The moon hung in the sky like a gaping wound, its once brilliant silver glow now smothered by an eerie crimson hue. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the Skyborne Citadel, twisting and writhing as if alive, whispering ancient secrets in voices long forgotten by the mortal world. A hush had settled over the battlefield outside—an unnatural stillness, as though the very air held its breath, waiting for something.
Rhaegar stood in the heart of the throne room, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his blackened blade. His pulse was steady, his expression unreadable, but deep within, something stirred. Something dark. Something ancient. He could feel it coiling beneath his skin, like a caged beast waiting to be unleashed.
Behind him, his most trusted warlock, Malagar, knelt before the great obsidian altar that had been hastily erected at the center of the chamber. The dark stone pulsed with an otherworldly light, tendrils of mist curling from its surface like ghostly fingers. Arcane sigils, drawn in blood, gleamed under the flickering torchlight, forming a web of intricate power that crackled with dark energy.
"The time has come," Malagar murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "The eclipse nears its peak. The gift you were promised... it waits."
Rhaegar did not reply immediately. He turned his gaze toward the massive windows of the citadel, where the sky had become a swirling abyss of darkness, swallowing the stars one by one. A storm was brewing—not one of wind and rain, but of something far more terrifying. A force beyond mortal comprehension.
"I can feel it," Rhaegar finally spoke, his voice a low, measured growl.
Malagar's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Then accept it, my king. Let the eclipse carve its power into your soul. Let it shape you into what you were always meant to be."
With slow, deliberate steps, Rhaegar approached the altar. As he drew closer, the whispers grew louder, a chorus of voices speaking in tongues he did not recognize, yet understood instinctively. They called to him, beckoning him forward, urging him to reach out, to take what was his by right.
He placed his hand upon the altar.
A jolt of raw power surged through him, a force so overwhelming that it nearly drove him to his knees. Every nerve in his body ignited with searing pain, yet beneath that agony, there was something else—an awakening. He gasped as his vision blurred, the world around him twisting and distorting.
And then he saw it.
A figure stood before him, cloaked in swirling shadows, its form ever-shifting, never solid. Its eyes, twin voids of endless darkness, bored into him with a knowing gaze. It was neither man nor god, neither demon nor angel. It was something beyond such definitions. Something infinite.
"You seek power," the entity spoke, its voice a thousand echoes overlapping in perfect harmony. "You seek vengeance. Dominion. Eternity."
Rhaegar's fingers tightened into fists. "I seek what is mine."
A deep, resonant chuckle rippled through the air, sending shivers down his spine. "And yet, you hesitate. You fear the price. Tell me, Rhaegar Crowne, are you prepared to pay it?"
He exhaled sharply, his golden eyes burning with defiance. "I was betrayed. Cast aside. My kingdom stolen, my throne defiled. If there is a price to reclaim what is mine, I will pay it gladly."
The entity studied him for a long moment before extending a hand, its fingers long and clawed, wreathed in a shifting, liquid darkness.
"Then take my gift, Reaper King. Become more than mortal. More than man. Become the harbinger of the eclipse."
Without hesitation, Rhaegar reached forward. The moment his hand met the entity's, a wave of pure, unfiltered power crashed into him, tearing through his flesh, his bones, his very soul. He screamed, but there was no pain now—only transformation.
His veins darkened, pulsing with eldritch energy. His vision sharpened, seeing beyond the physical realm, into the threads of fate themselves. His heartbeat slowed, becoming measured, deliberate, like the ticking of an eternal clock. And deep within, he felt something new—an insatiable hunger. Not for food, nor drink, but for power. For conquest. For destruction.
The vision shattered, and he was back in the throne room.
Malagar had stepped back, his eyes wide with reverence, as if beholding a god made flesh. "It is done," the warlock whispered. "You have been reborn."
Rhaegar flexed his fingers, feeling the raw strength coursing through his body. He could sense everything—the storm beyond the walls, the dying breath of soldiers on the battlefield, the fear in the hearts of those who still opposed him. It was intoxicating.
He turned toward the great doors of the citadel, where his enemies gathered, preparing for one final assault. The once-mighty army that had come to challenge him now trembled, sensing the shift in power.
Rhaegar Crowne was no longer merely a man.
He was something else now. Something greater.
And the world would soon know the true weight of The Eclipse's Gift.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, adjusting to the raw, unrestrained power coursing through his veins. His golden eyes gleamed with a new, unnatural intensity, the irises shifting subtly like molten gold laced with threads of darkness. He felt as though the very fabric of reality had bent to accommodate his presence—his breath was heavier, his thoughts sharper, and his senses stretched beyond mortal comprehension.
He could hear the ragged breaths of his soldiers beyond the citadel walls, sense the trembling hearts of those who still dared to oppose him. The world had become a web of pulsing life and energy, and he stood at the center, the weaver of fate itself.
Malagar remained silent, his gaze fixated upon his king. There was something akin to awe in his usually impassive expression, as if he, too, felt the weight of the transformation that had just taken place.
Finally, the warlock spoke, his voice measured but reverent. "The world will never be the same."
Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the towering doors of the citadel. Beyond them, his enemies were regrouping, preparing for what they must have thought would be a final assault. Fools. They didn't understand what had just transpired. They didn't realize that their fate had already been sealed the moment they had set foot in his domain.
He flexed his fingers, the shadows around him twisting in response, eager to obey his command. "No," he murmured, his voice laced with an eerie calm. "It will not."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder outside. Then, Malagar took a cautious step forward, his eyes searching his king's face. "What do you see, my lord?"
Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, considering the question. How could he put into words what he was experiencing? It was as though the veil between life and death had been pulled back, revealing the vast, intricate threads that bound existence itself. He saw not just the present, but echoes of the past and glimpses of futures yet unwritten.
"I see everything," he finally said. "Their fear. Their doubt. The wavering resolve of those who swore to fight against me." His lips curled into a smirk. "And I see their deaths."
Malagar chuckled, low and approving. "Then let them come. Let them witness the birth of the Reaper King."
A heavy knock echoed through the chamber, reverberating through the air like a drum of war.
Rhaegar didn't flinch. He merely raised a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, the great doors groaned open, revealing the waiting figures beyond.
There they stood—the commanders of the so-called rebellion, cloaked in steel and foolish hope. At their center was a man Rhaegar recognized immediately—General Alistair, a veteran warrior, once loyal to the throne, now standing in defiance of its rightful ruler. His armor was tarnished with blood and soot, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. His expression was one of grim determination.
