Echoes of a Broken Crown: a Üres Fiction
Foreward
Appendix N—a whisper from the past, a map of eldritch roads, the codex of those who came before. I adore it, revere it, see in it a lineage of dreamers and worldsmiths who carved myth into ink and paper. It is a summoning, a sigil scrawled in dog-eared margins, calling forth the raw, unvarnished power of pulps and lost tomes.
And so, I too shall add to the ever-expanding canon. A book—not just a book, but a grimoire of short fictions, torn from the worlds I have spun at the table, forged in the crucible of dice and desperate improvisation. The myriad realms I have birthed in play will bleed into prose, their echoes transcribed into something more permanent. My Appendix N. My testament.
-Richard Feb. 2025
The Knight
The city was dead.
It lay in silence, its bones blackened and jagged, clawing at the sky. Whatever life had once stirred here, something drained it away, leaving only echoes and shadows behind. Hollow buildings whispered secrets to the wind, secrets no one should hear—shadows curled in the alleys, twisted things that might have been human once and still be.
Üres walked through it all, silent, a ghost in armor. A cracked, crumbling road lay beneath their feet. Each step sent echoes through the empty streets that seemed to chase them, always a half-step behind. The sky above displayed a bruised, sickly purple hue that never brightened nor darkened. It hung there, stagnant, as if the world had forgotten how to move forward.
They passed the statues. Once grand, now broken, their faces eroded by time and neglect. But the eyes—oh, the eyes still glared down, accusing. Stone faces of kings long dead, gods long forgotten. The crown. That was what had drawn them here. A relic, they said. A symbol of power, of authority. The last vestige of a king who ruled with an iron fist and a hollow promise. A king who had promised salvation but delivered only chains.
Üres clenched their gauntleted fists, feeling the weight of their sword at their side. The runes on the blade hummed softly, a low, dangerous sound. This sword kills fascists. They felt the words burned into their minds as much as the steel: a promise. A curse.
They knew others would come. They always did. Loyalists, scavengers, fools chasing after scraps of a broken past. But Üres had seen enough. Enough to know that the crown was nothing but a gilded lie. A symbol of power corrupted, of a world that had already fallen. Ahead, the cathedral loomed. Dark. Silent. Its doors stood open, an invitation or a warning—Üres couldn't tell. They stepped forward, one foot after the other, into the heart of the dead city.
And the echoes followed.
The City
Üres wiped the blade clean on the tattered cloak of one of the fallen. The scavengers had been searching for something—Üres could see it in the way they had torn through the debris, their movements frantic and driven by desperation.
The crown. The crown always beckons.
A noise behind them—a scuff of a boot on stone. Üres turned, sword raised, but the figure standing at the square's edge did not attack. A man, armored, his helm tucked under one arm. He watched Üres with calculating eyes, his expression cautious.
"You've got skill," the man said, stepping forward, his eyes scanning the bodies at Üres's feet. "Not many can move like that in armor." Üres said nothing, the sword still raised.
The man didn't seem fazed by the silence. He moved closer, slowly, his gaze lingering on the blade in Üres's hand. "You're here for the crown, aren't you? Like the rest of us."
He didn't seem to recognize them at first, but there was something in his eyes—an uncertainty, a flicker of familiarity. Üres could sense it. Üres lowered the sword slightly, their stance still guarded.
The man continued, oblivious. "We've been searching for days. The crown... it is the key to rebuilding what we have lost. With it, we can—"
"Who are you?" Üres asked, the words slipping out as if they belonged to someone else. Their voice was hollow, echoing in the empty streets, but Gareth's gaze lingered on them, searching for something familiar beneath the armor.
The man paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "Gareth. Knight of the Broken Banner." He studied Üres for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "And you are?"
"Just passing through."
Gareth chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "Many people seem to be passing through. All chasing after a ghost of a kingdom."
Üres said nothing, observing him. There was a weight in Gareth's gaze as though he was searching for something behind Üres's helm. Something he couldn't quite place.
