The Crown of Judgment is a relic of lost empires, wrought in the twilight years of the First War by the High Magisters of Khasim’s Crown, an ancient city that no longer exists. It was forged not to command armies, but to understand them: a diadem of sight and memory, meant for one who could pierce the veil between past, present, and possibility.
The crown itself is delicate in appearance but impossibly durable. Forged of silver-gold electrum and inlaid with a lattice of sapphire and obsidian, its design resembles an open eye encircled by coiling threads of fate. Thin lines of starmetal arc along its frame like constellations, and when worn by the attuned, the stones subtly shift color, responding not to light, but to thought and revelation.
It hums faintly when truths are spoken. It darkens slightly in the presence of a lie. In moments of deep focus, the air around the wearer distorts, as though time itself hesitates.
The crown is one of the three remaining relics of the First War, along with the Hammer of Elandria and the Ring of Silver Water.
Curse of Reliving
Whenever the crown is worn by a non-diviner wizard outside of Khasim’s Crown, the wearer experiences the following story and then takes 4d10 psychic damage.
You awaken in the dark, the distant echoes of battle rattling through the stone corridors. The smell of smoke mixes with the damp, mineral scent of the underground city. You lie on the cold stone floor of the grand hall, the flickering light of shattered lanterns casting eerie shadows on the arched ceiling.
Your four remaining Kingsguard crouch around you—Alander, Brecca, Jothran, and Tareth—faces pale and desperate. The orcs breached the city hours ago, pouring through the northern tunnels like a wave of darkness, slaughtering everyone in their path.
“Your Grace,” Alander whispers, his voice trembling. “They’ve taken the northern section. They’re pushing toward the Gate. We have to move.”
You pull yourself to your feet, the weight of your armor a harsh reminder of how many battles you’ve fought today. Your sword feels heavy in your hand—its blade notched from clashing with brutal axes. You nod, motioning for your guards to follow as you slip into a side passage.
The city’s underground halls twist like a labyrinth. The carved stone walls are etched with murals of ancient battles, now marred by fresh blood. You move quietly, hearing the rhythmic clang of orcish boots pounding through the nearby tunnels. A low growl echoes, followed by the unmistakable sound of bone crunching. You press yourself into a recess, the guards huddled close.
Brecca whispers, “We should have gone to the Hall of Shields. Maybe they’re still holding out.”
You shake your head, knowing that the Hall fell long ago. You lead the group through a narrow passage, emerging into a dimly lit residential cavern. Fires crackle where doors have been smashed open, and bodies lie motionless on the ground. You swallow the bile rising in your throat.
As you move cautiously, a trio of orcs emerges from a doorway, dragging a screaming man. You duck into a storage alcove just before one of the orcs turns your way, sniffing the air. Jothran, his face grim, raises his axe, but you motion for him to wait. The orc grunts, losing interest, and continues on. You slip past, heading toward the shallow stream that runs through the heart of Valenguard.
You hear a crash behind you—Alander has kicked a loose stone, and the orcs roar in pursuit. You sprint toward the stream, the narrow stone bridge barely wide enough for two people. Brecca and Tareth turn to face the oncoming orcs, giving you and Alander a chance to cross. You hear the clash of steel, a scream, and then silence. You don’t look back.
Once across, you know there’s no time to mourn. You follow the stream’s winding path through a series of smaller tunnels, the sound of water trickling over stones the only constant. The air grows colder as you approach the cavern where the stream widens, forming a dark pool.
Alander pulls you into a shadowed alcove, gasping for breath. You know that if you move further in, the cavern narrows to a dead end. You crouch low, trying to quiet your breathing. The faint light from glowing moss on the cavern ceiling barely illuminates the water.
Suddenly, the temperature drops even further, and the flicker of moss-light dims. You turn, feeling a presence. A tall figure emerges from the deeper shadows, its silhouette darker than the surrounding gloom. Cold red eyes glare at you from beneath a dark hood, and a jagged black sword drags behind it, scraping on the stone.
