In a world of crumbling thrones and whispered intrigues, a few relics of true nobility remain — silent witnesses to glories now buried beneath dust and memory.
The Sable Crest was one such treasure. Forged in bronze, its chainwork as intricate as courtly secrets, it bore a single black stone, deep as midnight and unyielding as a queen’s gaze. It was once worn by the last true princess of a fading house, a figure swathed in silks and sorrows, moving through abandoned ballrooms with the grace of a dynasty too proud to weep.
They say the stone darkened with each betrayal, each loss, yet it never cracked. It endured — as she did — a quiet rebellion against the decay of all she had been born to uphold.
To wear the Sable Crest is not merely to adorn oneself. It is to remember: dignity can outlast ruin, and true sovereignty asks for no crown.
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