The Crown of Shattered Realms

By Daphne Charlaine

The Crown of Shattered Realms: A Tale of Magic, Betrayal, and Redemption in a Fractured Kingdom.

In the realm of Suryathara, where magic surges from the mysterious Eclipsed Khaos, a fallen deity's eerie legacy, power is a currency hoarded by the elite through Arcaniths—enchanted relics forbidden to the downtrodden commoners. When a cataclysmic blaze at the royal library triggers Anika Vey's dormant abilities, the humble scribe is marked as a heretic and thrust into the shadowy underbelly of the kingdom.

Driven by whispers of her lineage, Anika unearths her destiny as the final descendant of the fabled Order of the Eclipse, an ancient sect tasked with preserving equilibrium in a land teetering on the brink of chaos. To reclaim her honor, Anika plunges into the treacherous Tournament of Shadows guided by a mysterious rogue. Yet, lurking in the shadows is Lady Kavita Veship, a shrewd manipulator scheming to merge the Khaos with an Arcanith to ascend as an immortal despot.

With exiled Prince Ajit at her side, Anika races to master her unruly powers fueled by the capricious Khaos's energies. Amidst webs of deception and regal machinations, she glimpses fractured realities and foresees apocalyptic timelines. As she leads a fragile coalition against Kavita's cataclysmic plans, Anika faces a perilous showdown where sanity hangs in balance against insatiable power.

Emerging triumphant but scarred, Anika forges a new path alongside the realm's restored monarch to rebuild their war-torn domain. Embracing her mantle as custodian of the rekindled Order of the Eclipse, she confronts looming perils born from ruptures in reality and echoes of ancient vendettas. In a kingdom reshaped by forces of dominance, treachery, and redemption, Anika must wield newfound wisdom to safeguard a future imperiled by lingering shadows of power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SDC
• Release date: Mar 28, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230235750

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Archives of Prakritpura

Within the cool, hushed confines of the royal archives, Anika Vey found solace among the sea of ancient texts that whispered forgotten secrets. Each parchment, worn and frayed, was a treasure of history—stories entwined within ink and sorrow. The scent of aged leather mingled with the distant sound of footsteps echoing off stone walls, marking the passage of time in this sacred space dedicated to knowledge.

Her calloused fingers skimmed over the fragile surfaces of scrolls and books, methodically sorting through each document with practiced precision. A faint light filtered through narrow high windows, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the still air, lending an ethereal quality to the space. Anika enjoyed the intimate dance between light and shadow, a calming balm against the whispers of doubt that sometimes gnawed at her mind. She sorted the texts into neat stacks, creating a mosaic of history upon her workspace, careful to honor the weight of the past.

As she continued her diligent task, her mind occasionally drifted to the world beyond these stone walls. Outside, the towering spires of the noble houses loomed like sentinels, their silhouettes stark against the sky, perpetually reinforcing the ever-present divide between the lowborn and the elite. Each peak marked a bastion of power, where ancient families weaved their destinies, while she remained an observer, a mere scribe in the grand tapestry of their lives. Anika's heart tightened at the thought, her gaze drawn to the horizon where ambition and privilege mingled.

A faint hum of magic tingled at her fingertips as she turned her attention to a particularly faded scroll, the delicate script almost indecipherable beneath layers of dust and time. As she handled the scroll, brief flashes of crystalline patterns danced across her skin, flickering like fireflies in twilight. Anika paused, her amusement barely contained as she shook her head. It was a curious spectacle, one she often dismissed as a trick of the light—a quirk of her imagination that persisted despite her logical nature.

Is it truly just a trick? she murmured to herself, recalling the hushed conversations she'd overheard regarding the Eclipsed Khaos, the enigmatic source of her magic. The idea intrigued her, but it also instilled a sense of apprehension. She was a mere scribe, one trained to meticulously document rather than wield the mystical energies that flowed around her.

Her internal musings were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing closer, reminding her of her role within the hierarchy of the royal archives. She tucked away the scroll with care, her heart quickening slightly. It was her duty to preserve the ancient knowledge, yet she often felt an ache of inadequacy in the shadow of those who wielded power. What right did she have to aspire for more when the archives were her only realm?

With a deep breath, Anika reminded herself of her own resilience. It was in these very confines that she had uncovered truths, piecing together fragmented histories that could, one day, challenge the status quo. Though she labored without the acclaim afforded to the noble houses, the quiet dignity of her work remained a potent source of pride. She would approach every task with the meticulous care of a scribe, preserving the stories that shaped their world.

As the footsteps faded into the distance, she settled into a rhythm once more. Her fingers danced across the scrolls, and the beauty of the written word enveloped her like a comforting blanket. She reveled in the power of knowledge, in the sense of purpose that surged through her veins as she unearthed forgotten narratives. Each text held the promise of understanding and clarity, binding her to the past even as she pondered her uncertain future.

Time passed in a gentle sway, the shadows lengthening around her as day turned to dusk. Anika's mind flitted through various theories she had studied, unraveling complexities with the analytical precision of a well-trained scholar. But with every arcane principle she dissected, a spark of self-doubt flickered to life, challenging her newfound confidence.

