The Reign of Queen Clara

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In a land as soon as blooming with peace and song, there rose a queen whose identify would be whispered in concern for generations — Queen Clara of Ebonvale.

Clara was not always evil. She used to be born into royalty, the daughter of a mild king and a form queen. But even as a child, Clara confirmed signs and symptoms of some thing darkish within. She loved watching storms, delighted in breaking things just to see them shatter, and smiled solely when others cried. Her heart appeared untouched by using love.

When her dad and mom died mysteriously — some say by using poison in their wine — Clara, barely seventeen, ascended the throne. The kingdom mourned, however celebrations were forced. Clara wore a black crown and a robe woven with raven feathers. Her first decree: “Silence all who query me.”

Her rule was once cruel from the start. Taxes tripled. The poor were punished for begging. The royal gardens were closed to the people. Anyone who dared to communicate in opposition to her vanished by way of morning.

Clara had a secret tower built, the place screams have been often heard at night time — a region she known as “The Room of Truth.” It was stated she tortured advisors until they agreed with her plans, no count number how twisted. Her laughter echoed thru the palace halls like the cackle of a mad spirit.

The worst got here when Clara sought power beyond her kingdom. She made a blood pact with the sorcerer Malveth, trading a piece of her soul for immortality. Her eyes turned silver. Her shadow moved even when she stood still. She no longer wanted sleep — or mercy.

The human beings lived in dread.

But as always, even the darkest night should meet the dawn.

In the village of Roselake, a woman named Elena was once born with a mysterious birthmark — a crescent moon over her heart. Her grandmother, an historical herbalist, whispered to her, “Child, your existence is tied to the fall of the Queen.”

Elena grew strong, professional in herbs, archery, and words. She noticed the ache in the kingdom and vowed to give up it. Gathering courageous hearts from throughout Ebonvale — hunters, healers, even a few troopers who once served Clara — Elena led a rebellion.

They stormed the capital beneath the cloak of night. Clara, seated on her throne of bones, watched with amusement.

“You dare mission me?” she hissed.

“Yes,” Elena answered, her voice steady. “Your reign ends tonight.”

A fierce struggle followed. Clara summoned furnace from her palms and shadows from the walls. But Elena, guided by using something larger — a force of light inherited from the royal bloodline Clara tried to erase — fought with a heart pure and fierce.

In the last clash, Elena drove a silver dagger, blessed by way of the moon, into Clara’s chest.

Clara screamed — no longer in pain, however in rage. Her immortality cracked like shattered glass. Her physique grew to become to ash, and her crown rolled across the cold floor.

The people of Ebonvale awakened the subsequent day to light, silence, and freedom.

Elena in no way took the throne. She vanished into legend, recognized solely as The Moonborn. But her identify lived on in song.

As for Clara — her story grew to be a warning. A tale whispered to children:

“Beware the smile with no soul, the beauty with no heart, and the crown that sits on cruelty. For evil queens upward jab quickly… however they continually fall.”