Eldrin Crown

“Every empire ends in silence. His just forgot to scream.” In a city carved from glass and steel, where thunder hides in boardrooms and empires wear suits instead of armor, Aldrin reigns from the top of the Aetherium Spire—not with a crown of gold, but one of consequence, silence, and fire. A man forged in forgotten wars, he built a godless dominion where diplomacy cuts deeper than blades, and betrayal is a language fluently spoken. But the storm doesn’t come with an army. It walks in quietly. Iris Cael arrives as a new recruit to Orion—young, brilliant, clean. Too clean. A whisper in a dossier. A lie waiting to be told. And Aldrin, haunted by ghosts he buried in data cores and ash, senses the tremor before the quake. As old shadows stir and forgotten names reemerge—chief among them, Mara, the woman who burned the world beside him before vanishing—Aldrin begins to unravel not from weakness, but from prophecy. His stillness isn’t peace. It’s the pause before ignition. Allies become watchers. Watchers become threats. The city begins to hum with a vibration too ancient for technology and too deliberate for coincidence. Beneath the contracts and campaigns lies something deeper: A reckoning. And Aldrin knows—when fire returns, it won’t ask for permission. It will ask what he’s willing to burn to stay in control.