Gareth's expression shifted, suspicion flickering as he looked at the sword again and then at how Üres stood—rigid, precise, a stance that spoke of shared training, a familiarity with combat beyond mere survival. Advancing with a drawl, he commented, "You have experience with fighting. You… you remind me of someone."
The silence hung heavy between them. For a brief moment, the shadows of the past seemed to stretch between them—unspoken memories, old battles fought side by side, now distant and hollows of his mind. But after a moment, he shook his head, dismissing the thought. "No matter. If you're looking for the crown, you won't find it here. It's deeper in the city—guarded, they say." Gareth glanced at the cathedral, its dark silhouette looming in the distance. "That's where we're heading. Join us. More hands are better than fewer."
Üres looked at the cathedral, then back at Gareth. "I don't follow anyone anymore."
Gareth nodded, his expression darkening. "Suit yourself. But be careful. This city isn't what it seems."
With that, Gareth turned and disappeared into the ruins with the rest of his knights. Üres watched him go, their sword still in hand, the runes pulsing faintly with a soft, ominous light.
They sheathed the blade and moved toward the cathedral. There was still work to be done.
The Crown
The cathedral loomed ahead, its spires clawing at the dim sky like the fingers of a dying god. The great stone doors stood open, inviting the lost, the desperate, and the foolish. Black vines twisted up the columns, choking the life out of what remained of the old stonework.
Üres approached slowly, their eyes scanning the shadows that seemed to shift and stir within. They could feel an old power clinging to this place, like the last breath of something that should have died long ago. The air inside was thick with the smell of dust and decay. Every step echoed in the cavernous space, swallowed by the oppressive silence. Grand columns rose into the shadows above, their tops lost in the gloom. Broken altars lined the walls, their once-sacred relics scattered and forgotten. Something moved at the edge of their vision.
Üres paused, hand on the hilt of their sword. The runes along the blade flickered with a faint light, sensing the presence of something unnatural. They moved forward, and each step was measured carefully. The cathedral was a maze of dark corridors and crumbling chambers. It had been the heart of the king's power—a place of worship where the faithful had come to offer their devotion. Now, it was a tomb.
As Üres ventured deeper, they began to notice signs of old rituals—symbols carved into the stone, half-burnt candles still clinging to the edges of ancient altars. These rituals had been performed long after the king's death, as though those who remained had tried to hold on to his power through darker means.
Whispers echoed through the halls, soft and indistinct as if carried on a wind that didn't exist. Üres couldn't decipher the words, but the tone was clear—pleading, desperate. The sound pulled at them, drawing them deeper into the cathedral's heart.
They passed murals depicting the king's conquests, his rise to power immortalized in faded colors. As they progressed, the murals began to twist, showing strange, otherworldly figures intertwined with the king's image—beings of shadow and flame, their faces contorted in agony. The king was always at the center, his face serene and confident, as though he alone held dominion over these forces.
It was a lie. Üres knew that now. The king had never been a savior—only a man who had made pacts with darker powers to keep his grip on the world. And those who still clung to his image, those like Gareth, were blinded by the same illusions. They believed in a greatness that had never existed, in a past that had been nothing but chains and fear.
A chill ran down Üres's spine. Whatever power the king had wielded, it hadn't come from this world alone.
The whispers grew louder as they approached a large chamber at the end of a long corridor. The air was colder and heavier, oppressive. Üres stepped inside, their breath visible in the frigid air.
The chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in darkness. At the center stood a towering statue of the king, his hand clenched into a fist, raised in defiance and triumph. But at his feet was something far more sinister—an altar carved from black stone, its surface etched with runes that pulsed with a faint, sickly light.
And on the altar, half-buried in dust, lay a crown. It was smaller than Üres had imagined. Tarnished and dull, the once-bright gold was now a sickly gray. Yet even in its decay, the crown seemed to pulse with dark energy, as though it still held some remnant of the king's power. Üres hesitated. The crown was within reach. They had come to destroy it, to erase the last symbol of the king's tyranny, but something about the crown made them pause.
A sound behind them—soft, almost imperceptible. The scrape of metal against stone.
