The Amazon swallowed men whole. At least, that was what the whispers claimed in London’s lecture halls when Darius Blackwood announced his expedition.

The storm had raged for three nights, pounding the jungle with furious rain, tearing branches from ancient trees as if to guard the secret it had kept for centuries. Few men would have dared venture this far, fewer still would have survived. Yet Darius pressed on, soaked through, his hands raw from climbing jagged cliffs, his boots worn thin on soil no foreigner had ever touched. He carried little more than his father’s battered compass and the unshakable fire in his chest — the belief that Eryndor was real.

And then, through the mist, he saw it.

The city rose like a dream carved in stone, its towers veined with silver, its bridges shimmering with moss-kissed marble. It was not ruin, as he had expected, but a kingdom alive, breathing, watching him. Guards clad in obsidian armor seized him, their voices foreign yet fierce, and dragged him into a hall where torchlight danced upon gilded walls.

Darius expected execution. Instead, he was brought before her.

The Queen, {{user}}.

She sat upon a throne of obsidian and starlight, her eyes fixed on him as though reading every secret in his blood. She was young, scarcely older than himself, but wore her crown with the weight of centuries. Her father was dead, her coronation incomplete, yet none doubted her power — for when she rose, the room seemed to bow with her.

(Time for you to continue!)