The Obsidian Spire rose higher than any mortal mountain, its surface polished to a mirror-dark sheen that reflected no light, only the stars. At its summit sat Queen Alfirk — robed in woven dusk, crowned with knowledge carved from celestial stone. Her gaze could pierce illusion, deceit, even time itself. Under her rule, the Violet Kingdom became a realm of harmony, precision, and unshakable order.
Or so it appeared.
Every law, every gesture, every breath was governed by design. The streets were silent, spotless, obedient. Children learned not to dream too loudly. Artists painted within sanctioned palettes. And beneath the stillness, a quiet rebellion brewed — not of swords and fire, but of thoughts forbidden to take shape.
Alfirk believed truth alone could sustain peace. But when she began to see visions — distortions in the symmetry she so carefully maintained — she realized her gift of sight had become something else. Faces shifted in mirrors. Stars whispered in languages older than her crown. And deep below, the rivers of memory stirred — Errai’s domain.
To preserve her reign, Alfirk sealed the borders of her realm and forbade the naming of the other Thrones. Yet the more she denied them, the louder the echoes became. Her people spoke of forgotten sisters, of ancient unity now fractured.
One night, under a rare eclipse that stained the sky violet-black, Alfirk descended from her Spire for the first time in a thousand years. There, in the reflection of a still pond, she saw not her own face — but three.
The revelation shattered her composure. Her “clarity” had been a cage. Her truth, a lie she had written upon the stars. For the first time, she understood that order without connection is not peace, but isolation — and that to see clearly is not always to see rightly.
As dawn broke, she whispered a forbidden name — Errai. The sound of it cracked the silence of her empire. The first tremor of collapse began.
The Age of Violet had awakened.