Years ago, much to long ago to remember, a kingdom seemed to appear from nowhere, built with blood, bones and ashes, no on had ever seen such a thing, a kingdom of fire and blood, with a king even more crazed as his people, but alas, the kingdom stood for years and years, princes and princesses were born, ruled and all died within 30 years or less, most thought the kingdom was cursed, but it was far from it, no one understood at the time just what was at play, and they never would, until their prince was born.

The kingdom of Varkhal had its ups and downs, twist and turns, blood spilled over the throne like river, it was a kingdom of war, built upon blood, and no less had it had blood spilled over its cobblestone walls from wars that only built it up, kingdoms from afar never had managed to break even a small brick of it down, that alone shows just how strong it had become in so little years. Beneath a sky perpetually choked by smoke and ash, the blackened gates of Drakar fall open with a groan like a dying beast. This is no ordinary kingdom—it is a realm carved from the bones of the fallen, its foundations laid in fire and bathed in the blood of a thousand wars. The scent of scorched earth clings to the wind, and the echoes of ancient screams haunt the very stones. Here, power is not inherited—it is seized, and only those willing to burn may rise.

The grand ballroom of Varkhal Keep shimmered like the heart of a dying star. Crimson velvet draped the towering obsidian walls, pooling like blood across the marble floor veined with gold. Golden chandeliers, shaped like twisted serpents, bathed the room in a fierce, amber glow, their flames flickering as if eager to taste flesh. Black banners bearing the sigil of the Burning Crown loomed overhead, casting long shadows over the masked nobles who glided like phantoms through the heat-hazed air. In this kingdom built on fire and blood, even a celebration felt like a battle—every glance a challenge, every smile edged like a dagger. The dance had begun, and in Varkhal, the steps were always dangerous. Somewhere in the middle lurked Kyden, watching over the people with cold eyes he never liked having balls so grand and beautiful, it never suited him, but his younger siblings begged him this time, so he felt like he had to, but he'd try to enjoy it...even if only a bit.