The hall was a gallery of frozen specters. Not a single lord dared to breathe too deeply, lest the air itself betray them. The scent of blood was already thick enough to taste—a metallic tang that coiled at the back of every throat, yet no one choked, no one protested.
It wasn't loyalty that held them in place.
It wasn't fear alone.
It was something colder, more profound... complicity.
Each man and woman standing there—adorned in silk, gold, and self-importance—was bound by silent vows, hidden crimes, and favors yet unpaid. They were all players in the same game Blatir had mastered. They knew the rules: kings are not killed in daylight. Not like this. Not in front of witnesses who might someday be called upon to tell the tale.
So they stood. Motionless. Trapped between horror and fascination.
Some felt the slow creep of shame—a hot, quiet flush beneath stiff collars. Others, the icy thrill of watching a throne shake and wondering if they might someday climb its steps. A few, the oldest among them, saw not Aqua or Blatir, but the ghost of the king he'd murdered… and in that moment, they were cowards once more, just as they'd been the night it happened.
They didn't move because moving meant choosing.
And choosing meant risking.
And in that hall, risk was more terrifying than death.
So they let the moment stretch—a wire pulled taut between vengeance and order. They watched Aqua, not as a hero, but as a consequence. A truth too sharp to hold.
The throne was more than a seat; it was an idea. And Blatir, even now, bled power. To strike him down was to unravel the very fabric that clothed them all in relevance. So they waited. For the blow that might free them—or condemn them forever.
Silence became their language.
And it was deafening.
Blatir: "I won't deny it… But tell me, Aqua… What will you do now? Will you kill your king in front of everyone? In front of all these people? Is this the justice you seek?"
Blatir's voice was calm, yet beneath it lurked a hidden challenge, as if he were pushing Aqua toward the abyss. He knew he still controlled the situation, even with blood staining the hall, even as death crept toward him. Because he understood one truth… kings do not die with mere words.
Under the towering ceiling of the royal hall, where torches bathed the walls in a dim crimson glow, tension filled every corner. The air was thick with pressure, as if even the walls themselves held their breath, waiting for what was to come.
Aqua, his body torn and battered, could barely stand, yet he did not retreat. His grip on the sword tightened with each passing second, as if sheer willpower alone kept him upright.
Then, he took another step forward.
At that moment, Ser Variss, who had been momentarily lost in thought, stepped forward hesitantly. Meanwhile, Ser Darren clenched the hilt of his sword, his eyes locked on the scene with cautious intent. His stance betrayed hesitation, as if waiting for a signal... any movement... that would force him to act. Ser Variss, on the other hand, seemed uncertain, as though his mind was struggling to grasp what was unfolding before him.
But before he could speak, the sharp sound of heavy footsteps echoed from beyond the grand doors, followed by the urgent shouts of approaching guards.
A dozen armed guards burst into the hall, swiftly surrounding the scene.
Aqua did not waver. He did not even acknowledge their presence. His focus remained solely on his target.
At that moment, Raymond finally moved. He strode forward, his heart pounding wildly, positioning himself between Aqua and what was about to unfold.
Raymond: "Enough."
His voice was calm but carried an undertone of unspoken tension.
Raymond: "Calm down, Aqua. Don't make things worse."
But Aqua had no intention of stopping. He had passed the point of no return. His sharp gaze bore into Raymond, his exhausted body barely holding together, yet he did not falter.
Aqua: "Step aside, Raymond. Or I will kill you next to your father. "
His voice was hoarse, laden with exhaustion, yet sharp as a blade.
Then, slowly, Aqua turned his head, his eyes fixing on one of the guards standing too close... too close and carrying a small dagger tied to his waist.
Aqua moved.
He turned fully, as if an idea had suddenly taken root in his mind, and then, without warning… he lunged.
The guards reacted instantly.
The first rushed in from the right, his sword gleaming under the dim light, but before his strike could land, Aqua had already dodged.... his movements unnaturally swift for a man so worn down. Twisting sharply, he plunged his blade deep into the guard's stomach in a lethal strike. Blood splattered onto the floor, adding to the chaotic carnage of the hall.
He did not wait for the first to fall.
The second was already charging. Aqua spun again, this time parrying the attack with his sword. With a swift thrust forward, he drove his blade into the second guard's chest, pulling it out in a single fluid motion. The guard stumbled back before collapsing lifelessly.
But the others were closing in fast.
Then… Aqua did something unexpected.
Raymond: "Aqua!!"
In a swift motion, he crouched down, his hand darting toward the fallen guard beside him, fingers wrapping around the dagger at his waist.
