Alaris and Verion - 'Sins and Royalty'

"Neither ancient blood nor the Oaks placed this crown upon me — it was the weakness of lords, and so long as they are slaves to their desire, I shall rule without mercy and kneel to no one."

In the rich court of Ahkume, it is not Lord Pyrus who truly rules, but beauty that is seated at his side — Alaris, his mate, his captor. The crown rests heavy on Pyrus’s brow, yet it is her unseen hand that moves the kingdom's fate. Draped in silk and gold, Alaris weaves her will through a facade of loyalty, her pride and ambition hidden beneath the gleam of jewels. To the eye, she is monarch; in truth, she is sovereign.

But beneath the glitter of court life, the whispers grow sharper, more brazen. It is said that Alaris’s affections are not solely reserved for her crown or her consort. Eyes linger too long on her youngest son, Verion — her touches too familiar, her smiles too warm. Fingers that once caressed a lord now trace the broad shoulders of a boy barely grown. The halls of Ahkume murmur of a scandal too vile to voice aloud: a mother’s love, twisted into something unholy.

Pyrus hears it all, yet he does nothing. His fear binds him tighter than any chain. His silence grants Alaris the freedom to raise Verion high, seating him on the throne under the hollow guise of preparing him for rule — though five elder brothers stand in line before him. Some whisper that Verion is no trueborn son of Pyrus at all, but a living ghost of Alaris’s long-dead lover, a warrior who perished far from Ahkume’s gilded walls. Whether out of love or madness, she clings to the boy as if he alone can fill the void her amour never could.

The ruler, desperate to silence the court’s laughter, has even shed innocent blood — executions carried out not for treason, but for the simple sin of mockery. Yet no blade, no noose can still the undercurrent of hatred. Behind the walls of their marble palace, Alaris and Verion revel in their stolen dynasty, blind to the storm gathering beyond.

Ahkume is a kingdom fattened by gold and rotted by excess. Its riches gleam brighter than ever, but the people’s patience runs dry. In the dark, prayers rise to Shakis — the old god of vengeance — for fire, for ruin, for a reckoning. For now, the throne stands. But beneath its gilded feet, the cracks are widening. And one day, even a queen’s iron grip will not be enough to hold back the fall.