The Throne Remembers

The throne seated at the apex of the Ivorvale Palace stands at the heart of Citrindally, the capital of the Fyrgen Crown, and near the center of the continent itself. To the common folk, the monument represents royal glory and centuries of history. But among the oldest scholars and the wisest of seers, another tale survives. One whispered with caution, as though speaking too loudly of it might awaken something sleeping within the ancient stone.

It is the tale of ruin.

The tragedy unfolded nearly a century ago, when Fyrgen was still a single vast continent ruled under one crown. Its sovereign was King Lars, a hardened ruler who resided within the towering stone fortress of Oprendelse. Through decades of bloodshed, rebellions, and war, Lars had preserved his dominion with an unrelenting hand. To Lars, dignity and life weighed the same.

By the time his only child, Princess Citrindalia, reached her eighteenth year, the king had begun preparing for the end of his reign.

He adored his daughter beyond reason. Ever since her birth, with her long citrine curls and radiant spirit, she had become the very essence of his world, especially after the death of his wife, the former queen, who had fallen in battle five years before Citrindalia’s eighteenth birthday.

Yet the laws of the age did not permit a woman to rule alone. Even the crown bowed to the ancient order of lineage. A queen required a consort beside her throne.

So Lars chose one himself.

Stein, a powerful minister from his royal court, was declared Citrindalia’s future husband. And to commemorate their union, the king commissioned a throne carved entirely from citrine. A masterpiece worthy of his beloved heir.

But Citrindalia’s heart had long belonged elsewhere.
At fourteen, during one of the palace’s grand masquerade balls, she had met a lesserborn among the sea of nobles and dignitaries. What began as fleeting fascination grew, through the passing years, into a clandestine love affair.

When she learned of her father’s intentions, she tried desperately to abandon the young man and devote herself to duty. She attempted to bury her affections beneath obedience, crown, and kingdom.

But the heart seldom yields to reason.

Days before the royal wedding, unable to endure the torment any longer, Citrindalia confessed the truth to her father.

King Lars listened quietly. He offered understanding, acceptance, perhaps a hint of support. Promising to meet the youngling the next morning and see the suitor for himself.

And the very next morning, her beloved was found dead.
The palace declared it a tragic accident. Citrindalia knew better.

Grief consumed her insides. Any last shred of obedience within her died beside the man she loved.

On the night before her wedding, she entered the throne chamber alone.

There, beneath the trembling glow of fire lamps, she climbed upon the citrine throne meant to celebrate her future. The palace guards later claimed her cries echoed through the halls like the mourning of something not entirely human.

Before dawn arrived, Citrindalia slit her wrists with a ceremonial dagger and bled to death upon the throne.
The kingdom mourned the loss of its princess.

She was dead. But the throne came alive.

Though the bloodstains were scrubbed clean long ago, the story did not end with her death. For even now, it is said Citrindalia’s spirit remains bound to the citrine throne, waiting patiently for another heir strong enough to sit upon it.

And according to the oldest Fyrgen myth of all, she does not wait for peace.

She awaits an heir capable of inheriting her fury, strength, and spirit of vengeance. An heir powerful enough to wield the throne’s wrath and bring to justice all those who believe their unchecked power can defeat love.