Üres turned sharply, their sword drawn in an instant. A figure stood in the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows. Not Gareth. Something else. It stepped into the light—a twisted, humanoid form. Its skin was pale and mottled, stretched too thin over bones that jutted out at sharp angles. Its eyes were sunken and black, devoid of anything resembling life. It wore the tattered remains of armor, rusted and broken, and in its hands, it clutched a jagged blade that dripped with dark ichor.
A revenant.
The creature's eyes locked on the crown, and a grotesque smile twisted its features. Without a sound, it lunged, moving faster than something so decayed should be able to.
Üres barely managed to raise their sword in time to deflect the blow. The impact sent a jarring shock through their arm. The revenant's strength was unnatural, far beyond what its withered form suggested.
The creature's blade slashed through the air again, relentless, each strike aimed with precision and fury. Üres ducked and parried, their movements controlled but strained. The revenant was faster and stronger, showing no signs of tiring.
Steel clashed against steel, the sound echoing through the chamber. Üres countered with a sweeping blow aimed at the revenant's side, but the creature twisted unnaturally, avoiding the strike with a fluidity that defied its decayed appearance.
They circled each other, the revenant's eyes never leaving Üres. It moved with a savage desperation, driven by some unliving force. Each time Üres struck, the creature seemed to anticipate the blow, deflecting it with its twisted blade.
But the revenant's movements were not flawless. There were brief, fleeting moments where it faltered, its decayed muscles twitching with spasms of unnatural energy. Üres capitalized on one such moment, driving their sword into the creature's side with a powerful thrust.
The revenant let out a gurgling hiss, dark ichor spilling from the wound. But instead of falling, it only seemed to grow more frenzied. It twisted away from the blade, ripping itself free with a sickening squelch, and lunged again, its jagged blade aimed at Üres's throat.
Üres barely managed to sidestep the attack, feeling the cold air rush past their neck. They countered with a downward slash, severing one of the creature's arms at the elbow. The limb fell to the floor with a wet thud, but the revenant didn't flinch. It kept coming, its remaining arm swinging wildly, black blood dripping from the stump.
Üres struck again, this time aiming for the creature's leg. The sword cut through decayed flesh and bone, and the revenant crumpled to the floor, its movements erratic and twitching. But even as it lay there, broken and bleeding, it still tried to crawl toward them, its eyes locked on the crown. Üres stepped back, breathing heavily, their sword raised. The revenant's body was a mangled mess, barely recognizable as human, but it wouldn't stop. It dragged itself across the stone floor, leaving a trail of dark ichor in its wake, still driven by some unholy force.
With a final, brutal swing, Üres brought their sword down on the revenant's head, splitting it open with a sickening crack. The creature spasmed violently, its limbs thrashing before going still. But even as it died, its eyes remained fixed on the crown, and its lips curled into that same grotesque smile.
Üres stood over the body, their breath steady but their heart racing. The chamber was silent again, save for the faint crackle of the candle's flame. But the air was still heavy with the presence of something unnatural, something that lingered even after the revenant had fallen. The creature's body began to dissolve into the floor, its dark blood seeping into the cracks between the stones. Soon, nothing was left but a dark stain and the faint echo of a gurgling hiss.
Üres turned back to the crown. The runes along their blade were glowing brighter now, as though the sword was eager to strike. They would end this, here and now.
But just as they were about to bring the sword down, the whispers twisted in the air, faint, barely forming words but heavy with an ancient longing. Üres felt it deep in their bones—a pull, a weight that promised something just beyond their reach—something they weren't sure they wanted to find.
“Free… me…”
Üres froze, the sword hovering above the crown. The voice wasn't coming from the room. It was coming from the crown itself.
The whispers grew more insistent, filled with a terrible longing. “Please… end this…”
The crown wasn't just an object of power. It was a prison, a vessel for something—someone—that had been bound to it long ago. Whatever it was, it had been trapped here for centuries, its suffering fueling the dark energy that still pulsed through the cathedral.
