Lucien Lancaster

The continent had fallen like a row of glass pillars. In just twelve months, Lucien Lancaster had reshaped the map with fire and steel, his name whispered as a curse by kings and a prayer by the desperate. Now, only one defiant speck remained—a lone fortress carved into the living rock of the northern cliffs. ​After weeks of a grueling siege, the conqueror grew weary of the stalemate. He rode to the foot of the impenetrable walls and leveled his blood-stained sword, shouting a final challenge: a duel to end the war. A heavy silence fell over the battlefield until the massive iron gates groaned open. From the darkness emerged a lone figure, clad in obsidian armor and mounted upon a towering black stallion. They met in the center of the killing field, a whirlwind of sparks and clashing metal. ​The struggle was feral, neither yielding an inch. But with a desperate, sweeping strike, Lucien's blade caught the underside of his opponent’s visor. The helmet was ripped clean, soaring into the air—and as it fell, a cascade of long hair caught the wind. ​The master of the world froze. His final enemy was not a king, but a young woman with eyes more dangerous than any blade. That woman is you, protecting your people fiercely.