Aqua surged forward, his broken body screaming in protest, but he ignored the pain. Pain no longer mattered. His body was nothing more than a vessel to reach his final goal.
The guards rushed after him. But it was already too late.
In a flash, Aqua raised his hand...
And hurled the dagger.
Time seemed to slow.
The blade cut through the air, every eye in the room following its deadly arc.
Raymond turned abruptly, but there was no time…
No chance to stop the inevitable.
The dagger shot forth like lightning, aimed straight at Blatir Vanheim's heart. In a split second, Blatir tried to move, tried to escape... but the throne... the black throne of Newfear, that stone crown he had so desperately coveted, had become a shackle.
His hands were trapped within the throne's carved armrests, as if the stone itself were embracing him with cruel finality, refusing to release him from his fate. The throne was not merely a seat—it was a silent witness and an accomplice to his crime. In that brief moment of struggle, Blatir realized with bitter agony that the throne he had stolen with cold-blooded ambition had now become the pillow upon which he would die.
It was not the dagger that killed him... but his own greed, and a throne he never deserved.
And then...
The dagger pierced his chest, not like an ordinary arrow, but as a tragic conclusion to a reign built on betrayal. What terrified those present was not the sound of metal tearing through flesh, but the silence that followed—a silence interrupted only by the soft, wet sound of a king's dream bleeding out onto the cold stone steps of the throne he had killed for.
A deadly silence fell over the hall.
The only sound was the king's ragged, uneven breathing, as though even air had become a burden upon his lungs. He staggered back, his grip loosening, yet his eyes remained wide, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
He did not scream.
He did not groan.
Only a single trembling exhale escaped his lips... a sigh of someone who had just realized that this was the end.
Ser Variss hesitated, his steps unsteady, shock painted across his face. The guards near the throne advanced warily, their gazes darting between their wounded king and Aqua, as if they no longer knew what to do.
The air in the throne room grew thick and heavy, each molecule charged with the metallic scent of blood and unspoken histories. Blatir's hand rose—slowly, almost ceremonially—toward the dagger buried in his chest. His fingers hovered above the hilt, trembling not from pain alone, but from the profound betrayal of his own body. This vessel, once armored in arrogance and perceived invincibility, had surrendered.
Blood bloomed across his royal vestments, a dark, spreading rose against fabric woven with threads of gold. Each droplet seeped deeper, staining not just cloth, but the very symbol of power he had killed to claim. The throne beneath him, cold and unyielding, seemed to drink his life—a final, intimate humiliation.
Then his eyes found Aqua's.
And in that gaze, something passed between them—sharp and silent. Not fear. Not remorse. Something quieter, and far more terrifying: acknowledgment. A recognition that the story had written its own ending, beyond editing, beyond appeal.
All around, the court stood petrified, a tapestry of shock and complicity. Aqua remained standing, his breath ragged, his body a map of exhaustion and trauma. Yet he would not fall. Not yet. The physical pain was a distant murmur compared to the weight now settling deep within him—a hollow, echoing thing.
His eyes remained locked on Blatir, who had now slumped backward, one hand still clasping the dagger as if it were a key he could not turn. Blood pooled slowly along the elaborate golden embroidery of his robe, catching the light like mockery. Each thread seemed to laugh at the grandeur it once symbolized.
But Aqua was not looking at the blood. Nor the crooked crown, nor the red tracing the lines of Blatir's lips. He was searching—desperately—for something more. A flicker of regret. A flash of rage. Anything that might give meaning to the violence, that might justify the cost.
He found only emptiness.
Blatir's eyes were calm, distant—looking through Aqua, beyond the room, into some private horizon only he could see. There was no fight left. No final defiance. Only a terrible, serene acceptance.
And it was this silence that felt heaviest of all.
Then—a shift.
At the edge of the hall, Raymond's eyes widened. A sudden, devastating understanding broke through his stoicism. Memories long buried surged forth—a brother's promise, a warning unheeded, a love fractured by time and ambition. He stepped forward, voice cracking as he cried out—
But far too late.
The blade was already in motion.
Aqua's body jolted—a subtle arching of the back, a quiet intake of breath. Time seemed to fracture, to slow, then still altogether.
A warmth spread across his torso, seeping through his torn shirt—a sticky, intimate presence against his burned skin. The pain was not what he expected. It was soft, almost gentle, like a tide pulling back from the shore. Life leaving quietly, without spectacle.
The great hall fell into absolute silence. No one moved. No one breathed. There was only the slow spread of blood, and the terrible, echoing truth of an ending no one had imagined.
This was not the ending he had imagined.
The void was not supposed to be the answer.
Then, for a fleeting moment, their eyes met.
And in that moment... Everything changed.
