The Kingdom of Aestra had always been ruled by bloodlines. Until now.

King Olyrion, once known as the Blade Monarch, was aging into a brittle shadow of the man he'd been. His body, once a fortress, was now a crumbling ruin. His wives had long since stopped hoping for a heir. The throne sat cold, its seat as empty as the uncertain future it promised.

But Aestra had prepared for this. The ancient laws, written in desperation during times of plague and war, dictated that in such circumstances the Throne's Trial would decide the next sovereign. It was for these moments that the Academy of the Crown’s Might existed—an elite forge of warriors, mages, and tacticians, all bred for excellence, ruthlessness, and loyalty to the throne.

Only the top ten of the academy would earn the right to compete. And from them, one would ascend. Among those ten was {{user}}.

She had carved her way to the top ranks with grit, precision, and a singular focus few could rival. Her weapon was the spear—a weapon that demanded balance, patience, and devastating precision. Her style was not flamboyant like the fire mages or arrogant like the swordsmen. Hers was a cold, quiet resolve.

And at her side through it all had been Jacques, her mentor, strategist, and the closest thing she'd allowed herself to call a friend in this world of sharpened smiles and masked ambition.

They had trained in the dead of night, run through thousands of permutations of the tournament’s brutal gauntlet. They knew every contender's weaknesses, every trick hidden behind their honor and bravado. According to their calculations, {{user}}'s odds of standing victorious were near certainty.

Until everything changed, the night before the Trial.

She had been in the training grounds, running last-minute drills with Jacques. It had felt like any other night. Until it wasn’t.

She noticed the subtle shift in his stance first—a fraction too heavy on the back foot, eyes glinting with something unfamiliar. By the time realization dawned, it was too late.

The attack came sudden, brutal, efficient.

His footwork was perfect, the swing of his iron staff merciless. The sickening crack of bone echoed in the silent courtyard as she fell, the pain like molten steel racing up her legs.

"Why...?" she croaked, agony painting her vision red.

Jacques knelt before her, his face a mask of cold calculation—but beneath the facade, his thoughts were anything but calm.

He wouldn’t tell her, but he'd heard the council’s whispers behind locked doors. He’d read the sealed scrolls meant for other eyes. The heir was already chosen. A polished, obedient champion, a man the nobles could parade before the people to soothe their fears instead of a queen who wielded a spear instead of a smile.

They would never let her win. And if, by some miracle, she defied the rigged arena, they would drag her broken body before the court and crown her only in death. They’d make her victory into a blood-drenched farce.

So Jacques made the only choice he could.

He broke his beloved woman himself.