The Hollow King was gone, but his shadow lingered.
For three days, Kaelen and Aelric walked beneath a sky dimmed by ash. The land bore scars left by the battle — trees cracked by unseen force, soil scorched with strange sigils, rivers running silver with Ember residue. But it was the silence that haunted Kaelen most. No birds. No wind. Just the quiet ache of a world holding its breath.
They traveled south, toward the edge of the Great Sand Sea where the first crown waited — in the bones of a forgotten empire.
Erelthane.
Once, it had been the jewel of the Nine. A kingdom of golden towers and flame-scribed laws, where sun priests wove fire into truth. Now, it lay half-swallowed by dunes, its glory buried beneath centuries of sand. All that remained was heat, ruin, and ghosts.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the old causeway, watching windblown sand swirl through a shattered archway. The stone bore an ancient sun emblem — fractured, scorched, still faintly warm.
"This was once the Gate of Kings," Aelric said beside him. "They say the last monarch of Erelthane walked through it wearing a crown made of sunrise."
"And died here," Kaelen murmured. "Fighting his brothers."
Aelric didn't reply. He didn't need to.
They passed beneath the arch and into the heart of the ruin. Bleached bones littered the road — not fallen warriors, but petrified civilians, their faces locked in expressions of awe or terror. Whatever had destroyed Erelthane had not used blade or flame. It had used awe.
At midday, they found the temple.
It rose like a fang from the sand — jagged, half-buried, but unmistakably sacred. Stairs carved with solar runes led downward into shadow. At its entrance, two massive statues flanked the way — lions with wings, their eyes set with burned sapphires.
The air grew cooler as they descended. Kaelen felt the Ember stir against his chest, resonating with something below.
"Something's watching us," Aelric said suddenly, hand on his hilt.
"I know."
They reached the sanctum.
A vast chamber, circular and lined with murals of the Nine Kings in their glory. In its center: a raised dais, and upon it, a golden helm etched with flames — the First Crown.
Kaelen stepped forward. The moment his foot touched the dais, the air ignited.
Flames burst to life around them, not burning but illuminating. And from the shadows, shapes emerged — spectral forms clad in ancient armor, faces hidden beneath golden masks. The royal guard of Erelthane.
"The Crown is not for the untested," one spoke, voice like a furnace. "Do you carry the Flame by birthright?"
Kaelen stood tall, unflinching. "I carry it by burden. I carry it by choice."
Another stepped forward. "Then prove you can endure the sun's judgment."
The world twisted.
Kaelen blinked — and he was no longer in the chamber. The desert stretched before him, endless, blinding, and searing hot. He walked barefoot on scorching sand, and overhead, the sun blazed like an angry god. He turned — Aelric was gone.
The trial had begun.
Hours passed. Or days. The heat never relented. Visions danced in the waves of shimmer — his mother's voice, the forge of Thornmere, the Hollow King's eyes, the scream of the creature in the stone circle. They tried to distract him, pull him down into fear and longing.
But Kaelen walked on. And with every step, the Ember pulsed stronger.
Finally, when his knees buckled and he sank into the burning sand, a figure appeared before him — tall, armored in gold, crowned in fire. The last King of Erelthane.
"You are not the strongest," the king said. "Not the cleverest. Not even the kindest."
Kaelen met his gaze. "I know."
"But you endure."
Kaelen did not answer.
The king reached forward, and in that moment, the vision shattered.
Kaelen awoke on the dais, gasping — the crown hovering inches above his hands.
The spirits were gone.
He took the crown. Its weight surprised him — not heavy, but right.
When he turned, Aelric grinned. "One down," he said. "Eight to go."
Kaelen nodded, eyes already turning northward — toward Halvyr Keep, the twilight-bound fortress of ice and shadow.
And somewhere far away, in a hall of mirrors and dust, a whisper echoed in a cracked throne:
"He has begun."