The King’s Fall
The Broken Crown Saga Book One
by Orlan Drake
Genre: Epic Fantasy
A Gripping Tale of
Royal Betrayal and Hidden Romance
When darkness falls on the kingdom of Ardanthia, readers
will find themselves caught up in a story where nothing is what it seems.
Princess Eloise faces impossible choices as murder and betrayal tear her world
apart. Her secret love for the Prince of Caladorn adds another layer of danger
to an already deadly situation. This isn't just another royal romance - it's a
heart-pounding adventure where love and loyalty clash in the most dangerous
ways possible. You'll feel every moment of tension as Eloise walks the razor's
edge between duty and desire.
Mystery and
Investigation That Keeps You Guessing
Sir Cedric Blackthorn brings detective skills that would
make any crime solver jealous. His brilliant mind works to solve puzzles that
could save or destroy an entire kingdom. As Ambassador Zafir arrives with
hidden motives and Baron Gorgo schemes from the shadows, every character
becomes a suspect. The investigation twists and turns through palace halls
filled with secrets. You'll find yourself trying to solve the mystery alongside
Cedric, picking up clues and second-guessing every revelation. The chase scenes
will have you on the edge of your seat as our heroes race against time through
a kingdom ready to explode into war.
Fantasy Adventure
That Brings Legends to Life
The Broken Crown Saga starts with this incredible first book
that mixes political drama with fantasy elements that feel fresh and exciting.
Secret groups work behind the scenes, pulling strings that control the fate of
nations. The world-building draws you in completely, making you believe in a
place where magic and politics dance together in dangerous ways. This story
proves that sometimes solving one crime can prevent an entire war - and that
the most important battles happen in the shadows.
For readers of David Eddings and Terry Brooks, this
sweeping tale of betrayal, magic, and destiny will leave you breathless.
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The
final pages of The King's Fall. The dust of the main story has settled — or
seems to have. In the palace of Armathor, deep in the Caladorn mountains, Queen
Evelina is alone with Lady Seraphina D'Argent, former Crown Warden, recently
returned from Ardanthia. The wine is poured. The conversation is pleasant,
measured, and completely lethal. The Queen has something in mind. She is about
to ask Seraphina to do something that will set the opening chapter of Book Two
in motion.
It was said the palace of Armathor, in the heart
of the Caladorn mountains, never slept, but the moon found its way to every
quiet corner. The Queen's private chamber was carved from the southern tower, a
place built for solitude and scrutiny. The windows were long, slender, and set
with glass so thick it kept out both winter and whisper. Heavy drapes of
midnight-blue velvet, threaded with silver, muffled the chill and the city's
low night-song, leaving only the hush of breath and the crackle of torches in their
sconces.
The air was thick with the scent of resin and
distant snow, but another aroma ran beneath it — cloves and wine. At the room's
centre, a low table supported a decanter and two goblets. Both glasses sat
half-emptied; the decanter had fogged on its bottom third, as if uncertain
whether to sweat or freeze.
Queen Evelina held her glass delicately, her
grip so slight it seemed the vessel might tumble from her hand if she so much
as sneezed. The Queen wore her hair pinned high and loose, an unstudied crown
for an unstudied hour. Her gown, a filmy sheath the shade of old tarnish,
caught the torchlight and drank it in, until her figure was as much shadow as
substance. The Queen's posture was easy, almost indolent, but her eyes never
left her companion.
Across from her, Lady Seraphina D'Argent sat
with her knees together and her hands splayed over her lap, fingers laced with
the casual precision of a chess master at ease. The former Crown Warden met the
Queen's gaze without flinching, but her eyes — a cold and analytic grey — never
let go of the edges of the room.
Seraphina's glass was untouched since the last
round of words. The level had receded by a careful sip, but not a drop had been
wasted. In the small triangle of space between their knees and the table, the
tension was a living thing.
"It will be difficult to replace
Lysandra," the Queen observed, voice as mild as broth. "She had a
unique talent for crossing lines. Even when there were none to cross."
"I suppose her parents hoped for a daughter
with fewer opinions. The Foreign Office never does choose the docile ones,
Majesty. We'll see how she handles Ardanthia's new Queen as your
Ambassador."
"I prefer people with opinions. Docility is
only a virtue to the person holding the leash." Her eyes flicked back.
"Or the knife."
"A dangerous thing to say," Seraphina
replied.
"Danger is only dangerous if you lack
purpose," Evelina said. She set her glass down, slow, careful not to sound
the rim against the marble. "And I believe, Lady Seraphina, you have
purpose to spare."
Seraphina dipped her head, not quite a bow, more
an acknowledgement of a point scored. "You flatter, Majesty."
Evelina shifted in her seat, one elbow resting
along the table's edge, the other hand reaching for a small knife to cut a
crescent of lemon. The blade flashed, peeled, then stilled. "Flattery is
for courtiers," she said. "I have no use for it. Only results."