What if she couldn’t fulfill the weighty expectations laid upon her shoulders? What if the arcane secrets remained just that—obscure truths forever out of her reach? She clenched her jaw, refusing to let fear take root. Instead, Anika embraced her humanity—the fallibility that came with being someone who yearned to understand, to bridge the vast chasm between her lowborn roots and the towering ambitions of the noble houses.

And in that moment of clarity, she decided she would not shy away from her gift. With the rising determination echoing in her heart, Anika allowed herself a fleeting smile. The archives, with their time-worn texts, might be a sanctuary, but they were also a launching pad—a place where she could cultivate her understanding of the magical threads connecting her to the world.

The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the archives in a soft glow. Anika gathered the last of the scrolls, breathing in the scents of well-worn paper and the promise of history. Each touch was a step closer to uncovering her destiny—a tapestry yet to be woven. With renewed fervor, she looked back at the rows of texts, her heart steady and her resolve unwavering. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she was prepared to meet them head-on, one careful stroke of her quill at a time.

As she returned to her task, the crystalline patterns flared softly against her skin once more—a gentle reminder of the latent magic coursing through her veins. Anika knew she was more than just a humble scribe. She was a custodian of history, a seeker of truths, and perhaps, if fate allowed it, a key player in the unfolding story of her realm.

With each moment spent in the archives, she embraced the weight of power and responsibility. And while the path ahead remained uncertain, she took comfort in knowing she would face it with grace and resolve, one parchment at a time.

Chapter 2: The Burning of Secrets

The archives of Prakritpura, usually a sanctuary of knowledge, lay in ruins, engulfed by a searing blaze that cast flickering shadows over timeworn texts. Anika Vey felt the heat stinging her cheeks, the acrid scent of burning vellum flooding her nostrils as she sprinted through the chaos. The frenzied crackle of flames resonated in her ears, each snapping ember a reminder of the irreplaceable histories crumbling around her. Desperation surged within her as she navigated collapsing stacks, her hands trembling as they clutched scattered scrolls. Each second was a silent plea to save the past from the inferno, even as her own heart raced against the flames' relentless dance.

With her dark hair pinned loosely behind her, strands whipped about her face like the chaotic winds of the storm that had become her reality. She wore her modest scribe’s attire, but in that moment, the fabric clung to her as sweat mingled with fear. Anika barely registered the shudder of collapsing shelves, focusing instead on the precious documents that seemed to wink at her from beneath the impending doom. Vellum scrolls, delicate and adorned with cryptic writings, slipped from her fingers as she maneuvered through a sea of turmoil—one precious document after another.

Just a few more! I can’t let them burn! she breathed, determination fighting the panic clawing at her throat.

The inferno roared behind her, hungry and relentless. Flames danced across the shelves, swallowing entire rows of ancient texts in ravenous flickers of orange and gold. The shadows writhed, taunting her as she hurried to salvage a scroll with gilded lettering—the one containing the account of the Eclipsed Khaos. But the floor crumbled beneath her, and with a yelp, she stumbled, boot sliding over charred debris.

Anika barely caught herself, the coolness of a nearby pedestal offering a brief reprieve. As she pressed her palm against the surface to steady her balance, she felt something odd, something ancient humming beneath her fingertips. It was the Arcanith, the long-forgotten artifact rumored to be imbued with forbidden magic. The contact sent a jolt through her, igniting a spark deep within her essence, transforming her desperation into something unfathomable.

In a rush, crystalline patterns exploded across her skin like fireworks, vibrant and surreal against the backdrop of destruction. The shimmering constructs burst forth, caught between creation and chaos. Their luminescent forms stretched into existence, grabbing hold of the fire’s menacing grasp and redirecting its hunger. For a fleeting moment, she felt the thrill of power surging within her, pulsing to the rhythm of her heart.

Yet with every surge, the stone and timber surrounding her groaned, protesting against the burden of the emergent constructs. They erupted with cracks that spidered along the archway, each shattering sound a reminder of the fragility of her situation. Anika gasped as the ancient archive began to tremble under the newfound pressure—would her magic save the texts or seal her fate beneath the weight of stone?

Please, she murmured to the crumbling walls, just hold on a little longer.

The crystalline constructs flickered, threatening to burst into chaos even as they contained the flames, the tension within the air thickening as if it might explode. Anika felt the heat on her skin, the mingling scents of smoke and the metallic tang of burnt paper weaving together in a dizzying spell of desperation. She fought to maintain control, her analytical mind racing through the magical theories she had studied for years. The principles flowed through her, desperately pulling on memories of her lessons, but the unpredictable nature of raw power twisted beyond her grasp.

Steady, steady... she breathed, her words laced with an urgency that went unheard over the roar of the inferno.

One last effort—she focused, harnessing the power swirling around her, allowing it to flow from the depths of her very being. It shaped itself into the form of ethereal shields, clashing against the flames with a defiance born from within. She was not merely a scribe; she was a catalyst, a vessel for forces beyond her comprehension.

Yet, in the haze of magic and mayhem, the stone structure shuddered more violently. A keening wail echoed above her as bricks tumbled down, bringing with them a rush of dust and debris. Panic unfurled within her like smoke rising to meet the ceiling, consuming her resolve.

Just as she thought she might pull together the final defense, the shelves caved in with a catastrophic crash, reverberating through her bones and wrenching her gaze. Her heart raced; the ground felt like it was shifting beneath her as the remnants of the archives seemed determined to bury her