Chapter 6: The Throne's Embrace
Lyraen surged forward, his glowing shortsword a fiery extension of his will. The second corrupted guardian, momentarily startled by the fate of its companion, roared and raised its obsidian claws. But Lyraen was no longer the cautious survivor; he was a conduit for a power he barely understood, driven by a desperate need to protect.
His blade, pulsating with reddish light, met the guardian's claw. This time, the impact was less a clash of steel and stone, and more a merging of energies. The guardian shrieked, a sound of profound agony, as the golden fissures raced across its body, consuming it from within. Its hardened ash skin crumbled, its glowing ember eyes dimming, and with a final, shuddering collapse, it disintegrated into a pile of fine, grey ash, indistinguishable from the dust that coated the chamber floor.
Lyraen stood panting, his blade still humming with residual energy, the reddish glow slowly fading. The chamber was silent save for his ragged breaths and the distant, but now much louder, shouts of the Iron Guard echoing from the canyon entrance. He had done it. He had defeated them. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, coupled with a bewildering sense of triumph.
"Remarkable, Seeker!" Ignis chirped, its mental voice filled with awe as it zipped excitedly around him. "The Ashborn power, awakened! It resonates with the very essence of the Ember Throne!"
Lyraen looked at his blade, then at the pile of ash, then back at the magnificent, terrifying Ember Throne. The raw power he had just wielded felt both alien and intimately familiar. It was part of him, a dormant ember that had finally ignited. But what did it mean? How did it work?
"The Iron Guard," Lyraen gasped, pushing past his exhaustion. "They're almost here."
The thud of heavy boots was unmistakable now, closer than ever. They had broken through the outer defenses, or perhaps simply overwhelmed them. There was no time to rest, no time to understand. He had to reach the throne.
He limped towards the dais, his twisted ankle protesting with every step. The golden veins in the obsidian walls pulsed faster now, as if mirroring the frantic beat of his own heart. The air around the Ember Throne shimmered with heat, a palpable aura of ancient power.
As he reached the dais, a new voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the chamber, not in his mind like Ignis, but around him, vibrating through the very stone. It was ancient, weary, yet filled with a profound hope. "Welcome, last ember. The time has come."
Lyraen looked around, searching for the source of the voice. "Who… who are you?"
"I am the fading god," the voice rumbled, seemingly emanating from the throne itself. "The one who made a pact with your ancestors. The one who binds the elements, barely. My strength wanes. Only the Ember Throne, awakened by the last of the Ashborn, can restore the balance."
Lyraen stared at the throne, then back at the canyon entrance, where the first glint of Iron Guard armor was now visible. They were here. There was no more running.
"What do I do?" Lyraen asked, his voice strained, a desperate plea.
"Take your place," the fading god commanded, its voice gaining a sudden, urgent intensity. "Embrace the flame. Before they claim what is yours. Before the world consumes itself."
The Iron Guard burst into the chamber, led by the Captain, his face a mask of fury, his eyes still red-rimmed from Ignis's flash. He saw Lyraen, saw the Ember Throne, and a look of greedy triumph spread across his features. "There! The boy! And the Throne! Seize him! Do not let him touch it!"
Lyraen knew what he had to do. It was a leap of faith, a plunge into the unknown, but there was no other choice. He looked at Ignis, who pulsed with silent encouragement. He looked at the Ember Throne, radiating power. He looked at the charging Iron Guard, their weapons drawn.
With a defiant roar that surprised even himself, Lyraen climbed the steps of the dais. He felt the intense heat radiating from the throne, a warmth that was both searing and strangely comforting. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and placed it on the armrest of the Ember Throne.
The moment his skin touched the solidified magma, a blinding, golden light erupted from the throne, engulfing the entire chamber. A wave of raw, elemental power slammed into Lyraen, overwhelming his senses. He felt ancient memories, forgotten knowledge, and the very essence of the world's elements flooding into his mind. He cried out, not in pain, but from the sheer magnitude of the sensation.
The Iron Guard, caught in the sudden, brilliant flash, stumbled back, shielding their eyes. The Captain roared orders, but his voice was swallowed by the escalating roar of elemental energy. The chamber itself began to tremble, the glowing golden veins in the walls pulsing wildly, brighter and brighter.
Lyraen felt himself being pulled, not physically, but spiritually, into the heart of the throne. He was becoming one with it, a conduit for its immense power. The light intensified to an unbearable degree, and the last thing he heard before his consciousness was consumed by the roaring elemental storm was the desperate, enraged shout of the Iron Guard Captain, cut short by a sound like tearing fabric. The world, as Lyraen knew it, was about to change forever.