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.
The
King's Fall opens not in a throne room, but underground. A secret order
— no names, no titles, only cloaks and the authority of old purpose —
has gathered around a rune-carved table to debate an incident that
should not have happened: a full diplomatic party has been wiped out on
the road between two kingdoms, and neither king ordered it. Someone is
pulling strings that no one can see. The council is about to do
something dangerous. They are going to look.
There
existed beneath the old earth a sanctum kept from all maps and
memories, shielded by corridors that twisted into each other with a
geometry of deliberate confusion. In the deepest of its halls, a chamber
circular and primeval waited in perpetual shadow. The room's
centrepiece, a stone table whose circumference rivalled a city well, had
been carved from a single slab of basalt. Its rim and surface bore
etched runes and ancient sigils, their purpose unclear to any but
initiates of the silent order that convened there.
Around this
table, shrouded figures gathered, their cloaks indistinguishable but for
subtle variations in the weave — one a blue so dark it drank in the
torchlight, another a coarse grey laced with fine metallic thread, a
third in deep forest green that shed a dusting of spores with every
movement. Even in the heart of stone, the air hung moist and cold,
saturated with the scent of burnt tallow and the musk of old water. From
sconces in the arched walls, torches spat and guttered, casting orange
light that slithered across faces as pale and anonymous as death masks.
No
titles were spoken here, only the functional necessity of names earned
and worn like invisible crowns. The magister at the head of the table,
tall, angular, motionless save for the slow folding of gloved hands, did
not need to identify himself. When he spoke, the voice cut through the
stillness as though it had been whetted on the stone itself.
"Our watchers are not in agreement." The words were uninflected, carefully measured.
A
murmur passed around the circle, not of dissent but of discomfort. The
second figure, smaller but with an evident coiled energy, leaned
forward. Her hands were bare, fingers long and stained black along the
creases, and she tapped the table where the runes formed a broken
circle.
"It is a minor border skirmish, Sentinal," she said.
"Bloodier than most, but hardly unprecedented. Let the kingdoms squabble
among themselves — Ardanthia and Caladorn have always warred at the
fringes." She sounded impatient, as though summoned for a lesser
concern.
The magister in blue, whose hood cast his face into
shadow, spoke with a slight tremor. "The killing was not so minor. An
entire diplomatic train vanished — every courier, every retainer, every
guard. The ambassador's body was not even left for ransom. That is new.
That is calculated."
The Sentinal allowed the words to settle,
scanning the circle with a gaze that seemed to fix on each magister,
regardless of where his face was aimed. "Six months ago, an envoy of
Ardanthia, Lord Marcus Blackbriar, journeyed south with full ceremonial
escort. Their course was direct: Eldoria to Delrith, then through the
corridor to Mirashar. Before reaching Delrith, they were set upon and
destroyed. Only one man survived, and he staggered back to Eldoria."
"Coward's tale," said the woman with the ink-stained hands. "Most witnesses die of their wounds, the lucky ones first."
The
Sentinal ignored the snipe. "Our watcher in Eldoria heard the
testimony. The survivor told King Leofric himself that the attackers
wore the livery of Caladorn. Our watcher in Caladorn, however, tells a
different story: they found no evidence of a sanctioned operation. If
anything, Caladorn's own patrols have increased since the incident.
Their court desires peace. Their king is tired of war."
A
rustling of fabrics, the weight of suspicion shifting around the table.
The green-cloaked figure finally broke his silence, voice low and
gravelly. "If both kings are ignorant, then who profits from the attack?
It's no longer a border dispute. It's something else."
A pause, broken only by the hiss of a torch collapsing into itself. The Sentinal's next words fell heavier for the silence.
"Our
order exists not to shape events, but to understand them. Yet this
affair grows more opaque with every new witness. Either our watchers
lie, or we are being lied to. That alone is reason to intervene."
"There's
little evidence it threatens the Balance," the woman pressed. "What can
it matter if kingdoms grind each other to salt? We have seen worse in
the east. Nothing endures but the Pattern."
"Unless the Pattern itself is being rewritten," the blue-hooded man said.
At
this, the Sentinal brought his palms flat on the runic table, producing
a hollow note that echoed into the stone. "We are not theorists. To
maintain the balance we need clarity, not further confusion. We will
look. Tonight, we summon the memory of that day and see for ourselves."
The
woman's upper lip curled. "The power to see through time is not
borrowed lightly, Sentinal. It leaves marks on both the living and the
dead."
"We risk more by not knowing," the Sentinal said. "If our council cannot agree on what is, how can we guide what must be?"
