Some men chase the crown because they believe it will heal them. Some pursue it because they think it will immortalise them. Others hunt it because they believe it is owed by birthright or duty.

But the truth is this… the crown doesn’t care why you reach for it. It only bows to the one strong enough to claim it.

Peter Mare – or as the world now calls you – The Night. You crawled from the rubble, scars carved into your flesh, choking on the ghosts of the past. You watched everything you loved torn away, and when you rose again, you were no longer a man but a vessel for vengeance. Now you wear that vengeance like a mask, prowling through the dark – convinced the crown will be your justice.

But vengeance is not purpose. It is poison. It clouds your sight, chains you to the past – and no king has ever worn chains.

Then there’s you, Jasper Redgrave. You don’t see the world as it is; you see it drowned in red. Your brush has never touched canvas – only flesh. To you, beauty is measured in screams and bloodstains. You kill because you believe each death makes you immortal. That one day the world will call your carnage a legacy.

But Arcadia does not kneel to butchers. It does not crown a madman lost in delusion. When the sand swallows your bones, your art will rot with you – buried, erased, and forgotten.

You seek the crown not to rule, but to feed your sickness – and a king who serves madness serves nothing at all.

And finally there’s you, Jackson Cade. The son of a Baron, bred with a name heavier than the armour you wear. You swore to protect Arcadia; to bring order into chaos. You believed in that oath.

But oaths break. Sheriffs fall. Eagles’ wings are clipped. Now you stand torn between the blood that birthed you and the law you swore to uphold. Loyalty in one hand, duty in the other – yet neither hand is strong enough to seize the crown.

A man divided cannot rule. A king cannot kneel to two thrones – and you will always remain a kingdom at war within itself.

Three men. Three stories. Three seekers of the crown.

One chasing vengeance. One drowning in madness. One shackled by loyalty.

But here is the truth…

The crown does not heal wounds, it does not sanctify bloodshed, and it does not honour divided hearts. It bends only to the one who is not broken, not blinded, not bound by the past – and that one is me.

I do not beg the crown to fix me.

I do not chase it to preserve my name.

I do not hunt it as if it were owed.

I claim it because I am unshaken. Because where you cling to shadows, blood, and doubt, I move forward.

Where each of you falters, I will endure – and at last, Arcadia will know the truth.

That I am the one fit to wear the crown.

All hail The Rogue King.