Üres stared at the crown, their mind racing. Destroying it would end the last remnant of the king's power, but it would also release whatever was trapped inside. And there was no telling what that might mean for the world. The whispers became desperate. "Please… I beg you… free me…"
Before Üres could decide, a voice echoed through the chamber, cutting through the whispers.
"Wait."
They turned, and there, standing in the doorway, was Gareth. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and awe as he stared at the crown.
"Don't destroy it," he said, stepping forward slowly, his hand reaching out as though to touch the air around the crown. "We need it. This… this is our last chance."
Üres didn't lower their sword. "It's a lie, Gareth. The king's power… it was never what you thought it was."
Gareth shook his head, his eyes never leaving the crown. "This is more than just a symbol. It's a connection to something greater. Something that can bring us back from the brink."
"You're wrong," Üres said, their voice hard. "This will only bring death." Gareth looked at Üres, desperation in his eyes. "If any part of you still believes in the cause, don't do this. We can save what's left."
Üres glanced at the crown, hearing the soft, pleading whispers again. Free me… end this suffering…
The crown wasn't what Gareth thought it was. The king had drawn power from dark places, forces that should have remained buried. But power had always been a cage built from fear and fed by blood. The crown was just another link in the chain. Üres could feel the torment radiating from the crown, the pain that had festered for centuries within its twisted metal.
"You don't know what you're asking for," Üres said, their voice low and steady. "This thing… it's not salvation. It's a prison. And if we free what's inside, we may release something far worse than the king."
Gareth's face twisted in confusion and anger. "That's what you've become? Afraid of the very power that could save us?" He stepped closer, his hand reaching toward the crown. "If you don't take it, I will."
Before he could touch the crown, Üres moved, their sword slicing through the air with precision. Gareth's hand stopped inches from the cursed object as the blade hovered dangerously close to his neck.
"Don't," Üres warned, their voice cold.
Gareth's breath came in ragged gasps as he stared into Üres's eyes. For a moment, recognition flickered in his gaze—recognition of a warrior he had once known, though now cloaked in shadows and hidden behind a name that wasn't theirs.
He stepped back, lowering his hand slowly. "Then what will you do?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. "If not restore the kingdom, then what?"
Üres looked at the crown, its whispers a constant murmur in their mind. They could still feel the presence trapped inside, begging for release, but they knew that freeing it could unleash horrors they couldn't predict. And yet, leaving it intact would mean that its influence, its dark allure, would continue to corrupt those who sought it.
The decision weighed heavily on them.
"I will end this," Üres said, their voice resolute. "Once and for all." They raised their sword, the runes glowing with an intense light. The whispers grew frantic, pleading for release, for mercy. Üres hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then brought the sword down with all their strength.
The crown shattered beneath the blade, a burst of dark energy rippling through the air. The entire chamber seemed to tremble as the power bound within the crown was released. The whispers turned into a wail—a sound filled with both relief and unimaginable sorrow—as the entity trapped within was finally freed.
For a brief moment, the air was filled with shimmering light, the outline of a figure barely visible within the glow. It hovered above the broken crown, its form shifting and fading like smoke caught in a breeze. Then, with a final, haunting whisper, the light dissipated, and the chamber fell silent. Gareth stared at the remnants of the crown, his face a mask of disbelief and loss. "It's gone… all of it. The last hope…"
Üres sheathed their sword and turned away from the broken relic. "There was no hope in that crown, Gareth. Only more chains."
Gareth sank to his knees, his hands clutching at the pieces of the shattered crown as if he could somehow piece them back together. But there was nothing left to save.
Üres walked out of the chamber, leaving Gareth alone with the ruins of his hopes.
The cathedral groaned around them as they returned through its halls, the air growing lighter with each step. The ancient power that had once clung to the stones was gone, leaving only the echoes of what had once been.
As they stepped out into the cold night air, Üres took one last look at the towering structure behind them. The city was dead. And now, so was its crown. But in the distance, beyond the shattered skyline, the world continued—a world still full of forgotten powers and untold dangers. And Üres knew that their journey was far from over.
With a final glance at the ruined cathedral, they turned and walked into the night, the faint whispers of the past still echoing in their mind.