"Rhaegar Crowne," Alistair spoke, stepping forward. "You've gone too far."
Rhaegar chuckled softly, his voice dripping with amusement. "Too far? Have I?" He descended the short steps leading to his throne, moving with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The very air seemed to ripple with each step he took. "Tell me, General, where exactly is the line between justice and vengeance? Between a kingdom restored and a kingdom conquered?"
Alistair's jaw tightened. "There is no kingdom left for you to rule. You burned it to the ground."
Rhaegar stopped just a few paces away from him, tilting his head slightly. "And yet, you are here, standing within my citadel, beneath my roof, speaking as though you hold authority over me." His smirk widened. "Am I to assume you've come to negotiate? To beg for mercy?"
Alistair's grip on his sword tightened, but he did not raise it. "You know why I'm here."
Rhaegar exhaled, feigning boredom. "Ah, yes. The noble act of delivering justice upon the so-called tyrant." He glanced at the other soldiers standing behind Alistair, their postures tense, their fear barely concealed behind their hardened expressions. "And do your men share this conviction?" His gaze swept over them, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "Do they truly believe they can stand against me?"
A flicker of hesitation passed through the ranks. A heartbeat of silence stretched between them.
Alistair, however, did not falter. "Your power doesn't make you invincible, Rhaegar. It makes you reckless. It makes you blind to the consequences of your own madness."
Rhaegar's expression darkened, his smirk fading into something far more dangerous. The air in the chamber grew heavier, charged with an unseen force.
"Madness?" he repeated, voice laced with quiet amusement. Then, without warning, he reached out, seizing Alistair by the throat.
The general barely had time to react before the world around him shifted—black tendrils of shadow coiling around his limbs, locking him in place. He struggled, gritting his teeth, but Rhaegar's grip was unyielding, his fingers ice-cold against Alistair's skin.
"I was betrayed," Rhaegar whispered, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of fury. "Cast aside. Left to rot while traitors desecrated my throne. And you have the audacity to call me blind?"
Alistair gasped, his breath stolen by the crushing force around his neck. But he did not look away. Even as his vision blurred, he met Rhaegar's gaze with unshaken defiance.
"You were... once a king," he rasped. "Now, you're just a monster wearing a crown."
For a moment, the room was silent. Then, Rhaegar's lips parted into a slow, humorless smile.
"Yes," he murmured, his grip tightening. "I suppose I am."
A pulse of raw energy surged through his fingers, and Alistair's body convulsed as the darkness wrapped around him, consuming him from the inside out. The soldiers behind him stepped back in horror, their courage crumbling in an instant.
Rhaegar released his hold, letting Alistair's body drop unceremoniously to the ground. The once-proud general lay motionless, his armor now tarnished with streaks of blackened veins that pulsed with residual corruption.
Rhaegar turned his gaze back to the remaining soldiers, his expression unreadable. "Run," he said simply.
For a heartbeat, they hesitated. Then, as if some invisible force had shattered their resolve, they turned and fled, their hurried footsteps echoing through the corridors.
Malagar stepped forward, looking down at Alistair's lifeless form with mild curiosity. "You let them live?"
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. "For now."
Malagar chuckled. "Mercy does not suit you, my king."
Rhaegar's gaze flickered to the shadows beyond the chamber, where the tendrils of darkness still writhed in hunger. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his newfound power settle over him like a second skin.
"Mercy?" He smirked. "No, Malagar. This is fear."
And fear was far more useful.
Rhaegar turned away from Alistair's corpse, his golden eyes gleaming with an unnatural glow as he walked toward his throne. The heavy silence in the chamber was only disturbed by the distant echoes of fleeing footsteps, the last remnants of the rebellion scattering like frightened rats.
Malagar followed closely behind, his expression unreadable. "They'll warn the others," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "Word of what you did here will spread."
Rhaegar sank into his throne, exhaling slowly as he rested one elbow on the armrest, fingers tapping against the polished obsidian. "Good."
Malagar's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You want them to fear you."
Rhaegar's eyes flickered toward him, his expression unreadable. "Fear is a weapon more potent than any blade. A dead enemy is forgotten. A living one who trembles at the mere whisper of your name—that is power."
The warlock let out a low chuckle, nodding approvingly. "And what of the remaining generals? They will not bow so easily."
"They will," Rhaegar said simply, his voice carrying an eerie certainty. "They just don't know it yet."
Malagar inclined his head. "Then shall we proceed?"
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, leaning back into his throne as the shadows coiled around him, drawn to his presence like moths to a flame. His fingers tightened against the obsidian armrest, and for a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, as if lost in thought.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke. "Bring me the map."
Malagar moved swiftly, retrieving a large, weathered parchment from a nearby table. He spread it out before Rhaegar, the edges curling slightly from years of use. The map detailed the lands beyond the citadel—kingdoms that had once sworn fealty to the Crowne bloodline, now fractured, scattered, and governed by traitors.
Rhaegar's gaze traced the faded ink, his eyes narrowing slightly. He reached out, his fingers gliding over the map, stopping at a particular stronghold—Evercrest.
"Their most fortified city," Malagar murmured, following his king's line of sight. "It will not fall easily."
Rhaegar smirked. "It doesn't need to."
Malagar arched a brow. "You have something in mind?"
Rhaegar leaned forward, tapping his finger against the city's name. "We do not need to break Evercrest. We only need to make them believe we will."
Malagar's eyes gleamed with intrigue. "Ah. Deception."
Rhaegar's smirk widened. "Let them gather their armies, fortify their walls. Let them spread their forces thin trying to prepare for a siege that will never come." He leaned back, his golden eyes burning with satisfaction. "And while they cower behind their walls, we strike where they least expect."
Malagar nodded, clearly impressed. "A bold strategy. Ruthless. But what of the Eclipse's Gift? You have yet to test the full extent of its power."
Rhaegar's gaze darkened, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something almost inhuman crossed his features. "I already know what it can do."
Malagar tilted his head slightly. "Do you?"
Rhaegar did not answer immediately. Instead, he lifted his hand, flexing his fingers slightly. The air around them trembled, a ripple of unseen energy radiating outward. The torches lining the walls flickered violently, the shadows stretching unnaturally across the stone.
Malagar took a slow step back, watching with undisguised fascination. "Interesting."
Rhaegar closed his fingers into a fist, and the entire chamber shuddered. A deep, resounding hum filled the air, as if the very fabric of reality had been disturbed.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the energy dissipated. The torches returned to normal, the shadows retreating to their natural places.