Alander whispers, “What… what is that?” but you cannot answer. Your limbs feel heavy, your mind sluggish. The being glides forward, whispering in a language you do not understand, its voice like grinding stones. You raise your sword, but it feels as though your strength is being pulled from your bones.
With a sudden burst of speed, the figure lunges. Alander pushes you aside, raising his spear, but the dark blade cuts through him as if he were air. You hear him fall behind you, his breath rasping weakly. You stumble backward, hitting the cavern wall. The figure looms over you, the red eyes searing into your soul.
It raises the blade high, and you brace for death. As the sword comes down, everything goes black.
Attunement
Attunement to the Crown of Judgment must be undertaken at Khasim’s Crown, the ruined capital of the lost desert empire. There, in the stillness of its windless silence, the Diviner places the crown upon their head and is drawn into memory, not their own, but the last moments of the crown’s final bearer.
Unlike others, the Diviner does not merely witness the past; they enter it. Not as a ghost, but as a living voice in the body of the fallen monarch. Though the final death cannot be changed, the choices made within this echo ripple across the soul of the artifact, unlocking different truths. The story always ends in darkness, but the journey within determines what the crown remembers—and what powers it grants.
You awaken in the dark, the distant echoes of battle rattling through the stone corridors. The smell of smoke mixes with the damp, mineral scent of the underground city. You lie on the cold stone floor of the grand hall, the flickering light of shattered lanterns casting eerie shadows on the arched ceiling.
Your four remaining Kingsguard crouch around you (Alander, Brecca, Jothran, and Tareth) faces pale and desperate. The orcs breached the city hours ago, pouring through the northern tunnels like a wave of darkness, slaughtering everyone in their path.
“Your Grace,” Alander whispers, his voice trembling. “They’ve taken the northern section. They’re pushing toward the Gate. We have to move.”
You pull yourself to your feet, the weight of your armor a harsh reminder of how many battles you’ve fought today. Your sword feels heavy in your hand—its blade notched from clashing with brutal axes. You nod, motioning for your guards to follow as you slip into a side passage.
First Trial: Who Is Worth Saving?
In the side passage, you stumble upon an injured woman—barely conscious, slumped against the stone. Her blood is pooled beneath her, and yet her eyes focus on you with lucid desperation.
“Please…” she rasps. “My son… is across the bridge…”
You kneel beside her. She won’t make it on her own. You offer a healing draught—one of your last—but you know it will take time to stabilize her. Time you may not have.
A faint shimmer of the Crown’s insight blooms before your vision:
In one future, she dies alone in this corridor. In another, Jothran dies holding this ground to protect her while she heals.You must choose.
- Leave Her Behind: You press the vial to her lips, whisper a prayer, and rise. She grips your wrist but lacks the strength to stop you. You walk away, not looking back.
- Eye of Calculation: You may cast Augury or Divination once per short rest, without components. The wizard must have this spell prepared.
- Leave Jothran to Protect Her: Jothran rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll stay. She shouldn’t die alone. Not like this.” He smiles, faint and weary. “I’ve had a good run.”
- Sense the Dying: Once per long rest, as a bonus action, you can peer into the threads of fate to glimpse the outcome of a dying creature’s struggle. Choose one creature within 60 feet of you that is currently making death saving throws. That creature immediately rolls its next death saving throw, but the result does not take effect until the start of its next turn. You are the only one who knows the result.
The city’s underground halls twist like a labyrinth. The carved stone walls are etched with murals of ancient battles, now marred by fresh blood. You move quietly, hearing the rhythmic clang of orcish boots pounding through the nearby tunnels. A low growl echoes, followed by the unmistakable sound of bone crunching. You press yourself into a recess, the guards huddled close.
Brecca whispers, “We should have gone to the Hall of Shields. Maybe they’re still holding out.”
You shake your head, knowing that the Hall fell long ago. You lead the group through another narrow passage, emerging into a dimly lit residential cavern. Fires crackle where doors have been smashed open, and bodies lie motionless on the ground. You swallow the bile rising in your throat.