Seraphina watched the Queen's hand. "You
called me here for a reason."
"Yes." The Queen dabbed the lemon to
her tongue, then wiped her fingers on a strip of linen. "I want your
honest assessment. Will Ardanthia hold?"
The question landed without a ripple, as if the
air had been waiting for it all night. Seraphina considered, lips pursed.
"In the short term, yes. The Queen has consolidated her position. Prince
Evander has weathered the worst of it." Her eyes found the window, the
frost limned along its lead. "But the cracks are visible. Baron Gorgo is
not the only one with an appetite. If Ardanthia is to hold, it will be because
someone else wishes it so."
"And who," Evelina inquired, voice now
soft, "is that someone?"
Seraphina's face, already pale, went a notch
whiter. "You know the answer to that, Majesty."
Evelina did not smile. "I want to hear
it."
"Caladorn will ensure Ardanthia's
peace," Seraphina replied. "Or its ruin. Whichever suits us
best."
A pause. The torchlight guttered, and a new
wedge of shadow bled up the wall behind the Queen.
"Good," said Evelina. "And the
ambassador?"
Seraphina let her gaze rest on her own hands.
"Lysandra Vale's credentials are impeccable, though she carries more than
the usual baggage."
Evelina's voice was all silk.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Seraphina said, "she
was not sent merely to observe. I believe the Council of Nine expects her to
destabilise the court, quietly, if the King so desires."
The Queen nodded, her gaze shifting to fix on
the tapestry hanging just beyond Seraphina's right shoulder. "You've
picked up quite a bit in your short time back," she said, more to herself
than her guest. "I like that ability."
Seraphina lifted her glass, letting the wine
briefly touch her lips before setting it back down. "You have always
underestimated the subtlety of small acts, Majesty."
"Small acts," said the Queen,
"are for those with small ambitions."
Twilight’s Dominion
The Broken Crown Saga Book Two
The peace was always a lie. They just didn't know whose.
Queen Eloise of Ardanthia has done everything right. She
negotiated the alliance with Caladorn, married the prince, held her court
together through blight and borderland attacks and the whispered threat of an
ancient secret order. Now, with villages vanishing overnight — crops blackened,
livestock dead, people simply gone — she does what any good
ruler would do. She sends her best.
Sir Cedric Blackthorn, the precise and principled
knight-investigator. Captain Elira, a soldier who has survived too much to
flinch at anything. Tomas, a scholar more at home with footnotes than
fistfights. Ryn, a street thief from the Saltspire docks whose instincts are
worth more than anyone's education. And Auralias — the Court Mage, brilliant
and unsettling in equal measure — who brings knowledge of old magic that none
of the others possess, and who may be the only thing standing between Ardanthia
and the League of the Moon.
Together, they are hunting the League before the League can
finish what it started.
What they find will change everything they think they know —
about the attacks, the conspiracy, and the true scale of what is being
assembled in the dark. There are artifacts, older than any living kingdom,
whose power was thought lost to history. There are secrets buried so deep that
uncovering them will cost more than anyone is prepared to pay. And there is a
question, growing louder with every mile: who, exactly, is the enemy?
Twilight's Dominion is a story about loyalty
tested to breaking, courts where every smile hides a calculation, and the
particular horror of realising that the enemy has been in the room all along.
It is about a queen learning that the peace she built was built for her
— and a company of mismatched, battle-worn companions who keep fighting even
after the ground gives way beneath them.
Set across mountain fortresses carved from living rock,
fog-wrapped port cities, a besieged royal palace, and the treacherous corridors
of two kingdoms in collision, this is epic fantasy for readers who like their
politics sharp, their magic consequential, and their betrayals earned.
Perfect for readers who love:
*The political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire
*The ensemble loyalty of The Lies of Locke Lamora
*The world-building depth of Robin Hobb
*Characters who are competent, scarred, and worth caring about
"There's no certainty in what's ahead. But I'd
rather die among friends than watch the world go to monsters."
The Broken Crown
Saga:
Book One: The King's Fall
Book Two: Twilight's Dominion
Book Three: Echoes of Kings - coming soon
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Sir
Cedric and his companions have returned to Silverspire Castle to report to
Queen Eloise and her Council after a dangerous mission at the monastery of
Delrith. They bring hard evidence of a conspiracy larger than anyone suspected
— and devastating news about one of their own. The Council chamber is full. The
Queen is waiting. What happens next, none of them could have predicted.
~870 words
The council chamber was a vast oval, ringed
with marble pillars, every one carved with a record of war. The seats for the
Council fanned out from a long, narrow table, its surface bare save for ink and
paper. At the far end, Queen Eloise sat in her high-backed throne, her gown the
shade of dying violets, her face as pale and unforgiving as winter. The court
was full — nobles, a retinue of scribes and guards — and all of them silent as
the companions entered.