Rhaegar lowered his hand, exhaling sharply. His chest rose and fell with the remnants of exertion, though his expression remained unreadable.
Malagar studied him for a long moment before speaking. "You're holding back."
Rhaegar's gaze flickered toward him.
Malagar smirked. "I can feel it. You've barely scratched the surface of what the Eclipse's Gift has bestowed upon you."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "And you would have me unleash it blindly?"
Malagar chuckled. "Of course not. But if you are to claim the throne, you must learn to control it."
Rhaegar's fingers curled slightly against the obsidian throne. "Control?" His voice was low, almost thoughtful. "Or submission?"
Malagar's smirk did not fade. "Is there a difference?"
Rhaegar did not answer. Instead, he rose from his throne, his long coat billowing slightly with the movement. His golden eyes gleamed like embers beneath a storm.
"There is a ritual," Malagar continued, watching his king closely. "One that might allow you to fully comprehend what you've become."
Rhaegar turned to him. "What kind of ritual?"
Malagar's smirk widened. "One that will take you to the edge of mortality itself."
A tense silence stretched between them. Then, after a long moment, Rhaegar exhaled, his lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Show me."
Malagar inclined his head, his amusement barely contained. "As you wish, my king."
The warlock turned, gesturing for Rhaegar to follow. The chamber's heavy doors groaned open, revealing the darkened halls beyond. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, and the torches flickered with an almost unnatural glow.
Rhaegar followed without hesitation, his footsteps silent against the polished stone.
As they descended deeper into the citadel, a strange, lingering anticipation coiled in his chest. He could feel the power within him stirring, responding to the promise of something more.
And for the first time in a long while, Rhaegar Crowne felt truly alive.
The corridors twisted like veins through the heart of the citadel, narrow and dimly lit by flickering sconces. Shadows danced along the stone walls, shifting unnaturally as if aware of Rhaegar's presence. Malagar led the way with slow, deliberate steps, his crimson robes barely rustling despite the movement.
Rhaegar followed in silence, his mind focused yet unsettled. The sensation in his chest—the dark hum of power—had not faded. If anything, it had grown stronger with each passing step. He could feel the Eclipse's Gift pulsing beneath his skin, demanding to be acknowledged.
They descended a spiraling staircase, the air thickening as they reached the lower levels of the citadel. The walls became rougher, raw stone replacing the polished obsidian above. There was something almost ancient about these depths, as if they had not been touched in centuries.
Finally, they reached a heavy iron door, its surface engraved with intricate runes that pulsed faintly with an eerie violet glow.
Malagar placed a hand against the metal. "Beyond this door lies the Ritual Chamber. Only those who have been marked by the Eclipse may enter." He turned his head slightly, his smirk barely visible in the dim light. "You will feel its presence immediately."
Rhaegar said nothing, merely watching as Malagar pressed his palm against the largest rune. A deep, guttural vibration echoed through the stone, and the door groaned as it slowly began to part.
Beyond it lay a vast, circular chamber carved from dark stone. At its center, an ancient altar stood, its surface cracked and worn, as if it had seen countless rituals before this night. The air was thick with incense, the scent a strange mix of burned herbs and something more primal—something ancient.
But what drew Rhaegar's attention most was the massive sigil that covered the floor, glowing with an otherworldly radiance. Symbols older than any kingdom pulsed like living veins, shifting in unnatural patterns.
Malagar stepped forward, gesturing toward the altar. "This is where it must happen."
Rhaegar tilted his head. "And what, exactly, will happen?"
Malagar's smirk widened. "You will stand at the precipice of oblivion and take a step forward. If the Eclipse's Gift deems you worthy, you will return."
Rhaegar arched a brow. "And if not?"
Malagar chuckled. "Then you will cease to be."
A lesser man might have hesitated. Might have questioned the wisdom of stepping into something beyond mortal comprehension. But Rhaegar was not a lesser man. He had already died once. He had already stood on the edge of oblivion and returned stronger than before.
Without another word, he stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the sigil, the chamber shook. The symbols flared to life, their light swallowing the darkness, and a rush of unseen energy surged through Rhaegar's body. His vision blurred for an instant, then snapped into terrifying clarity.
Suddenly, he was no longer in the chamber.
He stood in a vast, endless void. A sky without stars stretched above him, swirling with shadows that moved like living things. The ground beneath his feet was neither stone nor soil—just nothingness that somehow held his weight.
A whisper echoed through the abyss.
"You seek power, but do you know what you truly are?"
Rhaegar's breath was steady. He turned slowly, searching for the source of the voice. "I am the rightful king," he said, his voice unwavering.
A chuckle—low, deep, and familiar.
Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight before him. It was him. A perfect reflection, yet different. The doppelgänger's golden eyes burned brighter, his smirk twisted with something feral. His armor was darker, its edges sharper, as if forged from shadows themselves.
The other Rhaegar tilted his head. "Rightful king?" he mused. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
Rhaegar did not move. "Who are you?"
The reflection grinned. "I am you. The part you have buried. The piece you refuse to embrace."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "A shade."
The reflection stepped forward, his movements impossibly smooth. "A truth." His golden eyes gleamed. "Tell me, king, what did you feel when you cut down Alistair?"
Rhaegar's lips barely parted. "Satisfaction."
The reflection's smirk widened. "And when you slaughtered those who stood against you?"
Rhaegar did not hesitate. "Justice."
A laugh—dark, cruel, and knowing.
"You lie."
Rhaegar's fingers curled into fists. "I do not."
The reflection took another step closer. "You enjoyed it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You crave it."
Rhaegar's breath did not waver, but his grip on his power tightened.
The reflection's smile did not fade. "That is why you are here. Not for a throne. Not for vengeance. But because you are hungry."
Rhaegar took a slow step forward, his voice low and cold. "I am here because I was betrayed."
The reflection chuckled. "No, you were unleashed."
The void trembled. The swirling darkness coiled around them, drawn to their presence.
The reflection spread his arms. "The Eclipse's Gift is not a burden. It is not a curse. It is freedom. But only if you accept it fully."
Rhaegar's golden eyes burned. "And if I do not?"
The reflection's grin turned sharp. "Then you will always be less."
A pause. A heartbeat.
Then—
Rhaegar lunged.
Their blades clashed in the void, sparks of unnatural energy bursting upon impact. The reflection moved like liquid shadow, his strikes precise and merciless. Rhaegar countered, his own speed matching the impossible fluidity of his opponent.