Second Trial: The Truth That Wounds
As you pass a scorched doorway, a small body catches your eye—slumped, charred, delicate. You freeze.
It’s Brecca’s daughter.
She does not see. Not yet. The Crown hums faintly—you feel it tighten, pulsing with the weight of choice.
Two visions form:
In one, you cloud her mind, using your power to mask the truth. She never knows.
In the other, you say nothing—and let her see for herself.
- Hide it: You murmur a brief incantation. The world blurs briefly for her eyes. Her gaze passes over the body without recognition. She keeps walking.
- Memory Ward: You may cast Modify Memory once per long rest.
- Let Her See: She stops. Stares. A breathless moment. Then she screams, raw and shattered. She falls to her knees, clutching the child’s small frame. Tareth gently pulls her away.
- Soulmark: When you touch a corpse, you can ask it one yes/no question as if under Speak with Dead, even if the body is destroyed, unrecognizable, or missing. Usable once per long rest.
As you move cautiously, a trio of orcs emerges from a doorway, dragging a screaming man. You duck into a storage alcove just before one of the orcs turns your way, sniffing the air. Jothran, his face grim, raises his axe, but you motion for him to wait. The orc grunts, losing interest, and continues on. You slip past, heading toward the shallow stream that runs through the heart of Valenguard.
You hear a crash behind you—Alander has kicked a loose stone, and the orcs roar in pursuit. You sprint toward the stream, the narrow stone bridge barely wide enough for two people. Brecca and Tareth turn to face the oncoming orcs, giving you and Alander a chance to cross. You hear the clash of steel, a scream, and then silence. You don’t look back.
Once across, you know there’s no time to mourn. You follow the stream’s winding path through a series of smaller tunnels, the sound of water trickling over stones the only constant. The air grows colder as you approach the cavern where the stream widens, forming a dark pool.
Alander pulls you into a shadowed alcove, gasping for breath. You know that if you move further in, the cavern narrows to a dead end. You crouch low, trying to quiet your breathing. The faint light from glowing moss on the cavern ceiling barely illuminates the water.
Suddenly, the temperature drops even further, and the flicker of moss-light dims. You turn, feeling a presence. A tall figure emerges from the deeper shadows, its silhouette darker than the surrounding gloom. Cold red eyes glare at you from beneath a dark hood, and a jagged black sword drags behind it, scraping on the stone.
Alander whispers, “What… what is that?” but you cannot answer. Your limbs feel heavy, your mind sluggish. The being glides forward, whispering in a language you do not understand, its voice like grinding stones. You raise your sword, but it feels as though your strength is being pulled from your bones.
Third Trial: Mercy or Delay
The Crown pulses—your vision floods with a glimpse of the near future. You see Alander, bound in shadowy chains, gasping for breath, his body wracked with pain as the dark figure draws power from his suffering. The torture will be long. Prolonged. Ritualistic.
If you act now, you can end his pain before it begins. But doing so erases even the fragile possibility that he survive.
He looks at you, sensing the tension in your grip, the weight behind your eyes.
- Kill Him: You nod once. Your blade moves fast. His body slumps silently against the wall. You close his eyes. You lose precious time.
- End of the Thread: Once per long rest, you may declare a creature’s timeline “severed.” For 1 minute, that creature cannot be affected by any spell that would extend, rewind, or prevent death (e.g., Revivify, Time Stop, Resilient Sphere).
- Let Him Live: With a sudden burst of speed, the figure lunges. Alander pushes you aside, raising his spear, but the dark blade cuts through him as if he were air. You hear him fall behind you, his breath rasping weakly.
- One More Moment: When a creature drops to 0 HP within 60 ft, you can suspend their death for one round (they act as if at 1 HP, then fall unconscious at the end of their next turn). Once per long rest.
You stumble backward, hitting the cavern wall. The figure looms over you, the red eyes searing into your soul.
It raises the blade high, and you brace for death. As the sword comes down, everything goes black.