When they tried to leave Veysha, cloaked debt-keepers barred the gates. The feast was not free, rasped one, breath like rotting coins. Payment must be made.
Eryndor offered gold, gems even a signet taken from a prince they'd slain. The debt-keeper shook his head, revealing a throat alive with squirming runes. We demand a fear. A true fear, stripped from you and fed to the vines.
Eryndor stepped forward, but Seris touched his arm. No. Let me. Her eyes shut, and for a moment, the vines surged around her feet, tasting the terror that lay deepest in her of losing Eryndor to the very power that kept them alive.
When the vines pulled back, sighing, the gates creaked open. But Seris wouldn't meet his eyes for hours after. Beyond Veysha, on cracked salt flats, the dragon found them again. Now so vast its wings eclipsed the sun.
Little bearer. Little sovereigns. You dance ever closer to ruin. Eryndor placed a hand on its vast scaled cheek. Then carry us over this wasteland. Let your wings buy us one more chance.
With a rumble like mountains shifting, the dragon lowered a claw. They climbed aboard, gripping spines as tall as spears.
The flight was breathtaking horizons fell away to starlit voids, clouds tore like veils. For a moment, even the Astra Mourn seemed silent, awed by raw freedom.
They landed days later in a forest of pale, whispering trees. That night, Seris slipped from their camp. Eryndor followed, silent as ghosts. He found her kneeling before a stone plinth, whispering to a figure swathed in shifting shadows.
I've kept him from seeking certain thrones. I've steered him from the worst of the Astra's hungers. Is that enough? Will you spare him?
The shadow touched her brow, then melted into nothing. Seris slumped, sobbing.
Eryndor didn't reveal himself. He returned to camp with a storm inside, torn between rage and an aching love that wanted to believe she only sought to protect him.
When she returned, he was waiting. Who did you bargain with, Seris? She flinched. Tried to laugh it off. But his hand caught her wrist, hard. Tell me. Before I tear it from your memories.
Her eyes blazed. You're not a monster, Eryndor. Don't let that crystal make you one.
For a moment, the Astra Mourn surged, filling him with a god's fury. Then he let her go, staggering back. I'm trying, Seris. I swear I'm trying not to lose myself.
She wrapped him in shaking arms. Then let me be your anchor. Even if you hate me sometimes for it.
They reached Carneth, a city that celebrated the fall of kings. Every year, it hosted a carnival where effigies of monarchs were smashed with jeweled hammers.
Masked revelers danced around bonfires of old crowns. A masked fortune-teller grabbed Eryndor's hand. I see thrones beyond number but none will hold you long. You were born to unseat worlds, not rule them.
He pulled away, unsettled. The Astra Mourn seemed to laugh inside his chest, a sound only he could hear.
That night, assassins struck agents of the House of Veins, led by a woman clad in silver rune-armor, wielding a blade that dripped with hungry shadows.
Streets exploded into violence. Seris spun through enemies, blades a blur. Eryndor unleashed the Astra Mourn, beams of power blasting towers into rubble. When the rune knight fell, dissolving into dark mist, Eryndor clutched Seris close, both panting.
How many more will come for us?
Enough to remind us we're still alive, Seris whispered fiercely, pressing her forehead to his.
At dawn, they camped on the broken city walls, watching crows wheel over smoldering streets. Seris lay with her head on his chest.
If this ends with us ruling nowhere just being alive and together is that enough? He pressed his lips to her hair. It's always been enough. The thrones. they're only ever shadows compared to you.
Far below, among the ruins, tiny flowers pushed through cracks. Life returning, stubborn as love.
Their journey brought them to Yherridan, a city famed for its Vow Halls towering structures of dark iron where contracts were forged not on parchment, but cut into living flesh by tattoo priests.
Inside, nobles stood stoic as black-ink needles scrawled agreements across their skin. The air reeked of old blood. They bind loyalty by scars, Seris whispered, horrified.
A clerk offered Eryndor a ceremonial blade.
Carve your promise into your chest to protect her above all else. Our marks ensure truth. Eryndor laughed coldly. I don't need your metal to prove what's already carved into my bones.
They left amid disapproving glares. Outside, the Astra Mourn throbbed, as if savoring his rejection of lesser pacts. That night in Yherridan, they took shelter in a tavern above a twisting lane. Seris woke to find Eryndor gone.
