Beyond the borders of Sapphire, far from the royal halls where his brother sat draped in velvet and false authority, Marcus Daemon lived a life of shadows and strategy in the kingdom of sapphire. While the banners of his brother, Crown King cael Daemon, flew over the conquered capitals of Gravemire, Areshia, and Veldoron, Marcus had become a ghost in the wind—a warrior training in silence, forging alliances, and learning what it truly meant to lead.
He watched from afar as cael proclaimed himself the ruler of the Eight Kingdoms. Though not all bowed to him willingly, the image of unity was held in place by blood and fear.
Gravemire, the kingdom of swamps and whispers, had been the first to fall. Known for its elusive assassins and necromancers, it posed little resistance once Darion's silver-tongued promises turned into the blade. Marcus had visited it briefly, and even in decay, it reeked of rebellion waiting to ignite.
Areshia, the kingdom of golden plains and scholars, fell next—not by war, but by betrayal. Its king, seduced by Darion's dream of a unified realm, sold his allegiance for protection. Areshia's people now lived under silent oppression, their libraries monitored, their historians censored.
Veldoron, the cold highlands, proud and distant, had once sworn loyalty only to their gods. But Cael, with his cunning and spies, broke them from within. Their temples burned; their priests vanished. Only their warrior queen, now imprisoned, ever dared speak openly against the Daemon crown.
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Meanwhile, Marcus moved between old allies and forgotten places. Hidden deep in the southern reaches of Morvain, where desert winds carved the dunes like blades, he trained with the best warriors of the sand. His days were spent mastering the sword, his nights meditating beneath the stars, whispering to the distant dragon who waited beyond the mountains.
Despite the hard life, Marcus found clarity in exile. He'd grown leaner, stronger—his once-boyish charm had sharpened into the rugged, sun-bronzed features of a leader. Locals told tales of his looks, his blade, and the fire in his eyes. Women and men alike turned when he passed, unaware they were in the presence of a trueborn heir.
Still, he carried the burden of his blood.
He had not yet returned for his throne, not while Cael ruled with the might of the other kingdoms behind him. Marcus knew the war to come would not be won with swords alone. It would require hearts, alliances, and a return of something greater than royalty.
It would require the return of dragons.
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Back in Sapphire, Cael sat upon his father's throne, cloaked in arrogance. He was adored by some, feared by most, but loved by none. The other kingdoms bowed, but their knees bent in resistance, not loyalty. His ambition to rule all eight kingdoms had succeeded—for now.
But rumors were spreading like wildfire: whispers of a dragon stirring in the south, and of a man—bastard born but king by right—rising with fire in his heart.
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The kingdoms, once divided by land and culture, were now bound by a tension that could snap at any moment.
Sapphire — the broken jewel of the world, now seat of Cael's false rule.
Ironholde — the military behemoth growing restless under varren's command.
Valmora — the conqueror kingdom still thirsting for power beyond its borders.
Thaloram — watchers of the arcane, waiting for a sign from the old gods rules by king Renmar Thorne.
Zar-Khalan — conquered by prince Aleric Morris of Valmora .
Morvain — now Marcus's ally, ready to strike.
Drel'thar — silenced by conquest, smoldering with quiet rage and conquered by prince Aleric of valmore.
Aethermere — the storm-riders of the sea, soon to choose a side.
And now, under Cael's banner:
Gravemire
Areshia
Veldoron
The game of thrones was no longer a game—it was survival.
And Marcus Daemon, bastard son of a dead king, was about to bring fire to the world once again.