Each strike sent ripples through the abyss, the void itself reacting to their battle. The reflection laughed as he dodged a vicious slash, his golden eyes gleaming with something unhinged.
"You fight me," he said between strikes, "but you are fighting yourself."
Rhaegar did not answer. He only pressed forward, his movements relentless, his blade a blur of lethal precision.
Then, in a flash of motion, the reflection twisted—his blade carving upward.
Rhaegar barely evaded, but the tip of the sword grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
The reflection grinned. "You hesitate."
Rhaegar's grip tightened. "No."
With a roar, he struck.
His blade found its mark—plunging deep into the reflection's chest.
The void shuddered. The reflection gasped, but his smirk did not fade.
He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper.
"Now you see."
Then, the darkness collapsed.
The chamber came rushing back.
Rhaegar staggered, his breath sharp as he found himself standing in the center of the sigil once more. Malagar watched him, intrigued.
Rhaegar lifted his gaze, his golden eyes now burning with a new, terrifying clarity.
Malagar smirked. "Did you find your answer?"
Rhaegar exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
And as the shadows around him coiled tighter, he knew—
The Eclipse's Gift was no longer something to control.
It was his to command.
Rhaegar's breath steadied, but the weight in his chest did not fade. The power that now coiled within him felt alive, a pulsing presence beneath his skin, threading through his veins like liquid night. He flexed his fingers, and for the briefest moment, he could see the faintest shimmer of shadow trailing in his movements—like ink dispersing in water. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, yet utterly his.
Malagar's crimson eyes studied him with a quiet intensity, a knowing smirk curling the edges of his lips. "You've changed."
Rhaegar met his gaze, his own golden irises now gleaming with an eerie, otherworldly depth. "I am the same."
Malagar chuckled. "No. You are more." He stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back as he circled the ritual chamber. "Tell me, what did you see?"
Rhaegar remained still for a moment, letting the echoes of the void settle in his mind. "Myself," he said finally. "Stronger. Unburdened."
Malagar arched a brow. "And did you listen to him?"
Rhaegar's jaw tensed, the memory of his reflection's words still fresh, still uncomfortably true.
"You hesitate," the shade had told him.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly. "I killed him."
Malagar chuckled again, low and rich with amusement. "Did you?"
Rhaegar's fingers twitched.
He had stabbed his reflection—run his blade through the twisted doppelgänger's chest. He had watched the void shudder, had felt the abyss recoil. But even now, standing within the mortal plane, he could still hear the reflection's voice.
"You hesitate."
It was not a taunt. It was a truth.
Rhaegar's fists clenched, his knuckles whitening.
Malagar watched him, his smirk widening. "The Eclipse does not die, my lord. It lingers. It waits." He tilted his head slightly. "And so does the part of you that wields it."
Rhaegar said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.
Malagar stepped closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "You stand on the precipice of something far greater than thrones and crowns. Power does not demand control—it demands acceptance."
Rhaegar's gaze snapped to him. "You think I fear it?"
Malagar held his gaze, unblinking. "I think you are learning what it means to become it."
A flicker of something cold settled in Rhaegar's chest. He knew the truth in Malagar's words. Power was not merely something to wield—it was something that consumed, reshaped, remade. He had seen it in the abyss, had felt it seeping into the marrow of his bones.
And he had let it in.
Rhaegar turned away, the weight of his realization settling over him like a shroud. "Enough of this," he said. His voice was steady, but there was a rawness beneath it, a lingering thread of something even he was unsure of. "There is more to do."
Malagar inclined his head. "As you command, my king."
The Council's Reckoning
The chamber's doors swung open, revealing the grand hall beyond. Already, figures had gathered—cloaked lords, armored generals, and whispering courtiers who had no doubt felt the tremors of the ritual. Their gazes locked onto Rhaegar the moment he emerged, their eyes flickering with wariness, curiosity… and something dangerously close to reverence.
He did not slow his steps as he strode to the high table. The torches lining the walls seemed to dim in his presence, their flames flickering lower as if bowing before something greater.
Malagar followed behind him, his movements smooth, calculated, ever the predator among prey.
At the table, Lord Evander rose first, his heavy-set frame tense. "My king," he said, his voice measured. "We felt something… powerful. What has transpired?"
Rhaegar did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, let the weight of his presence sink into the bones of every man and woman in the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, calm, yet thrumming with something deeper.
"The Eclipse has granted me its blessing."
A ripple of unease passed through the council. A few exchanged wary glances, while others lowered their gazes, as if unwilling to meet the eyes of a king who had touched something beyond mortal understanding.
It was Lord Bastian who finally spoke, his usual sharp tongue tempered by caution. "And what does this blessing mean, Your Grace?"
Rhaegar stepped forward, placing his hands on the table. The wood groaned under his touch, the veins of darkness still lingering beneath his skin pressing against the surface.
"It means," he said, "that I will not be challenged again."
The finality in his tone left no room for argument.
Silence reigned, thick as a storm about to break.
Then, Lord Evander cleared his throat, attempting to reclaim some semblance of authority. "Then… we move forward?"
Rhaegar inclined his head, though there was an edge of amusement in his golden eyes. "Yes," he said. "We move forward."
The lords, though uneasy, nodded in agreement. None dared press further, none wished to test the will of a king who had walked the abyss and returned.
Returning to the Throne Room
As the meeting adjourned, Rhaegar made his way toward the throne room, Malagar falling into step beside him.
"You see how they look at you now?" Malagar murmured. "With fear. With awe."
Rhaegar's gaze remained ahead. "They should."
Malagar smirked. "It is a delicious thing, is it not? To have them tremble at the mere thought of you?"
Rhaegar said nothing. But deep within him, the dark whisper from the void echoed.
"You enjoy it."
He exhaled slowly as he stepped into the throne room, the grand hall vast and empty, save for the flickering torches casting long shadows against the walls.
Rhaegar ascended the steps of the throne and turned. From this vantage point, he could see everything—the towering pillars, the black marble floor, the banners bearing his sigil. This was his domain, his kingdom.
But for the first time, he realized something unsettling.
He had returned stronger. More feared. More powerful.
And yet…
He was still alone.
His fingers brushed the armrest of the throne, the cold metal pressing against his palm. His mind flickered to the past—to those he had lost, to those who had betrayed him, to those who had stood at his side and then vanished.
Malagar, ever observant, leaned against a nearby pillar. "You've conquered the abyss," he said. "Yet something still weighs on you."
