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The Last Oracle's Ember Crown

AS_Riyadh
The black forges beneath Mount Ashen rang with hellish clamor as the Usurper Mordren forged the Ember Crown. Wrought from star-fallen iron and the screaming souls of a hundred slain kings, the relic burned with unnatural fire. Whosoever wore it could command the arcane arts of every realm: silence the ancient songs of the high elves, turn the hammers and axes of the mountain clans against their sworn lords, bend the tempests to his fury, and bind the very blood of men to his merciless will. The free houses of men, elves, dwarves, and halflings set aside their ancient grudges and rose as one in rebellion. At the bloody Battle of the Nine Keeps, amid rivers of steel and sorcery, the Crown was torn from Mordren’s brow. It was carried in triumph to the Arcane Citadel, sealed in the deepest vault, and guarded by the Grand Maester and wards woven in ages long forgotten. Yet Mordren did not die. Neither body nor spirit perished that day. He fled into the deepest shadows, his hatred a living flame, whispering promises of fire and vengeance upon the winds that carried his voice across the realm. Thus spoke the last Oracle of Eldergrove with her dying breath: “When the Ember Crown calls to a boy of no great house, the Company shall be sworn. One bearer, three bloodlines, four true hearts. They shall tread the long and bitter road of flame… or all sorcery, all kingdoms, and all hope shall fall into everlasting night.” Fourteen harsh winters passed.
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