Of villages falling silent. Of people disappearing. If we do nothing soon, the council may force your hand."

Evans's jaw clenched. He too had heard the rumors: whispered tales of strange creatures glimpsed in the night, villagers speaking of dark figures moving through the forests. He had sent patrols out to investigate, but none returned. Something was coming-he could feel it, just as his father had felt the darkness before his fall.

"We need more time," Evans muttered, though he knew time was a luxury they didn't have. "There has to be some other way."

Jorin paused, then ventured, cautiously, "There might be. but it's risky."

Evans' eyebrow went up; despite himself, his interest had been piqued. "Go on."

"There's this old story," Jorin began, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "A legend about the origin of the crown-it's said to have been forged in the heart of the Black Mountains, where the veil between this world and the next is thinnest. The crown was a gift, or perhaps a curse, from the ancient beings who once ruled those lands. If the crown's power comes from them, perhaps there's a way to sever its connection to our world."

Black Mountains - were feared for being treacherous, with few bold souls daring to venture there. And those old beings Jorin spoke of-myths-wisps of stories whispered in dark tavern corners and used to scare children. Yet the crown's power was no myth-at least, not until his father had succumbed to it.

"Do you think we can break the curse?" Evans asked, sceptic but desperate for hope.

Jorin looked him straight in the eye, his jaw set with resolve. "I believe it is worth a shot. If we can find what power this crown draws on maybe we will be able to stop it from consuming you as well."

These words fell heavily on Evans. Making a way to the Black Mountains, before him stood a challenge not quite as daunting as whatever lay at the dark origin's heart, but trepidation enough to fill his heart. But worse still was the idea of becoming like his father.

"I'll be needing a small party," Evans said after a moment of silence. "We can't risk drawing too much attention. If the council finds out what we're planning, they'll try to stop us."

Jorin nodded, his mind already racing ahead. "I'll gather a few trusted men. We'll leave at dawn."

Evans looked out to the horizon once more, his mind racing with possibilities. The Black Mountains. A cursed crown. And a darkness that was edging ever closer to Astera's borders. He had never imagined this would be his life—that he would be the one to stand between his people and an ancient evil. But the time for doubt was over.

Long shadows, cast by a low sun, crossed the lands, and Evans felt a terrible shiver run down his back. None of them had any idea what lay in store once they passed into the mountains, but one thing was for sure: this was a journey that would alter everything.

That night, Evans sat in the grand library of the castle, a fire crackling in the hearth, going through every ancient text he could get his hands on to find any mention of how the crown came about. Words began to blur together as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of his mind, but he just couldn't stop. He had to know more.

One passage caught his eye-an old account of the creation of the crown, in the spidery hand of some long-dead scholar. It spoke of a great bargain struck between a king and the dark beings who lived in mountains: a pact sealed with blood, binding the crown to its wearer and imbuing it with unimaginable power.

But there was a warning too, and Evans felt a chill run right to the core of him as he read: "Beware the crown, for it does not give power of its own free will. Those who wear it are bound by more than metal and jewel. They are bound by shadow, and in the end, shadow consumes all."

Evans leaned back in his chair; the weight of those words pressed against his skin, upon his bones. The first image that came into his mind was his father's face: the once-strong features twisted by insanity and empty eyes dark with something sinister. The crown consumed him, just as the prophecy prophesied.

Yet Evans wasn't his father.

He would void the curse. He must.

As the firelight danced, casting great shadows across the room, Evans reached a decision. They would leave for the Black Mountains at dawn. The future of the kingdom, and perhaps his immortal soul, depended upon it.