Corona Luceronis

The silver crown gleamed in the steward’s trembling hands, its pale blue crystals catching the dim light like shards of ice. It had always been a symbol of triumph, its cool hues meant to inspire calm and wisdom. Yet today, as it hovered above the prince’s bowed head, it felt like a weight of mourning.

He clenched his fists as the cold metal touched his brow. His father had ridden into battle with banners high, his victory assured—or so they all believed. The news of his fall had shattered that illusion, and now, the crown that had graced his father’s head felt more like a noose than a mantle.

As the court cheered weakly, the prince raised his head, his jaw tight. The crown’s crystals seemed to pulse faintly, whispering of duty and sacrifice. He would rule now, not as the victorious heir he always assumed he would be, but as an unprepared son burdened by the shadow of loss.