The Bleeding Sovereign
In the shadow of the ancient kingdom of Eryndor, where the jagged peaks of the Blackspire Mountains pierced the heavens, there stood a statue that whispered of a cursed legacy. Known as the Bleeding Sovereign, the towering figure of a crowned woman loomed over the crumbling city of Vaelthyr, her stone form both a monument to a forgotten queen and a harbinger of the kingdom’s doom. The statue, carved from pale marble veined with crimson, stood atop a weathered pedestal in the heart of the city’s forsaken square, its base perpetually stained with a blood-like ichor that seeped from the stone itself. The people of Vaelthyr, those few who remained, spoke of the statue in hushed tones, for its origins were steeped in tragedy, betrayal, and dark magic.
Centuries ago, Eryndor was ruled by Queen Lysandra, a ruler of unmatched beauty and wisdom. Her reign was a golden age, marked by prosperity and peace, her court a beacon of art and knowledge. Lysandra was beloved, her name sung in ballads as the Sovereign of Light. But beneath her radiant exterior, a shadow grew. Her younger brother, Prince Draevor, harbored a burning resentment. Exiled for his dabbling in forbidden necromancy, Draevor vowed revenge, cursing the sister who had cast him out. In the depths of the Blackspire Mountains, he forged a pact with a malevolent entity known as the Crimson Wraith, a being of blood and shadow that thrived on despair. In exchange for his soul, Draevor was granted the power to bring ruin upon Eryndor—and upon Lysandra.
On the eve of the kingdom’s grandest festival, Draevor returned under the guise of reconciliation. Lysandra, ever hopeful for her brother’s redemption, welcomed him with open arms. But as the moon reached its zenith, Draevor struck. He unleashed the Crimson Wraith upon the court, its essence seeping into the very stones of Vaelthyr. The entity’s curse was insidious: it bound Lysandra’s spirit to a statue commissioned in her honor, a masterpiece meant to immortalize her reign. The statue, crafted by the kingdom’s greatest sculptor, was to be unveiled at the festival’s climax. Instead, it became her prison.
As the curse took hold, Lysandra’s body withered before her horrified court, her flesh decaying while her spirit screamed within the stone. The Crimson Wraith twisted her form, turning the statue into a grotesque mockery of her former self—her marble skin cracked, her bones exposed, and her regal crown morphed into a jagged corona of thorns. Worst of all, the statue began to weep blood, a crimson stream that flowed from her hollow eyes and wounds, pooling at the pedestal’s base. The curse extended beyond Lysandra, tainting the land itself. Crops withered, rivers ran red, and the people of Eryndor fell to madness and disease. Draevor, believing he had won, declared himself king, but the Crimson Wraith turned on him, devouring his soul and leaving his body to rot at the statue’s feet.
The Bleeding Sovereign became a symbol of Eryndor’s fall. The kingdom crumbled, its once-proud towers reduced to ruins, its people scattered or cursed. Yet the statue endured, an eternal sentinel of sorrow. Legends grew around it: some said the blood that flowed from the statue was Lysandra’s unending grief, others claimed it was the life force of the land itself, bleeding out under the weight of the curse. On moonless nights, villagers swore they heard the statue whisper, a mournful voice begging for release. Those brave—or foolish—enough to approach the statue often vanished, their screams echoing through Vaelthyr’s empty streets.
Centuries later, a young scholar named Elara, driven by a thirst for knowledge, ventured into the ruins of Vaelthyr. She had uncovered fragments of Lysandra’s story in ancient tomes and believed the curse could be broken. Armed with a grimoire of counter-spells and a pendant said to ward off dark magic, Elara approached the Bleeding Sovereign under a stormy sky, the air thick with the scent of iron and decay. As she recited incantations, the statue shuddered, the blood at its base bubbling as if alive. Lysandra’s voice, faint but clear, spoke to Elara, revealing the key to her freedom: the Crimson Wraith’s essence still lingered in the statue, feeding on Lysandra’s suffering. To break the curse, Elara had to banish the Wraith.
The battle that followed was fierce. The Crimson Wraith materialized, a swirling mass of blood and shadow, its laughter a cacophony of torment. Elara’s spells faltered under its onslaught, but she clung to her resolve, channeling the pendant’s light to weaken the entity. With a final, desperate incantation, she drove the Wraith back into the void, severing its hold on Lysandra. The statue glowed briefly, the crimson veins in the marble fading to white. The blood at the pedestal ceased to flow, and for the first time in centuries, the air in Vaelthyr felt clean.