The
blue-hooded man lifted a hand, uncertain. "If it is as you say, and
both sides are being manipulated, then the ritual may be hazardous.
Memory is often trapped by the will of those who shaped it."
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
Twilight's
Dominion opens on two stories running in parallel. In the first, Lady
Seraphina D'Argent — a diplomat travelling alone through the unforgiving
Crownspine mountains — has just been surrounded by armed strangers on a
mountain pass. She has been riding for ten weeks on orders she doesn't
fully understand, heading toward coordinates her queen gave her without
explanation. She is about to discover something that will change
everything she thought she knew about the world she serves.
The
figures came on in absolute silence, fanning out across the trail with
the efficiency of wolves. In a matter of seconds they had closed off her
retreat and were sliding, almost bonelessly, down the talus to encircle
her.
Their leader wore a helm that entirely concealed his face,
its visor painted with a crude snarl of animal fangs. The others
carried composite bows at the ready, arrows nocked, but pointed down — a
gesture that managed to be both merciful and contemptuous at once.
Seraphina drew Cassia to a halt and set her hands openly on the pommel,
every muscle rigid with calculation.
"State your business," the leader growled, voice rendered inhuman by the tin of his visor.
Seraphina
debated, for perhaps two breaths, whether to attempt bluff or bravado.
The bows decided the matter. "I am Lady Seraphina D'Argent, of
Armathor," she replied, "on a mission from Her Majesty Queen Evelina."
The
leader turned, a lazy gesture that made mockery of her authority, and a
snort went up among his lieutenants. "And your escort?"
"Was
not permitted." Seraphina kept her gaze level, though the blood pounded
furiously in her ears. "I am to meet with a representative of the
Riders, if you are such."
The mention of the Riders produced a
shift in the circle. The archers exchanged glances, some wary, some
almost amused. The leader drew closer, boots crushing the shallow crust
of snow.
"You speak too much for a courier," he observed. "But
too little for a spy." He swept a gauntleted hand at her pack horse.
"Open your satchel."
She untied the travel case from the
gelding, working fingers gone numb in the cold, and fished out the
scroll tube. It was heavy, made of dark wood and brass, the wax seal
untouched. She held it up so they could all see the sigil of Caladorn: a
pair of crossed sabres over a seven-pointed star. There was a
stillness, then a slow, careful release of tension among the archers as
the leader nodded, almost respectful.
"Walk forward. Slowly," he said.
They
escorted her up the ridge, off the trail, through a section of scree so
loose that even Cassia balked. For an hour, maybe more, they wound
through impossible switchbacks and across narrow spines of rock, each
step a new exercise in balance and terror. Finally, the leader raised
his hand and the party halted at a narrow saddle between peaks.
Seraphina caught her breath, took a long swallow from her water skin, and paused as she noticed what lay beyond the saddle.
The
city was carved into the living stone of the mountain's interior,
hidden from the world by both geometry and design. Terraced galleries
spiralled down the inside face of a gigantic crater, studded with
windows and fire-gleaming vents that gave the place an eerie, hive-like
vibrance. Slender bridges of bone-white stone spanned the void between
rocky spurs, connecting to massive towers whose roofs gaped open to the
sky. Far below, at the crater's deepest point, a plaza of blue granite
caught the light of a hundred lanterns, transforming it into a pool of
shimmering stars.
She had never seen such a thing. She had never
heard of such a thing. And yet, as she stood there, wind plucking at
her cloak, Seraphina understood instantly, with a sick clarity, that
Queen Evelina had always known.
They did not take her down the
public steps. Instead, the archers led her along a narrow spiral cut
into the stone, half-tunnel, half-balcony, with just enough space for
one person and a horse at a time. The air grew colder with every turn,
and the hum of unseen machinery — bellows, pulleys, some kind of
water-driven elevator — echoed from deep within the walls. At last they
emerged onto a flagstoned platform where the leader, visor now up,
gestured for her to dismount.
"Wait here," he said, less threatening now. "You will be summoned."
Seraphina
did not ask how long. She untethered her gloves, flexed her hands, and
tried not to shiver in the thin mountain air. The view from the platform
was staggering; across the chasm, the terraces of the city glimmered
with what looked like glass or ice, and tiny figures moved between the
arcades.
A boy in a grey tunic arrived, bearing a tray of tea
and something that looked like bread but tasted of cedar and salt. He
smiled at her with a gentleness that belonged to another world. When she
asked him his name, he merely gestured for her to drink.
Time
stretched, then snapped back when the leader returned, flanked by two
more guards in matching visors. "You will come," he said.
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.
