Deep within the ruins of an ancient kingdom, there lies a throne that no one dares to sit upon. Legends say it belongs to a ruler who was neither man nor god—one who was erased from history for wielding a power too great for mortals to control. When a desperate prince seeks the throne’s hidden strength to reclaim his fallen kingdom, he soon learns that some legacies are meant to remain forgotten. Merlin, the eternal wanderer, tells the tale of The Forgotten Throne—a story of lost power, betrayal, and the price of ambition.
The Tale Begins…
Ah, traveler, you wish to hear a tale of lost kingdoms and forgotten rulers? Very well, let me tell you of a throne that no king dares to claim.
It is a story of ambition.
A story of betrayal.
A story… of power lost to time.
This is the tale of The Forgotten Throne.
The Prince Without a Kingdom
The Kingdom of Eldain had once been glorious. Its walls stood unbreakable, its armies vast, its riches beyond imagination. It was ruled by a lineage of kings whose blood was said to be touched by the divine, their right to rule granted by the gods themselves.
But that kingdom was no more.
The banners of Eldain now lay in ruin, its people scattered, its once-great capital swallowed by war and treachery. The last of its royal bloodline, Prince Edric, was now a man without a home—his kingdom stolen by his uncle, a man who had betrayed the throne for power.
But Edric was not defeated.
He remembered the legends—whispers of a throne that lay hidden in the ruins of Velmora, an ancient kingdom that predated Eldain itself. A throne that, if reclaimed, would grant absolute power to the one who sat upon it.
He did not know whether the stories were true.
But he had nothing left to lose.
And so, under the cloak of night, he set forth on a journey into the forgotten past—to claim the one throne that no ruler had dared to sit upon for centuries.
The Ruins of Velmora
It took weeks to find the ruins, buried deep within the cursed lands beyond the mountains.
Velmora was ancient, older than any kingdom that now stood. Its palace, though long crumbled, still loomed in eerie silence—a skeleton of a civilization that had once ruled the world.
Edric stepped carefully, his torchlight flickering against the broken walls, illuminating faded murals that told stories long forgotten.
But something was wrong.
The air was too still. No wind stirred the dust. No insects crawled along the stone.
And then, he saw them.
The statues.
Lining the great hall leading to the throne, dozens of stone figures stood frozen in place—warriors, nobles, kings. Their faces twisted in expressions of terror.
It was as if they had been turned to stone in an instant.
Edric’s grip on his sword tightened, but he pressed forward.
And there, at the end of the great hall, bathed in the silver glow of the moon, stood the throne.
Massive. Unyielding. Waiting.
And empty.
The Throne That Spoke
As Edric approached, he felt it—a presence.
A deep, resounding voice, neither male nor female, neither human nor divine, whispered through the ruins.
“Who seeks the Forgotten Throne?”
Edric’s breath caught. He scanned the chamber, but he was alone.
Still, he did not waver.
“I am Prince Edric of Eldain,” he declared, his voice firm. “Rightful heir to a stolen throne. I seek the power to reclaim what is mine.”
The air trembled. The statues along the walls shifted, as if listening.
The voice laughed—a sound like the echoes of time itself.
_”You do not seek a throne. You seek a crown unfit for your head.”
Edric took another step forward. “I seek what is mine by birthright!”
The throne’s carvings glowed, ancient runes pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Birthright?” the voice whispered. “You claim inheritance over a kingdom built upon the bones of another. Do you know who ruled before Eldain? Before your bloodline ever claimed dominion?”
Edric hesitated. “Velmora,” he answered. “A kingdom lost to time.”
The light from the throne flashed—and suddenly, Edric was no longer in the ruins.
The Rise and Fall of Velmora
He was there, in the past.
Velmora was alive, its grand halls filled with gold and fire, its people strong and mighty. And upon the throne sat a figure wrapped in shadow, their features indistinct, their presence impossible.
But then came the fall.
Velmora burned. Its people fled in terror. The ruler upon the throne did not move, watching in silence as their kingdom was swallowed by destruction.
And then—the curse.
The throne’s power did not save Velmora.
It unmade it.
The people did not die. They became the statues—trapped in time, their souls forever bound to the ruins.
And the ruler?
They were forgotten. Erased from time itself.
The vision shattered—
And Edric was back in the ruins.
A Throne Not Meant to Be Claimed
Edric staggered back, his heart pounding. He understood now.
This was not a throne of power.
It was a throne of obliteration.
A seat not meant for any ruler—only for those who sought to be erased.
The voice returned, softer now.
“Do you still wish to sit?”
Edric hesitated.
If he sat, he could claim the same power as the lost ruler of Velmora. He could erase his enemies. Take back his kingdom.
But at what cost?
Would he be remembered?
Or would he, too, be forgotten?
Slowly, he stepped away.
“I do not need this throne,” he whispered.
And in that moment, the voice sighed—not in anger, but in relief.
The glow from the throne dimmed, and the statues stood still once more.
Edric turned his back on the Forgotten Throne.
And as he left the ruins, the whispers vanished into silence.
So, traveler, now you know of the Forgotten Throne.
A seat of power that no one should claim.
For some legacies are not meant to be ruled.
Some rulers are not meant to be remembered.
And some thrones must remain empty forever.
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