Prelude: The Three Thrones of the Violet Kingdom They say the stars remember what the world forgets. In the far reaches of the Luminous Belt — beyond the veils of …
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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 — …
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When the walls of Alfirk’s silent empire cracked, the first sound to escape was a song — low, mournful, and ancient. It drifted through the violet mists like a pulse, …
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Long before Alfirk raised her Spire or Errai gathered her echoes, the world was unshaped — a sea of violet mist that hummed with the first light of creation. And …
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The portrait hung in the west hall of the Whittemore Estate, between the cracked marble bust of Lord Alfred and a tapestry depicting a hunt that, by all accounts, had …
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The second portrait hung opposite Sir Reginald’s, the pair forming a strange symmetry at the end of the corridor. While the Basset Hound sat in solemn regality, this Labrador radiated …
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The third painting wasn’t hung with the others. It rested at the top of the grand staircase, facing the main landing as if greeting anyone bold enough to climb that …
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The French Bulldog portrait was the smallest of them all — only twelve inches high, its frame gilded in delicate floral motifs, more jewelry than art. It hung beside the …
They said no such lands ever existed — no record, no ruin, no trace. But that was before I found the map. It was pressed between the pages of an …
The portrait of the English Bulldog hung in the manor’s smallest room — the smoking parlor. It was an odd choice. The space was narrow and low-ceilinged, filled with the …