Chapter 9: The Forgotten Throne
Darien fell to his knees as the vision shattered.
The battlefield, the crowned version of himself, the dying sky—gone. He was back in Elyar, beneath the Pillar of Light. The ground was cold. His skin burned.
The Flame had dimmed.
A new shape had appeared beneath it—a staircase, spiraling down into the earth.
He didn't hesitate.
Step after step, he descended. The walls bled light, carved with ancient runes that whispered as he passed. Each whisper was a memory, but not his.
> "Do not trust the fire." "He who wears your face has already chosen." "The throne remembers."
At the end of the staircase was a chamber of obsidian and bone. In its center sat a throne—not golden, not jeweled—but made of rusted swords and twisted iron. A throne built from war.
Darien approached, breath slow.
The mark on his head pulsed violently. Voices echoed in his mind—louder now. Dozens. Hundreds. Screaming. Praying. Laughing.
He reached out.
The throne's metal hissed beneath his touch.
Suddenly, visions flooded him. A war that never ended. A god torn in half. A crown buried beneath a mountain of ash.
And then—a woman's voice, clear above all others:
"If you sit, the gods awaken. If you walk away… the world burns anyway."
Darien pulled back, trembling.
He didn't sit.
Not yet.