Rhaegar did not answer at first. Then—
"The abyss does not conquer loneliness."
Malagar chuckled softly. "No, my king. But it makes you forget it."
Rhaegar closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the silence settle.
Then, he opened them.
The golden glow in his irises flared once more.
There was no time for ghosts. No time for hesitation.
His path was set.
And the world would kneel.
Silence.
Thick, suffocating silence stretched across the war chamber, punctuated only by the faint crackling of dying torches. The lords and advisors seated at the long obsidian table stared at Rhaegar with faces drained of blood, some failing to mask their awe, others unable to hide their unease. The weight of his words — The Eclipse has granted me its blessing — hung heavy in the air like stormclouds before the thunder.
Lady Naevira of Blackhaven stood slowly, her raven-feathered mantle shifting as she rose. Her voice was steady, though her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. "You speak of ancient sorcery… cursed rites that tore kingdoms apart during the War of Hollow Suns. No man tames the Eclipse. It is a force that devours."
"I did not tame it," Rhaegar replied, stepping closer to the table. "I bargained with it. I became what it required of me."
"And what did it require?" asked General Kharon, his scarred brow furrowed, arms crossed over thick, armored chest.
"Sacrifice," Rhaegar said. "And surrender."
A chill swept through the chamber. Even Malagar, ever the specter in the background, narrowed his eyes faintly at the king's choice of words.
Lord Evander leaned forward, his voice low but laced with concern. "You swore to lead us back from ruin, not into the arms of darkness. Tell me plainly, Rhaegar—what have you done?"
Rhaegar's gaze swept over them, one by one, his eyes glinting with something otherworldly. "I have ensured our survival. The kingdom cannot rise with rusted swords and fractured alliances. It must be reborn in shadow and flame. And for that, I reached beyond the veil."
He raised a hand, and the shadows around his fingers shifted, dancing like living ink. The council recoiled in varying degrees—some flinching outright, others merely stiffening, but all recognizing that what stood before them was not merely their king.
It was something more.
Or perhaps something less than human.
Naevira's voice was sharp. "And what does this… blessing demand of us?"
"Loyalty," Rhaegar said simply. "And obedience."
Lord Ulric, youngest of the council and boldest in speech, scoffed. "Obedience? To a king who dances with demons?"
Before anyone could speak, the air around Rhaegar shimmered. In the blink of an eye, Ulric was slammed back in his chair by a wave of force so sudden it rattled the goblets on the table. His chest heaved as the air seemed to press down upon him—weightless, yet crushing.
Rhaegar's voice dropped an octave, cold as moonlight. "Careful, Ulric. The old laws no longer protect you from the consequences of your words."
Then, just as quickly, the pressure vanished. Ulric gasped and slumped forward, pale and shaking.
"I did not come here to seek permission," Rhaegar said, his tone calmer now, but no less commanding. "You sit here because I allow it. Because I still value your minds, your experience. But let no one mistake me—I no longer need your approval. The Eclipse has chosen me."
A heavy silence followed. The firelight flickered dimly, casting elongated shadows across the walls as if echoing the darkness in Rhaegar's presence.
Naevira sat slowly, expression unreadable. "And what would you have us do, my king?"
Rhaegar walked to the head of the table and took his seat—the stone throne carved with ravens, blades, and thorns. He rested his hands on the armrests, the shadowy aura still faintly pulsing around his fingertips.
"We move on Erelthorn by the equinox," he said. "The Skyborne Citadel has been secured. Supplies will be routed through the eastern marshes. Malagar will lead the vanguard into the Vale of Smoke. You will each send half your men, trained or not. No exceptions."
Kharon grunted. "Erelthorn's walls have never fallen. Not in five hundred years. Its cliffs are suicide, and its archers can strike a falcon mid-flight. Even you will find that fortress unbreakable."
Rhaegar's eyes glinted with amusement—and something darker. "Walls fall. Stone breaks. Flesh burns. There is no such thing as unbreakable."
The table fell silent again, but this time it was different. Not fear. Not disbelief.
Something colder. Something darker.
Acceptance.
One by one, the council gave small nods, some hesitant, others solemn. The tide had turned. The old ways were dead. Whatever they feared, whatever they doubted, they now followed a man who had looked into the abyss and had returned wielding it.
And for the first time in decades, there was unity—born not of trust, but of inevitability.
Rhaegar stood, the black crown on his brow casting thin glints of gold in the dim light. "Go. Prepare your men. Tell them nothing of what transpired here. Let them believe in steel and glory if they must. We will give them a war to believe in."
As they filed out, Rhaegar remained, staring into the large obsidian map at the center of the war table. Tiny markers glowed across its surface—cities, fortresses, armies.
Each one a future conquest.
Malagar lingered behind. "You are becoming what you were always meant to be," he said, voice like a serpent's whisper.
Rhaegar didn't look at him. "Then why does it still feel like I've lost something?"
"Because the part of you that remembers still lives," Malagar said. "For now."
---
Meanwhile — in the ruins of the Temple of the Unseen Flame
Far to the east, under the shadow of fractured towers and bone-pale columns, a figure stirred within the broken sanctum. Robes of ash and bronze shifted as she knelt before a cracked altar, her eyes shut, her fingers dipped in blood drawn from her own palms.
She whispered a name.
"Rhaegar Crowne…"
And the flameless braziers around her flickered with cold fire.
He was rising.
But so too were the old debts.
And soon, they would come calling.
The war chamber was empty now, save for Rhaegar and Malagar. The torches burned lower, their glow casting jagged shadows across the stone walls, as if the darkness itself writhed in anticipation. Rhaegar stood motionless at the edge of the obsidian table, fingers trailing over the ancient carvings of war-torn cities and bloodstained battlefields. He could feel the weight of his choices pressing down on him, the echoes of his own voice still lingering in the air.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Malagar, ever the silent specter, watched with unsettling patience. His presence was like a lingering poison—unseen but ever-felt, coiling around the edges of Rhaegar's thoughts.
Finally, Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. "They fear me."
"They should," Malagar murmured. "Fear breeds obedience. Loyalty is fragile, but fear—fear is enduring."
Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening. "And yet, I did not take the Eclipse's gift to be a tyrant."
A dry chuckle escaped Malagar's lips. "You did."
Rhaegar's eyes flicked to him, sharp and piercing. "I took it to reclaim what was stolen."
Malagar stepped forward, his movements measured, precise. "And what, exactly, was stolen from you?"
