Afhalen na 1 uur in een winkel met voorraad
Gratis thuislevering in België vanaf € 30
Ruim aanbod met 7 miljoen producten

Afhalen na 1 uur in een winkel met voorraad
Gratis thuislevering in België vanaf € 30
Ruim aanbod met 7 miljoen producten

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Beneath the ruins of the capital, where blackened stone whispered of war and betrayal, the earth stirred. Ash drifted like snow in the hollowed throne hall, and the skeletal remains of banners clung to shattered pillars. Fires had long since died, but the heat lingered—sullen, patient, coiled like a serpent beneath the floor. In the silence, something moved, not with sound but with memory: a presence buried deep, older than the kingdom, older than the blood that had watered its soil. Magic slept here, scorched and forgotten, but not dead. The bones of the last queen, still armored and crowned, sat slumped against her ruined throne, her face lost to time. Around her, dragonbone fragments glinted like shards of glass, faintly warm to the touch. A wind passed through the hollow windows, sighing with voices no mortal throat could produce. And in the darkness beneath the dais, the Ash-Queen dreamed.

She had not been born of mortal womb, nor had she died in mortal fashion. Her soul had been woven from fire and vengeance, her breath filled with the secrets of dragons. In life, she ruled not by decree, but by fear—her word law, her gaze flame. They called her tyrant, usurper, mother of ruin. But to the ashes, she was queen still. In the shadow-realms between death and dream, she remembered their cries, their rebellion, their treachery. She remembered the man who broke her pact, who shattered the bond between flame and crown. He bore a shield that should never have risen. He awakened powers he could not wield. And now, through smoke and stone, she felt him again.