Panicked, she searched until she found him standing in the Alley of Eyes a narrow path where walls were embedded with countless jeweled orbs. Each was said to be the extracted eye of someone who broke a vow.
The eyes glittered, whispering promises.
Rule with us.Abandon her, gain everything.
Eryndor clenched his fists until blood dripped to the cobbles.I already chose. I choose her. Always.The eyes went dark. When he returned, Seris pulled him close without a word.
They departed Yherridan at dawn, unaware a figure in obsidian scale-mail trailed them. Khal Rhovan, famed across a hundred courts as the Crown Hunter a killer paid not with gold, but with titles ripped from dead sovereigns.
He struck at twilight. Blades sang through air heavy with drifting silver leaves. Seris fought like a storm, but it was Eryndor who finally stopped Rhovan seizing him by the throat, the Astra Mourn's power coursing so bright it burned veins through his palm.
Rhovan's last words hissed out in awe. A true throne waits for you… and it will not share your heart. When the man collapsed into ash, the wind carried it away like a sigh.
They found sanctuary on an ancient bridge carved from a single fallen tree, wide enough to hold a market. Along its railing were tiny etched names lovers' secret vows, hidden debts, doomed dreams. Seris traced one name with a finger.
What if there's a world out there where we never met? Where you sit a throne already, alone? Eryndor cupped her face, eyes burning. Then may every version of me envy this one. Because I have you.
Later that night, while Eryndor scouted ahead, Seris sat by firelight, writing.
When he returned, she startled, quickly folding the parchment. What is that? Nothing.
He held out a hand. For a long moment, she hesitated then surrendered the letter. It was addressed not to him, but to her mother, begging clemency for Eryndor if she failed to sway him from the Astra Mourn's path.
He crushed the letter in his fist, then dropped it into the fire. No more half loyalties, Seris.She watched it burn, tears slipping free.
Their road led them to a shrine where hundreds of polished panes were set in the walls, each showing possible futures. Some reflected them crowned together, others at war. A few showed Seris weeping over a throne made from Eryndor's bones. Is any of it real? she whispered.
A priestess with eyes like quicksilver approached. All futures are true, somewhere. The Astra Mourn chooses which path to bloom. Eryndor snarled. Then let it hear me. I will make my own fate with her at my side, or I'll tear every prophecy apart.
The priestess only smiled sadly. So say they all. At first. In the village of Erevan's Hollow, a challenger awaited a knight encased in living brambles that writhed across his armor.
Bearer of the Astra Mourn, he rasped, voice tangled with leaf and thorn. I have slain thirteen kings to keep their thrones free of your shadow. Now face me.
Their duel was a whirlwind of power and steel. Thorns sliced Eryndor's arms, but each cut seemed to feed the Astra Mourn's fury. Finally, he slammed both palms to the knight's chest violet light exploded outward, reducing the man and his living armor to drifting ash.
Seris touched his shoulder afterward, eyes haunted. It's getting easier for you. Killing. He didn't deny it.
In the next city, nobles eager to secure Eryndor's favor threw a lavish banquet. Gold leaf floated in their wine; orchestras played dirges about dead constellations. One lord leaned close, smirking.
Power eats love eventually. Watch. The first time your throne demands her life, you'll offer it without blinking. Eryndor laughed coldly then seized the man's jeweled collar, dragging him across the table.
Speak of her again, and I'll feed you your own tongue. When he sat back, Seris reached under the table, gripping his hand so hard it almost hurt.
Later, drunk on fear and power, they stumbled to a balcony high above the city. Seris wept against his shoulder.
Promise me again. Even if that damned crystal tries to make you forget. Eryndor pressed their foreheads together. I promise. Even if I have to break myself to keep it.
But inside, the Astra Mourn pulsed like a hungry heart, and a tiny, treacherous thought whispered.
Or perhaps she will be what breaks you first. At dawn, as they left the city, arrows rained down. Not from assassins but from a band of ragged men in regal scraps.
We are the sons of kings you've unseated by rumor alone!" their leader shouted. We lost crowns because the world fears what you'll become!
Battle erupted on the roadside. Seris fought with tears streaking her face. Eryndor struck down foe after foe, his power roaring. When it was done, the road was littered with bodies once destined for thrones.
Seris whispered, voice hollow,
Even those who might have ruled well will die to keep you from ruling at all. He only took her hand. Then we keep walking. Together.