Rhaegar's fingers curled into a fist against the war table. A flash of memory surged in his mind—his father's cold eyes as he condemned him, the jeering crowd as he was dragged to the executioner's block, the sickening snap of the axe severing what he had once been.
"My throne," he said darkly. "My name." His voice dipped lower, venomous. "My life."
Malagar inclined his head. "Then take them back. Not as the boy who lost them… but as the king who will never be denied again."
The words settled deep into Rhaegar's bones. He turned away, walking toward the arched window overlooking the city below. Black spires rose against the night sky, their jagged silhouettes stark against the moon's pale glow. Fires burned in the streets—smaller, controlled flames, the signs of his soldiers preparing for war.
Beyond the horizon, storm clouds gathered. Thick. Looming.
He could feel it—the power thrumming beneath his skin, the Eclipse's will coiling through his veins like a whispering serpent. The gift had changed him, molded him into something more, but it came at a cost.
A part of him still wondered what that cost truly was.
Malagar's voice came again, softer this time. "You hesitate."
Rhaegar turned, his expression unreadable. "I consider."
Malagar's lips curled faintly. "Then allow me to offer guidance." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You must break them. Not just their bodies, not just their cities. Their faith. You must become a storm they cannot weather, a shadow they cannot escape. No more compromises, no more mercy. Give them no illusions of hope. Only inevitability."
Rhaegar met his gaze, unblinking. "And if the cost of that inevitability is my own soul?"
Malagar merely smiled. "Then you will have paid the price that all great kings must."
A silence stretched between them. Then Rhaegar turned, making his way toward the exit. The heavy doors groaned open as he pushed through, stepping into the dimly lit corridors beyond.
His mind was set. The war for Erelthorn would begin, and he would see it ended before the moon waned.
But as he walked through the shadowed halls of his fortress, the weight of unseen eyes pressed against him. The Eclipse stirred within him, and somewhere deep in the abyss, something watched.
The Ruins of the Temple of the Unseen Flame
Far to the east, the wind howled through the shattered remains of the temple, carrying the scent of charred stone and long-forgotten blood. The once-great sanctum lay in ruin—its towering pillars cracked, its sacred fire extinguished centuries ago.
And yet, something stirred within its desecrated halls.
The woman knelt before the altar, her fingers still stained with the blood she had spilled in offering. The markings on her skin shimmered faintly under the pale moonlight, sigils of an old, forbidden magic. Her breath came slow, steady, as she whispered into the void.
"Rhaegar Crowne…"
The braziers flickered—cold, unnatural light rising where no flame should burn.
Her lips curled slightly. "You think the Eclipse chose you?" she murmured. "Poor, foolish king."
She reached forward, pressing her bloodied fingertips against the cracked surface of the altar. The ground trembled beneath her, faint at first, then stronger. A deep, resonant sound filled the air—a hum that did not belong to this world.
"The Eclipse does not choose," she whispered. "It marks. And those who wear its mark…" Her fingers clenched. "They are merely vessels."
The shadows around her shifted, coiling unnaturally.
"You are not its master, Rhaegar," she whispered, a slow smile creeping onto her lips. "You are merely its pawn."
The air shuddered as the unseen force stirred once more, and the temple walls groaned, as if the ruins themselves were listening.
The flames flickered higher.
And far, far away, in the halls of the darkened castle, Rhaegar felt a whisper brush against his mind.
A whisper not his own.
The whisper slithered into Rhaegar's mind, an insidious thread of darkness that coiled deep within his consciousness. It was neither a voice nor a thought, yet it was there—pressing against the edges of his awareness like the cold touch of unseen fingers.
His breath hitched for the briefest moment. The war chamber had long since emptied, leaving only the distant echoes of his own footsteps against the black stone. The dim torchlight flickered, casting elongated shadows that seemed to twist unnaturally along the walls.
A chill ran through him.
The whisper did not speak in words, nor in language he could recognize. It was something older. Something that did not belong to mortal tongues. And yet, he understood.
A warning.
A threat.
An invitation.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he pushed forward, willing himself to ignore the suffocating presence curling in the depths of his mind.
But he knew.
Something had reached for him.
Something had noticed him.
And it was waiting.
The Darkened Halls of the Castle
The corridors stretched before him in eerie silence. The air was thick with the scent of burning oil and the lingering iron tang of blood—a reminder of battles fought within these very walls. The banners of his fallen enemies hung tattered along the stone pillars, trophies of victories he had long since ceased to count.
His boots echoed against the floor, the sound swallowed quickly by the suffocating hush that clung to the castle like a living thing.
He was alone.
And yet, he wasn't.
His eyes flicked to the shadows at the edges of the corridor. They moved when they shouldn't have. Shifted when there was no light to guide them.
His jaw clenched. He refused to be hunted within his own domain.
Without slowing, he murmured a single word—one laced with the power that now surged through his veins.
The torches along the walls flared, their flames burning white-hot, chasing the darkness into retreat. The shadows recoiled, hissing like wounded beasts before slithering deeper into the crevices of the stone.
Rhaegar exhaled, his fingers still curled tightly around the pommel of his sword.
The whisper in his mind had faded, but its presence remained.
It had left something behind.
A mark.
A claim.
And for the first time in a long while, Rhaegar felt something dangerously close to unease.
The Forsaken Throne
By the time he reached the throne room, dawn had begun to creep across the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and violet. The grand chamber loomed before him, vast and hollow, its towering pillars etched with the scars of time.
At the center, upon the obsidian dais, sat the throne—his throne.
It was a thing of cruel beauty. Blackened steel twisted into jagged peaks, sharp edges meant to draw blood from those unworthy to sit upon it. Its armrests bore the imprints of long-dead rulers, their touch forever etched into the cold metal.
It was a throne built on war. On conquest. On suffering.
And it was his.
He ascended the steps slowly, the weight of his own power pressing against him like an invisible shroud. The moment he lowered himself onto the seat, he felt it—the undeniable presence of something watching.
Not his soldiers. Not his enemies.
Something else.
Something ancient.
He exhaled, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of the armrest. "Come, then," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "If you mean to test me, show yourself."
Silence.
Then—
A low hum.
Not a sound, but a vibration, deep within his bones.
His vision blurred, the edges of the world distorting. The air grew thick, heavy, as if the very fabric of reality strained under unseen weight. And then—
A voice.
Not spoken. Not heard.
Felt.
"You wear the mark well… but you are not its master."