At her right, the seat for the Mage was
empty. Cedric's stomach twisted, but he showed nothing. He bowed, Elira and Ryn
following suit, Tomas bobbing more than bowing.
Eloise's voice broke the silence, sharp and
unadorned. "Report."
Cedric stepped forward. "Majesty. We
reached the monastery at Delrith. The League of the Moon found us there. We
managed to recover a primary source, but..." He hesitated, then forced it
out. "We lost Auralias. He stayed behind to hold off pursuit and ensure
our escape. We believe he is dead."
The court did not gasp. There was a more
subtle reaction: the ripple of discomfort, the tightening of fingers around
chair arms, the almost imperceptible shuffling as people recalculated the
balance of power. At the dais, Queen Eloise's hand gripped the throne so
tightly that the veins stood out on her wrist.
Tomas managed to find his voice. "We
have proof. The League is not just a cult — they are organised, disciplined.
Their goal is to reassemble ancient artifacts of the old Empire and use them to
seize power over every kingdom. It's not a myth. It's—" He trailed off,
eyes wide as the implication landed.
Baron Gorgo stood, his bulk forcing the men
on either side to cower away from him. "If this is true, then we must move
now. Strike at every suspected agent, burn the infection from the city."
High Councillor Voss coughed, a wet, phlegmy
sound. "We have no evidence beyond the testimony of a handful of
survivors. What if this is fearmongering? What if the so-called League is but a
puppet, and the real threat lies elsewhere?"
Lady Veyra, who had not spoken, fixed the
companions with a stare so cold Tomas' chest tightened. "And what of the
Mage? If he is so easily lost, how can we trust you to stand against the
League?"
Cedric's voice was a flat line.
"Auralias was the strongest among us. He bought us the time to bring this
warning. If you question our loyalty, you may as well summon the executioner
now."
A murmur ran around the table — some found it
brave, others suicidal. Queen Eloise did not flinch.
"We will not be provoked into rash
action," she said, her voice a blade. "Ardanthia has survived by
caution, not bravado."
Gorgo laughed, a sound that rattled the
torches on the walls. "Caution is what the world calls cowardice, when it
looks back at ruined cities."
At the table, the silence rebuilt itself.
Queen Eloise spoke at last, her words measured and final. "You have done
your duty, and the realm owes you. Rest. You will be summoned if needed."
She dismissed them with a gesture.
As the companions turned to leave, the doors
at the far end of the chamber exploded open. Two guards struggled to restrain a
figure between them, half-dragged, half-walking, his blue cloak tattered, the
white of his hair now streaked with blood and dust.
Auralias.
He stumbled forward, collapsing against the
council table, his breath rasping in his chest. The guards tried to pull him
upright, but he shook them off, barely able to keep his feet.
The court erupted — not in applause, not in
approval, but in a stunned, horrified silence. Queen Eloise rose from her seat,
the movement so abrupt the guards flinched back. Baron Gorgo reached for his
sword. Even Lady Veyra looked up, the mask of composure slipping for an
instant.
Auralias raised his head, blood running down
the line of his jaw. "Forgive me," he croaked, "for the
interruption. I have news."
He gripped the back of the nearest chair to
keep from collapsing.
The room held its breath, the fate of the
realm balancing on a ragged edge, waiting for the next word to tip it either
way.
For a full minute, the hall was silent but
for the wet trickle of blood from Auralias's temple, pattering onto the
polished floor in erratic counterpoint to the wild pulse in every chest. No one
moved. Even Baron Gorgo's hands, usually restless, had stilled on the arms of
his chair, his eyes locked on the mage as if trying to will him back into the
grave from which he'd clearly escaped. Lady Veyra tilted her head, eyes
narrowed, as though observing a particularly clever parlour trick with the
potential to upend the world.
Auralias straightened, shuddered, and found
his breath. When he spoke, his voice was not the sonorous music it once had
been; it scraped the air, raw and urgent.
"Your Majesty. Council. I regret the
spectacle, but I would not have returned had it not been vital." He
coughed, and the blood painted a fresh streak down his jaw. "I have spent
the last three weeks hunted by the League and worse things. Only the death of
their Magister and the chaos after let me slip free. The League of the Moon is
real. They are many, and now, they are desperate."
The word 'real' ricocheted around the marble
like a stone thrown through stained glass. A low ripple of horror passed
through the gallery, some nobles gasping, others crossing themselves in the
old, forbidden way. Queen Eloise stood, not bothering to mask the tremor in her
hands. She moved around the table, descending the three steps of the dais with
a dancer's balance.
"Speak clearly, Mage," she said.
"What do they want? What is their aim?"
I am a new author writing under the pen name Orlan Drake, my
real name is Chris Hills Farrow. I've
worked as a freelance writer for magazines in the past but have always wanted
to write fiction, and after having more free time during the lockdowns, I have
made some progress. I enjoy fantasy because it opens my mind to other worlds or
ways of life that do not exist in real life, or have ever existed.
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