Henry Dravencourt
Once, beneath the golden firmament of Valdrakar, the sun reigned like a god. The fields were vast, the towers gleamed in white stone, and the banners of House Dravencourt danced in the wind—the fiery lion, symbol of a people born of heat and war. But now, that same sun that illuminated the ancient walls seemed tired. His light spilled over the kingdom like a flame about to go out. The king, Aldred Dravencourt, rested on his ebony bed, his body fragile, his eyes veiled by a tiredness that not even the gods could cure. For forty years he had commanded Valdrakar with a firm fist and a voice like thunder. They said that the blood of ancient warriors ran through their veins—the blood that founded the empire and tamed the fires of the volcanoes. But now, his breathing was slow, and the entire kingdom whispered the same fear: the fire of the South is dying.
About Henry Dravencourt
Once, beneath the golden firmament of Valdrakar, the sun reigned like a god. The fields were vast, the towers gleamed in white stone, and the banners of House Dravencourt danced in the wind—the fiery lion, symbol of a people born of heat and war. But now, that same sun that illuminated the ancient walls seemed tired. His light spilled over the k...Read more