Chapter 11: The Throne of Noctarion**
The clink of iron keys echoed through the dungeon like a whisper of doom.
Ravena stirred where she sat, her back pressed against the cold stone wall. The pain in her body pulsed like a drum, but her spirit remained locked in silent rebellion.
The cell gate creaked open. Light from the hallway spilled in—dim, amber, flickering.
She looked up slowly, her green eyes sharpened to a blade's edge.
> "Take the princess to the palace," one of the guards barked, voice thick with command.
Two soldiers stepped in, reaching toward her arms.
She jerked away.
> "Stop holding me!" she snarled, her eyes blazing with something dark and ancient.
One soldier hesitated, stunned by her gaze. The other grabbed her roughly.
> "You should calm down, Princess," he muttered, though his voice trembled as if he were speaking to something he didn't quite understand.
They led her through the twisting corridors of Noctarion's lower halls, each torch casting shadows like claw marks across the walls. The deeper they walked, the more the castle seemed to hum—not with warmth, but with power. Old power.
---
**Meanwhile, in a neighboring corridor…**
> "Where are you taking us?" Solana shouted, struggling against her chains.
The guards ignored her.
> "Please," Queen Elira asked calmly, voice like velvet laced with steel.
> "Where are you taking us?"
One soldier answered without turning.
> "To see the king. Your new reality begins now."
They were escorted up spiraling stairs and through vast, winding corridors bathed in eerie beauty.
Black and gold archways shimmered with enchanted runes. Red rose gardens bloomed against obsidian walls, their petals unnaturally bright—as if fed by something more than water.
Fountains spilled with crystal-clear water that seemed to whisper as it flowed.
And the paintings…
Each one stretched across towering walls, full of twisted angelic figures, war-torn gods, crowned monsters. Their eyes seemed to follow the trio as they passed.
The stone beneath their feet glittered faintly—crushed starlight woven into marble.
Solana's steps slowed.
> "This place is…" she whispered, eyes wide.
> "Beautiful. And terrifying."
> "Walk faster," a guard snapped, shoving her shoulder.
Queen Elira held her daughter tightly, not with fear—but with instinct.
---
At last, they reached the grand entrance of Noctarion's throne chamber.
The double doors loomed high as mountains—carved from blackwood, veined with gold, and inscribed with spells so ancient even the guards avoided touching them.
Just then—
Another group of guards entered from the opposite corridor, dragging Ravena with them.
Solana gasped.
> "Ravena?" Her voice cracked.
Ravena turned her head, barely believing what she saw.
> "You're alive…" Queen Elira said coldly.
> "You should've died with the rest," she whispered.
> "You're the reason our kingdom was destroyed."
Her words hit Ravena harder than chains.
> "I wish the king had ended you back then. None of this would've happened," Elira hissed.
Ravena looked down, expression unreadable.
Solana lashed out.
> "This is all your fault!" she screamed.
> "Look at me! My beauty is ruined. My life is *ruined!*"
> "Enough!" a guard growled, dragging Solana forward.
Before anyone else could speak, the doors creaked open, releasing a pulse of cold air that kissed their skin like winter.
They were shoved inside.
---
## **The Throne Room**
The chamber was vast and silent.
Black crystal spires decorated the ceiling like night-born thorns. Massive stained-glass windows filtered moonlight into haunting patterns. Magic rippled across the floor like unseen waves.
At the far end sat **King Malrith**, dressed in layered robes of midnight and embers. His throne shimmered with black diamonds and veins of gold.
Around him stood his royal advisors—hooded mystics, battle-scarred generals, and seers with hollow eyes.
The three women were forced to kneel.
> "So… this is the royal family of Solarelia," one advisor said, his voice smooth as silk, but carrying a venomous undertone.
They looked up slowly.
King Malrith's red eyes burned through them like twin suns swallowed in smoke. His presence weighed the air. He didn't blink. He only stared.
> "Who is the girl born with darkness?" he asked, his voice low and jagged like stone breaking.
Ravena raised her head.
Their eyes met.
A silent war happened in that gaze—one of recognition, of threat, of destiny.
King Malrith tilted his head, lips curling into a cruel smile.
> "Oh... it's you."
He didn't speak again for a moment.
Instead, he let silence crush the room.
Then—
> "You will remain here," he said flatly.
> "Guards will watch you. Respect the rules, and you live."
He turned toward the second throne, slightly smaller, made of dark iron and dusk-colored velvet.
There sat **Prince Damiar**.
He lounged with graceful laziness, legs crossed, a goblet of red wine balanced in one hand. His golden-brown eyes gleamed beneath long black hair that spilled over his shoulders like a waterfall at midnight.
His gaze locked onto Ravena—and stayed there.
It wasn't hunger.
It wasn't pity.
It was curiosity.
The kind that dissects. The kind that warns.
> "Prince Damiar," the king said, voice edged in cold steel.
> "Anything to say?"
Damiar took a slow sip, watching the girl who knelt before him.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
> "Nothing, sire," he said quietly.
But his silence said everything.
King Malrith nodded.
> "Take them to their chambers. Let the castle judge their hearts."
The guards stepped forward.
Chains clinked again.
As they were led away, Ravena turned back once.
Prince Damiar's eyes never left her.
And somewhere, in the depths of the throne room—
Something stirred.