Ashes of a Throne
The storm had passed, but the silence it left behind was worse.
Ash clung to the corners of the shattered citadel, and the air still stank of burnt blood and melted steel. Night had fallen in jagged pieces, broken by the light of a thousand flickering torches — each one held by a soldier who wasn't sure if they were the conquerors or the conquered.
Kael stood in the ruins of the throne room, his boots crunching over shards of obsidian and bone. The crown he had torn from Lord Vaerin's corpse lay heavy in his grip, stained with dried crimson. Not his blood. Not yet.
"What now?" he muttered, barely loud enough for the echo to catch.
"You sit," came a voice behind him — familiar, sharp, feminine.
He didn't need to turn around to know it was Selene. She emerged from the shadows, her cloak trailing ash like smoke from a dying pyre. Her violet eyes burned with something cold and unreadable.
"I don't want the throne," Kael said quietly, still staring at the twisted remains of it — the carved serpents cracked down their spines, the velvet blackened by fire.
"Wanting has nothing to do with it anymore," she replied. "You killed Vaerin. You shattered the Circle. You claimed the Darksword. You have to sit."
Kael finally turned toward her. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but his voice was sharp. "And if I don't?"
Selene's lips quirked in a half-smile that held no humor. "Then the world assumes you're dead. And if they assume that, they'll come clawing for the pieces."
A flicker of movement by the broken archway caught Kael's eye. Thorne, bleeding from a gash on his temple, limped into view, dragging a banner behind him. The old one — the banner of the Ebon Blades. Torn. Burned.
"They're gathering outside," Thorne rasped. "Not just ours. Mercenaries. The Ferren. Even remnants of Vaerin's guard. They want a decision. A ruler."
Kael looked down at the crown. It was heavier than steel. He said nothing.
The Hall of Judgment
Outside, the Citadel's courtyard was swarming with bodies — hundreds of them, soldiers, deserters, spies, priests. And there, standing above them all, were the commanders of the fractured armies, each with their own version of the truth.
Kael emerged onto the balcony above, the wind tugging at his scorched cloak. The Darksword hung at his side, its blade humming faintly. He held no crown. He wore no colors. And still, they quieted.
Selene stood beside him, arms folded, her presence sharp as any blade.
"You killed Lord Vaerin," one of the Ferren shouted. "What now, Darksword? Do we kneel, or do we fight again?"
Kael didn't answer at first. He looked over the crowd — saw the wounded, the orphans, the hollow-eyed survivors. And then he spoke.
"You don't kneel," he said. "Not to me. Not to anyone. Not anymore."
A hush fell.
"I didn't do this for a throne," he continued. "I did it because a tyrant's reign deserved to end. I did it because too many voices were silenced. Because I couldn't stand by and do nothing."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"But if I have to sit on this throne — if that's the only way to keep the fires from spreading — then I will. Not as king. Not as ruler. But as shield."
Then he turned and walked back inside, leaving the silence to smother them.
The Broken Circle
In the Hall of the Ancients, the seats of the former ruling Circle lay in ruins. The council stones had cracked. Statues of forgotten gods had toppled. And still, echoes of old arguments seemed to haunt the air.
Selene moved quietly beside Kael as they walked through the ruins. "You made a mistake," she said.
He arched a brow.
"You should've let them kneel."
"I don't want followers," Kael muttered. "I want an end."
"There is no end," Selene replied softly. "Only quieter chapters."
At the far side of the hall, a figure emerged from the rubble — Nera, the firebrand priestess who had once been loyal to Vaerin but now walked her own path. Her robes were torn, her hands burnt, but her eyes were fierce.
"You've claimed power," she said to Kael, "but you haven't claimed belief. That's dangerous."
"I don't want their belief," Kael replied.
"You'll need it," Nera said, her voice low. "Because there's something worse than Vaerin rising from the west. The sky is bleeding over the Scar. Something is coming, and it doesn't care about your ideals."
Kael stiffened. "What is it?"
Nera looked past him. "Something ancient. Something hungry."
Whispers in the Walls
That night, Kael couldn't sleep. The Citadel creaked and whispered, the wind carrying fragments of forgotten chants and broken oaths. Somewhere in the lower chambers, the Darksword pulsed faintly in its sheath, as if it too were awake.
Selene sat across from him, cleaning her knives in silence.
"What if she's right?" he asked. "What if something worse is coming?"
Selene didn't look up. "Then we fight it."
Kael leaned back against the stone wall. "I'm tired, Selene. I'm tired of being the one who has to keep choosing between monsters."
"That's because you keep surviving them," she said quietly.
There was a long pause.
"I don't want to be a symbol," Kael murmured.
"You already are."
The Scar Opens
Three days later, the sky over the western range cracked open.
A red rift shimmered through the clouds, tearing through the stars like claws. Lightning danced in spirals, and the ground trembled beneath the weight of something awakening.
Kael stood atop the eastern watchtower, Selene and Thorne at his side.
"What is that?" Thorne whispered.
"The Scar," Selene said grimly. "The one they sealed centuries ago. It's opening."
Kael stared at the red glow, his jaw clenched. "And what's coming through?"
Selene hesitated. "Not just one thing."
The rift pulsed — and for a second, Kael heard something. A voice, low and layered with thousands of others, speaking his name.
He staggered back, pressing his hands to his ears. "Did you hear that?"
Selene nodded slowly. "It knows who holds the Darksword."
Kael drew the blade.
Its hilt burned.
The First Flame
That night, Nera led a silent ritual in the shattered temple. Her followers lit black candles and chanted in tongues no longer spoken aloud.
Kael stood at the edge, watching the flames flicker against the ruined walls. The Darksword lay across his lap, inert.
Then, a sound — a scream, high and inhuman — echoed through the Citadel.
Kael was on his feet instantly, running toward the sound. Selene was beside him in seconds, blades drawn. They reached the central courtyard just as the torches blew out — all of them — snuffed by windless cold.
A shape moved in the dark. Tall. Crooked. Unnatural.
It stepped into the moonlight.
Its skin was pale stone. Its mouth was stitched shut with gold thread. And in its hand, it held a crown — not Kael's. Not Vaerin's. Something older.
Selene whispered, "That's not a demon."
Kael's voice was tight. "Then what is it?"
The creature raised its hand — and the stone under their feet began to melt.
The Fire's Price
The battle was short, but brutal.
Thorne's archers loosed volleys of flame-tipped arrows. Nera screamed ancient commands. Selene moved like death itself, cutting the creature's limbs before it could scream again.
But Kael — Kael was the one who struck the final blow.
He raised the Darksword. It resisted at first. It trembled in his grip. Then it drank the fire from the creature's body and ignited — the blade glowing white-hot with stolen light.
Kael drove it through the monster's chest — and in its last breath, the creature smiled.
"You are not ready," it whispered through its broken mouth.
Then it crumbled into ash.
The Next Crown
Morning came slowly.
Smoke still clung to the towers. Wounded were dragged into healing halls. Fires were extinguished with tears and sweat. But something had shifted.
The people were no longer afraid of Kael.
They were afraid of what he was fighting.
He sat on the steps of the blackened throne, the Darksword laid across his knees. Selene stood behind him, watching the gates.
"Do you think more will come?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Do you think we'll survive?"
"No."
Kael smiled faintly.
And then he stood.
And for the first time since he'd torn it from Vaerin's corpse, he placed the crown on his head.
Not because he wanted it.
But because someone had to.