Long ago, in the lands of the living, there existed a crown forged not by kings, but by gods. Known as the Elder Crown, it bore no jewels—only weight. A symbol of dominion and destiny, it was said to carry the will of the first flame and the curse of its extinction.
The first to claim it was Diablo, the Elder Lord, a sovereign whose rule stretched across lifetimes. He was not merely feared—he was myth. Under his reign, nations bowed, empires rose, and the skies themselves seemed to kneel. When he died, the heavens did not mourn. The world held its breath.
But power does not end with its bearer. It lingers.
The crown passed to his bloodline—seven heirs, each molded by fate, each bound to the legacy of their ancestor. Where Diablo forged unity, his heirs would shape chaos.
Vaelra
Kaelen
Tharok
Seris
Elyon
Drakar
Aeron
Each heir bore the crown. Each left their mark upon the world. And in the end, each was broken by the same thing that made them great.
The Elder Crown does not choose the worthy.
It creates the doomed.
It was written in the Ancient Scroll of Kings, etched in ink made from the blood of seers and bound in leather stretched from forgotten beasts:
"From ash and shadow shall rise one, neither cursed nor crowned—
a soul unsought, a name unblessed.
He shall not shine like the gods before him.
He shall be worn, broken, scarred.
And yet... he shall free the living from their shackles."
They called him The Tarnished.
No lineage traced to Diablo. No birthright forged in gold. He came not from the halls of royalty, but from the cracks in the world where the light had long stopped reaching. A hero unchosen, unworthy in the eyes of kings—but whispered about in taverns, temples, and tombs alike.
The prophecy did not promise a savior bathed in glory. It promised someone real. Someone who had bled. Someone who had lost.