Where loyalty shatters, legends are forged.
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
kingdom of Ardanthia is on edge. A king under pressure. A princess who has been
quietly holding the court together while her father’s grip loosens. A foreign
prince she cannot publicly acknowledge. And circling them both, the hulking
ambition of Baron Gorgo, Warden of the North, who wants the throne and has
never bothered to hide it. The entire court has been summoned to the Great Hall
before dawn, and no one has been told why. What happens next will change
everything.
At the centre, beneath the highest arch, stood
the twin thrones: one, elevated and gold-chased, draped in banners of
Ardanthian blue; the other, darker, lower, built for a shadow-king or a regent.
Every eye flickered to them, hungry for some sign or herald.
It was the heavy tread of Baron Gorgo that split
the hush. He entered first, shoulders squared, the black of his uniform a
violence against the room’s pallor. His boots left muddy imprints on the pale
runner, each step a small, deliberate desecration. At his right strode King
Leofric, features set in a mask of such stony resolve it seemed a death-mask
forged while the body still lived. The King’s eyes did not so much look as
penetrate; his gaze scythed the room and left a path of abject silence.
The two mounted the dais together. Gorgo
remained a half pace behind, the subordination as hollow as an echo, while
Leofric paused a moment, breath gathering, eyes closing for just an instant.
Then he opened them, and the hall belonged to him.
“My loyal subjects,” he began, his
words a blade so honed that they barely vibrated the air. “You have been
summoned this day not for pageant, nor for the petty resolutions of our rivals,
but for the preservation of the realm itself.”
A shiver ran through the crowd, a ripple of silk
and suspicion, as he continued. “The borders of Ardanthia are pressed from
within and without. The wolves of Nerathis circle. Caladorn postures, and the
ancient oaths tremble. The time for deliberation is past.” He let the
words dangle, inviting the terror to fill in their own implication.
Baron Gorgo kept his posture at attention, yet
his eyes grazed the crowd, seeking challenge or dissent. None came, but all
could feel the burn of his hunger for it.
A movement at the rear, a stir of green velvet
and a gasp stifled in the throat. Princess Eloise entered, her face waxen, eyes
ringed with the insomnia of too many council nights and too little hope. She
wore no circlet, only the severe braiding of her auburn hair and a gown the
colour of malachite, shot through with black that mirrored the storm outside.
The mass of nobles parted for her, not with the deference owed a sovereign, but
the caution reserved for a candle already guttering in its own wax.
From the opposite end, Prince Evander appeared,
flanked by Lady Seraphina and a knot of Caladornian aides in deep blue.
Evander’s face, once a study in sly charm, had gone rigid, each feature
bracketed by the effort not to betray anything. His gaze met Eloise’s only
briefly, but in that moment a strand of tension was drawn between them, visible
to every watcher.
The King continued, raising his right hand as if
to still even the dust. “In the interest of unity, of the survival of our
world, I have chosen to announce a union that will secure Ardanthia against
every viper and saboteur.”
The crowd, packed so tight the air itself was
rationed, waited for the next breath. Leofric took it, then pronounced:
“My daughter, Princess Eloise, heir of this
realm, shall be betrothed this day to Baron Gorgo, Warden of the North and
Shield of the Throne.”
For an instant, the hall was a vacuum. Then
sound returned, in the form of a single, rising sob — a gasp that escaped
Eloise before she could master it, her hands flying to her face. The ring of
the outburst snapped the entire crowd into motion: some nobles applauded, hands
meeting in deadened rhythm; others glanced at each other, eyes wide with the
horror of the thing; a few hissed, barely audible, prayers or curses against
the rising tide.
Eloise, colourless now, tried to step forward,
but her legs betrayed her. Her voice, when it came, was ragged. “Father,
you cannot…” But the King’s hand sliced down, and the words withered in
her mouth.
“You will honour this,” Leofric
declared, “for the safety of our house and the peace of our lands.”
Gorgo bowed, the motion more a decapitation than
a gesture of respect, and flashed a smile at the massed nobles that said
everything of his triumph.
Prince Evander’s reaction was not silence, but a
single, unfiltered snort of disbelief. His cheeks, usually so adept at
containing emotion, flushed dark. He moved to speak, but Seraphina’s hand shot
out, gripping his forearm so hard that his knuckles went white.
“Your Highness, the peril has grown
insurmountable,” she whispered urgently, her voice a mere breath against
his ear. “You must depart at once.”
Evander hesitated, just long enough for the
watching crowd to sense a history behind the pause, then turned, wrenching free
of her grip, and strode from the hall, head high but jaw clenched. The
Caladornian retinue followed, blue sashes glinting in the murk, their faces a
gallery of disappointment, contempt, and smothered panic.
On the dais, Baron Gorgo’s satisfaction was
absolute. He took a step closer to Eloise, his gaze claiming her with the
possessiveness of a predator for its wounded prey. “My future Queen,”
he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
She did not meet his eyes.
Behind them, the Mage Auralias stood at the
periphery, his eyes dark with calculation. He took in the currents of the room
as a mariner reads the surface of the sea: every swell, every undertow, every
sign of storm or shipwreck. He watched as the announcement sundered the social
order, old alliances shattering, new ones annealing in the heat of the moment.
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 Blackthorn has been sent by Queen Eloise to investigate a string of
attacks on eastern villages — crops blackened overnight, animals dead, people
vanished without trace. He has assembled a team: Captain Elira, the scholar
Tomas, the street-sharp Ryn, and the Court Mage Auralias. They are holed up at
a battered inn in the village of Riverbrook, pooling what they have learned.
