At the Gates of the Ashen Thronehold — The Empire Buried in Ash
Before me stood a colossal fortress—one glance was enough to feel that a thousand years of apocalypse still slept within its walls. The sky above was an unnatural shade of blood-red, the clouds drifting like smoke, like ash torn from a scorched, dead world. The fortress was not built atop a mountain; instead, it was wedged deep within a massive chasm, trapped between two sheer stone walls. It did not believe in sunlight. Even when light reached this place, it seemed to extinguish itself.
In her voice lingered pride, sorrow, and memories stained with unknown blood, all woven together.
I slowly walked toward the enormous iron gate. From the narrow gaps in the darkness, a forbidden golden-yellow glow seeped out, as if some unfamiliar fire still burned within.
Grrrr—grrrrr—
The iron gate began to open, the sound like someone grinding the bones of the dead apart.
When the gate fully parted, I saw it—at the heart of the fortress, beneath a vast dome, stood an extraordinary throne, and upon it sat a man.
Yet calling it a throne felt almost like an injustice. It was the seat of an emperor of darkness, or perhaps of those hollow gods who despise the light. The throne was carved from black, coarse stone, every groove packed with what felt like the fossilized echoes of human screams. Its back rose so high it seemed capable of piercing the cavern ceiling and clawing at the sky itself. At its crown, jagged, thorn-like spikes curved upward like the twisted horns of a deformed beast, as though the throne were a living body—a slumbering monster—one that only the cursed dared to sit upon.
On either side below, reddish-orange flames burned, but they were not fires born of human hands. It felt as if a suffocating darkness had given birth to them. As those flames trembled in the air, the shadows shifted unnaturally, as if countless unseen sentinels stood silently within the dark.
The moment my eyes fell upon the man seated atop that dreadful throne, the blood in my veins seemed to freeze. He did not move, yet his presence controlled the entire hall. It felt as though the fortress itself, the flames, even the air, dared not move without his permission.
"My husband… Dimitri," Melissa whispered into my ear.
I looked at him more closely. A long face, deep black shadows beneath his eyes, eyes that were strangely calm yet drowned in profound sorrow. His skin was unnaturally pale, so pale it seemed as though blood had long forgotten how to flow through his body. Thin lips bore a faint scar above them. His black hair reached his neck, the front slightly disheveled, as if it had been broken again and again by the night wind.
He wore a black suit with a white shirt and a tightly knotted black tie. From his breast pocket hung an old golden chain attached to a pocket watch, and on his finger gleamed a ring shaped like a skeleton. His entire appearance carried the weight of ancient, royal mourning.
Dimitri lifted his head slightly and spoke.
"Oh… and who might he be?"
His voice was rough, deep, and unnervingly calm.
I stiffened and replied, "I… I'm Riven."
Melissa straightened and said evenly, "I saved him from the creatures outside."
Dimitri looked at me slowly, his gaze strange, as if my face reminded him of someone else entirely.
"Please, sit," he said, gesturing toward a sofa.
I sat down. Melissa remained standing beside the throne, her eyes alert. Curiosity flickered in Dimitri's gaze.
"What were you doing in the deep forest at such an hour?" he asked.
My throat dry, I answered, "I was… looking for my friend. The military took him away. I was returning through the forest. It was late, I lost my way… and then suddenly… they—the twisted ones—started chasing me."
Melissa spoke calmly, "They are not undead, Riven. They were human once. But a mad doctor tore their souls apart and bound them to half-dead bodies."
Dimitri pressed a hand to his temple.
"Dr. Morgana."
The way he spoke the name carried such hatred and grief that it felt as though someone dear to him had been destroyed by Morgana's hands.
Dimitri then began to tell the story of Dr. Morgana…