Rhaegar's muscles tensed, his grip tightening on the throne. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but he refused to show weakness.
"Who are you?" His voice was steady. Unyielding.
A pause. Then—
"You already know."
A shadow took shape before him, not solid, not entirely real. It flickered like a dying flame, shifting in and out of existence. Yet its presence was overwhelming, pressing against the very air, warping the space around it.
Rhaegar's breath came slow and measured.
"I do not bow to ghosts," he said coldly.
The shadow laughed—a soundless, mocking thing that sent ripples through the chamber.
"You bow to nothing," it agreed. "That is why you will fall."
Rhaegar's eyes darkened. "I have slaughtered kings and gods alike. Do not mistake me for something you can frighten."
The shadow stilled, and for a moment, all was silent. Then, slowly, it began to move.
Not toward him.
Through him.
The moment it touched him, his vision fractured.
He saw—
Fire. Endless, raging fire, consuming cities, consuming worlds.
A battlefield drenched in blood, the corpses of thousands stretching beyond the horizon.
A throne—his throne—empty, abandoned, swallowed by the dark.
And above it all, a voice, distant but deafening, whispering his name.
Rhaegar gasped, his mind snapping back into the present. The throne room reassembled around him, the shadow gone as if it had never been there.
But the mark it left remained.
He could feel it in his veins, in the marrow of his bones.
A promise.
A warning.
An inevitability.
His lips parted slightly, a breathless chuckle escaping before he even realized it.
"Then let it come," he murmured to himself, his fingers tightening around the throne's armrests.
Let the gods, the kings, the shadows themselves rise against him.
He would burn them all.
The silence in the throne room stretched, thick and suffocating. The weight of what had just transpired lingered in the air, invisible yet oppressive, like an unshakable presence pressing down upon him.
Rhaegar's fingers curled around the armrests of his throne, the sharp metal biting into his skin. His breath was steady, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churned like a violent storm. The visions—the flames, the desolation, the forsaken battlefield—had been more than mere illusions. They had been fragments of something real. A future unwritten, yet dangerously close.
The entity had left no name, no purpose—only the suffocating truth that something beyond his comprehension had taken notice of him.
He clenched his jaw.
He did not fear the unknown. He did not bow to it.
And yet…
The memory of the voice scraped against his thoughts like rusted iron, unsettling and cold. You will fall.
A lesser man would have questioned, hesitated. Rhaegar did neither.
Instead, he leaned forward, his gaze hard, piercing the shadows that clung to the corners of the chamber. "If you seek to haunt me, then you are a fool," he said, his voice calm, steady—yet laced with an unspoken warning. "I do not break. I do not bend. If you wish to test me, come again, and I will show you the price of challenging me."
His words hung in the air, absorbed by the emptiness. No answer came.
Yet he knew he was still being watched.
A slow exhale left his lips. He lifted a hand, pressing it to his temple. The power within him stirred, simmering like a forge not yet unleashed. The throne beneath him felt colder than before, the edges sharper, as if the very foundations of his empire sensed the unseen weight pressing down upon him.
His castle was supposed to be his sanctuary, a fortress built on conquest, on war, on victory. Yet tonight, it felt different. Changed.
Rhaegar's gaze flickered to the grand doors of the throne room. He would not sit idly. He had rested enough.
With a decisive motion, he stood.
---
The War Council's Summons
The great hall was dimly lit when he entered, the chandeliers above casting fractured light across the long table. His generals and advisors stood at attention, their expressions a mixture of weariness and vigilance.
They had seen him fight. They had seen him win.
But they had not seen what he had just faced.
A sharp nod from General Valka acknowledged his presence first. She was a woman of unshakable discipline, her crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, her silver pauldron bearing the mark of the Crowne army. "Your Majesty," she said, voice clipped. "We received word from the eastern strongholds. The rebellion in the borderlands is stirring again."
Rhaegar's expression did not shift. "Then they will be dealt with."
Valka hesitated. "There is something else."
His patience thinned. "Speak."
The general exchanged a glance with one of the warlords, an older man with a scar cutting through his left brow. It was he who spoke next, his voice heavy with an edge of unease.
"Our scouts report something unnatural moving through the wastelands beyond the city. A presence we cannot explain."
Rhaegar stiffened. His mind flashed back to the whisper, the visions, the shadow's mocking laughter.
No.
This was not coincidence.
"And?" His voice remained impassive.
Valka straightened, her eyes flickering with something close to apprehension. "They claim to have seen figures in the mist—figures that do not move like men. The land itself… is changing."
A cold thread of understanding wove its way into his thoughts.
The Eclipse's Gift.
The entity had not come to him in the throne room merely to taunt him. It had been a prelude. A warning of something already set into motion.
"Send more scouts," Rhaegar commanded. "I want every inch of that land watched. If anything moves, I want it known."
The warlord hesitated. "Your Majesty, if these are not men but something else—"
"Then we will learn what they are before they have a chance to strike." His words were sharp, final. "Whatever this is, it does not rule me."
A murmur of agreement passed through the council, but there was tension in the air, a silent acknowledgment of something beyond their understanding creeping into the empire's borders.
Rhaegar dismissed them soon after. There was no need for debate. There was only action.
As the last of his advisors exited, he remained in the great hall, standing near the towering windows that overlooked the kingdom below. The torches along the walls flickered, and outside, the wind howled through the mountains.
His empire stretched before him, an unyielding force of stone and fire.
But for the first time in years, he felt it.
A shift.
An enemy he could not yet see.
A battle that had already begun.
He narrowed his eyes at the distant horizon. "If you wish to test me," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "then do not keep me waiting."
---
The Call of the Eclipse
The dreams came that night.
Not of war. Not of blood.
But of the sky.
He stood in an expanse of blackened clouds, the heavens above him fractured, split apart like shattered glass. The stars had been consumed, their light devoured by an endless, swirling abyss.
And in the center—
A crimson sun, eclipsed, pulsing with something ancient, something that called to him.
It whispered his name.
Not in defiance.
Not in challenge.
But in recognition.
His chest ached with something he could not name, a pull in his very being, as if he had stood in this place before, as if he had belonged here.
He reached out, fingers grazing the air between him and that burning void—
And the moment he touched it—
The world shattered.
The darkness did not consume him. It did not drag him into the abyss or tear him apart like he expected.
Instead, it welcomed him.
The weight of the sky pressed down, thick and suffocating, yet there was a strange familiarity in its presence. The eclipse hung above, its light not blinding but knowing, as if it recognized him in return. The world beneath his feet was not solid—it shifted like shadow and smoke, an endless void of shifting forms, whispering echoes of voices long forgotten.