Ryn has found a symbol at the attack sites that she recognises from her past.
The Court Mage would prefer she hadn’t.
~800 words
A serving girl arrived with a tray — three
mugs of thin beer, a hunk of bread already sliced, a battered tin bowl of what
might once have been rabbit stew. She set them down with the briskness of a
woman determined not to get involved.
Cedric waited until she retreated, then
signalled the others to lean in. “What did you find?”
Elira was first. “Nobody trusts the
Queen, or the Watch, but they’re more afraid of the thing in the sky.”
Tomas nodded, tapping his notebook. “A
few remember blue light, but most didn’t look up. What they all describe is the
shadow.”
Cedric cut a piece of bread, chewing while he
thought. “Is someone calling it, or guiding it?”
Ryn cleared her throat, the movement
dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about the sigil. The one we found at the
granary.” She looked around, daring anyone to interrupt. “In Marinth,
there were stories about a League, never heard it called anything but that.
Supposedly, they could move information, gold, even bodies, without ever being
caught. I thought it was just a trade guild myth.”
Tomas looked up, interest lighting his face.
“Could the League be the League of the Moon?”
Auralias made a dismissive noise.
“You’re giving too much weight to old wives’ tales, Ryn. The League is a
legend designed to explain incompetence in the city guard. There’s no evidence
it was ever real.”
“Then why’s the sigil match?” Ryn
shot back. “And why are you so keen on ignoring it?”
Auralias’s expression remained bland, but
Cedric noticed a pulse beating at the mage’s temple. “Symbols recur,
Investigator. That’s what makes them useful. Even a street child should know
that.”
Cedric intervened, keeping his tone calm.
“Auralias, what do you really know about the League of the Moon?”
The Mage’s lips pressed together. “More
than you, and less than I’d like. If it ever existed, it would have been in the
days before the Crown outlawed private orders. All records are destroyed, and
the only witnesses are centuries dead.”
Tomas leaned forward. “Except the sigil
is real. And the glyphs at Oakvale match. Ryn sketched them, I checked.”
He fished in his coat, produced a stained scrap of paper, and set it on the
table. “See? The same looping curve, the half-moon mark. Whoever is doing
this wants us to know.”
“Or wants to make sure only certain
people understand,” Ryn added.
Elira interjected, “It doesn’t matter if
they’re real or not. If someone’s using their symbols to orchestrate attacks,
we treat it like a live threat. We set watches and keep everyone out of sight.
Tomas, you map the attacks; Cedric, you cross-check with any suspected League
activity. I’ll lock down the inn, keep the townsfolk from panicking.”
Cedric raised an eyebrow at his subordinate,
though he appreciated her directness. He looked around the table.
“Agreed?”
“Never thought I’d see the day I’d be
guarding a village from a bedtime story,” Ryn said, flashing a grin.
Auralias turned away, eyes on the fire.
“Just remember: stories are dangerous when people start believing
them.”
The meal finished in silence, each companion
lost in their own thoughts. The villagers cast sidelong glances, their
conversations stilled whenever the group moved or spoke too loudly. Ryn broke
the tension by stealing a second bowl of stew, then made a game of picking out
which villagers might have been spies or informants in another life.
Elira stationed herself by the door, hand
always resting on the hilt of her sword, eyes never quite still. Tomas worked
by lantern, scribbling diagrams and lists and odd runes that might, in another
context, have been poetry. Cedric alternated between reviewing his notes and
watching Auralias, who stared into the flames with a focus so intense Cedric
wondered if he saw something there that no one else could.
Cedric pulled Ryn aside as the others made
ready for bed. “You’re sure about the sigil?”
“You don’t forget a symbol that comes
with that many warnings,” she said, fierce and certain.
He smiled, in spite of everything.
“We’ll follow it through, then. Watch yourself around Auralias.”
“Always do.”
They rejoined the others. Tomas and Elira had
staked out bunks at the back wall, with good sight lines on both windows and
the main door. Cedric took a spot on the floor while Ryn slid onto the bench
nearest the exit, hands folded behind her head.
The last thing Cedric saw before drifting
into a restless half-sleep was Auralias, standing at the window, face a mask of
moonlight and calculation. The mage’s hands were clasped at his back, but every
so often, they moved in slow, deliberate patterns, tracing out invisible glyphs
that lingered, for just a moment, in the shadows along the wall.
*
Captain Elira waited until the inn’s common
room had emptied of all but the snoring and the truly sleepless. She stoked the
hearth to life, then pulled on her oilskin and stepped outside for a final
circuit of the perimeter. The mist had thickened, rolling up from the river in
ragged layers that clung to the ground and distorted every light and sound.
Above, no moon showed; even the stars were erased.
She made her round efficiently, checking each
window, every door latch and bolt. The cold was deeper now, sinking past flesh
and into the bone. At the back of the inn, in the wedge of shadow between
outbuildings, she paused and listened. The silence was not empty, but heavy,
filled with expectation, like the moment before a duel.
It was then she saw the watcher.
A figure at the side of the orchard, a good
thirty yards off, where the line of trees met the remains of a split-rail
fence. A hooded cloak, pale in the mist, motionless except for the faintest
stirring as the fog eddied around it. Elira’s hand went to her sword; she let
her eyes adjust, waited for the trick to reveal itself, but the silhouette
remained.
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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