A heartbeat pulsed in the air. Not his own.
Throneborn. The voice was neither distant nor near. It existed everywhere at once, surrounding him, seeping into his thoughts.
Rhaegar clenched his fists, his body tensed for battle. "Who are you?"
The air trembled at the question.
A question unworthy of you. You know what I am.
His jaw tightened. He did not know. But he understood.
This was the force that had whispered to him before. The one that had shown him visions of fire, of desolation, of a kingdom turned to ruin beneath the weight of something greater.
It was not a mere enemy. It was not a man he could cut down with a blade.
It was something eternal.
"And what do you want?" His voice was steady, despite the growing pressure against his mind, the way the very space around him seemed to constrict, warping with unseen power.
You already know the answer to that as well.
His gaze flickered toward the eclipsed sun above. The crimson light pulsed, as though breathing, as though watching.
A gift.
That was what it had called itself. The Eclipse's Gift.
"You seek to offer me power," Rhaegar said at last. It was not a question. It was a statement. A truth.
A slow, twisting silence followed, stretching long enough for unease to creep into the edges of his thoughts.
Then—
I seek to offer you a choice.
Rhaegar's expression remained unreadable. "And what would that choice be?"
The voice hummed in approval, a deep reverberation that sent tremors through the void beneath his feet.
You stand at the precipice of eternity, throneborn. The words carried weight, heavier than iron, heavier than fate itself. Your kingdom flourishes, yet it remains mortal. Your reign is powerful, yet it remains limited. You seek to carve your name into history, but history is a fleeting thing, rewritten and forgotten.
A tendril of shadow coiled in the air before him, twisting into vague, shifting images—kingdoms rising and falling, empires built from blood only to turn to dust, names once feared now nothing but whispers in crumbling stone.
You are strong. The voice deepened. But you are not eternal.
Rhaegar's pulse remained steady, but something within him stirred. Not doubt. Not fear.
Curiosity.
"Then tell me," he said, stepping forward, meeting the formless entity's presence without hesitation. "What must I do to become more than a name in history?"
The air stilled.
Then, the shadows surged.
A wind that did not exist howled through the space, and the darkness twisted, forming into something solid. A hand—not human, not fully formed, but vast and ancient—reached toward him.
Accept my gift.
Rhaegar did not move. His mind sharpened, assessing every possibility, every hidden price behind the offer.
This was no ordinary bargain. No mere pact of mortals.
The entity was not offering him power. It was offering him immortality.
And yet, power was never given freely.
"And what do you demand in return?" His voice remained level, unreadable.
The entity's form shuddered, shifting between light and shadow.
A kingdom that stands beyond time must be ruled by a king beyond death.
A beat of silence.
Then, a cold understanding settled in his chest.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly. "You wish to make me undying."
A pause.
Then—
Yes.
The word carried no deception. No falsehood. It was the undeniable truth.
Eternal reign. Eternal dominion.
A kingdom that would never fall.
And yet—
His fingers curled into a fist. "Immortality is a curse," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
The shadows did not stir, but he could feel the entity watching him, waiting.
"I have seen men who defied death," Rhaegar continued, his eyes dark. "They became hollow. Twisted. Slaves to the power they sought." He raised his gaze to the eclipsed sun, its crimson glow unyielding. "I will not be chained."
The entity did not react.
Instead, it spoke, softer this time.
There is no chain that you cannot break. There is no fate you cannot reshape.
The shifting shadows pulsed.
Do not mistake eternity for servitude, Rhaegar Crowne.
His breath stilled.
The voice had never spoken his full name before.
He held its gaze—or rather, the vast, unseen force behind it.
He had always sought power. Not for the sake of greed, but for the sake of control.
If he accepted, if he took this gift, he would become more than a king. More than a mortal ruler.
But he would also be stepping into a realm where the rules of men no longer applied.
A dangerous game. A dangerous power.
And yet—
His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.
"If you seek to tempt me," he said, his voice quiet yet unwavering, "you should have done so before I learned how to wield my own fate."
The shadows stilled.
Then—
Laughter. Deep, resounding, endless.
Not mockery.
Amusement.
So be it, throneborn. The voice rumbled through the air. The choice is yours to make. But know this—
The crimson sun pulsed, its light searing against the darkness.
The path of a mortal king leads to ruin. The path of an eternal king leads to conquest.*
The shadows began to fade.
The sky, the void, the pulsing energy of the unseen presence—
Everything shattered around him like breaking glass—
And Rhaegar woke.
The Throne Room – Reality Returns
His breath came slow, steady. The cold air of his chamber pressed against his skin.
For a long moment, he remained still, his mind processing what had transpired.
A vision? A warning? A temptation?
Perhaps all three.
His hands flexed at his sides, his power stirring beneath the surface. The choice had been given, but the decision had not been made.
Not yet.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter." His voice was calm, unreadable.
A soldier stepped inside, bowing. "Your Majesty. The council awaits your command."
Rhaegar nodded. He rose from his seat, his movements fluid, controlled.
There was no hesitation in his step.
Whatever path he chose, whatever future awaited—
It would be one he decided.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his mind still lingering in the remnants of that shadowed realm. The presence, the voice—it had not disappeared entirely. It still lingered, a whisper in the back of his thoughts, waiting, watching.
As he stepped toward the throne room, the weight of his choice pressed against him. Immortality. Power beyond measure. A reign that would not be bound by time. The very idea was intoxicating, but he knew better than to be blinded by such promises.
His boots echoed against the marble floor as he entered the council chamber. The gathered nobles and advisors immediately straightened, their conversations ceasing the moment he arrived.
"Your Majesty," one of them spoke, bowing deeply. "We have reports from the eastern border. The Forsaken remnants—"
"Are no longer a threat," Rhaegar interrupted, his voice cold, decisive.
The council exchanged glances, clearly unsettled by the certainty in his tone.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," another noble hesitated, "but… how can we be sure? If they are regrouping—"
"They are not." Rhaegar stepped forward, his eyes sharp. "I have seen their fate."
He did not elaborate. He did not need to. His word was law. His presence alone was enough to crush doubt.
The council fell silent.
Rhaegar allowed the moment to linger before finally turning his gaze toward the high windows, where the eclipsed sun still cast its unnatural glow upon the world.
Power was never given freely. But he was no fool.
If he took it—he would take it on his own terms.