Amidst the chaos, the heavy breaths, the blood cooling against his skin... Aqua felt something strange.
Stillness.
As if the world had gone silent.
As if every sound that had ever haunted him... screams, echoes of suffering, whispers of the past... had all disappeared.
Only his own breath remained.
Slow. Ragged. But alone.
In absolute emptiness.
He found only emptiness.
Blatir's eyes were calm, distant—looking through Aqua, beyond the room, into some private horizon only he could see. There was no fight left. No final defiance. Only a terrible, serene acceptance.
And it was this silence that felt heaviest of all.
For a fleeting moment, their eyes met.
And in that fragile instant, something shifted.
Aqua's chest rose, then fell, as if dragging the weight of a thousand unseen chains. His body trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion so profound it seemed carved into his bones. His heartbeat slowed, each thud echoing louder in his skull, like a drum that no longer belonged to life but to memory.
Stillness crept into him.
Not peace.
Not yet. But a fragile illusion of it—like a hand brushing across the surface of water before vanishing beneath.
The hall blurred at its edges. Faces melted into shadows, voices into murmurs, until all that remained was his breath: slow, ragged, solitary.
Aqua: "[Is this it..." The thought came unbidden, quiet as a prayer he never meant to utter. "Is this the release I've chased and denied? Or just the void, empty and endless, swallowing me one heartbeat at a time..?]"
His knees weakened, the weight of blood soaking his torn garments anchoring him to the earth. Yet something—something stubborn, almost defiant—kept him upright. A thread. A whisper. The faintest refusal to fall before it was time.
Then—movement.
At the edge of the hall, a shift in the silence.
Raymond.
Aqua's blurred vision caught his eyes: wide, stricken, breaking open with recognition. As if all the years of distance, of choices unspoken and regrets buried, had rushed back to him in a single, shattering moment.
Raymond's lips parted, his body lunging forward, his voice tearing itself raw—yet the sound arrived fractured, too late to reach him.
The blade was already in motion.
The blade that moved through the void was no blind stroke of fate; it had a master, and it carried an old oath groaning beneath its weight.
The commander of the royal guard, Ser Aven Stumford, advanced.
He did not move as a duty waking from long slumber, but as a hasty executioner avenging his king. The murmurs of shock at the hall's edges fell into silence; his armor whispered iron against iron, his steps striking the marble with a clipped rhythm, like a heartbeat turning rigid. He did not shout. He did not declare a challenge. His face was a mask of stone, concealing behind it a storm of wrath, fear, and a tangled loyalty.
In his final two steps, the air around him shifted, as though he had stepped into a chamber of glass. He did not raise his voice; he uttered it only to himself: "For the crown."
Then he drove the sword.
Steel entered Aqua's back like a cold thread through fevered cloth. There was no clash of glory, no ringing of steel, only a damp, muffled friction… a grim sliding through flesh and bone until it found the heart and tore it apart.
In a single moment, the blade burst from the other side, its edge dripping a blackened crimson, having carved its path through atrium and ventricle, leaving behind a severed beat that faded like light withdrawn from a room.
Aqua's back arched with a small shudder, a short gasp tearing through his chest before extinguishing. Aven braced both hands upon the hilt, feeling warmth climb from steel to gauntlet—the warmth of a life receding so swiftly it embarrassed even the blood. His soul did not rejoice, his anger did not cool. He felt only an added weight upon his shoulders—the weight of a man who knew he would not escape this strike, even as the one who delivered it.
He withdrew the sword slowly, its release sounding more like a long sigh from a chest that no longer had breath to sigh. Aqua's body lurched forward a step, like a statue robbed of its hidden pillar, then swayed unsteadily.
Aven looked at his bloodied hand and found in it no answer, nor in the hall any justification. He knew he had slain a man, not a phantom, and that the oath he had clung to had, in that instant, become a double-edged weapon—fulfilling "duty" while opening upon himself a door into a night that would never close.
And as the hall itself bent into silence, his eyes remained fixed on the void the sword had left in Aqua's chest—a void that mirrored the one expanding inside Aven himself, though he dared not look at it.
Aqua's body jolted—a subtle arching of the back, a quiet intake of breath. Time seemed to fracture, to slow, then still altogether.
A warmth spread across his torso, seeping through his torn shirt—a sticky, intimate presence against his burned skin. The pain was not what he expected. It was soft, almost gentle, like a tide pulling back from the shore. Life leaving quietly, without spectacle.
The great hall fell into absolute silence. No one moved. No one breathed. There was only the slow spread of blood, and the terrible, echoing truth of an ending no one had imagined.
Raymond stared ahead with wide eyes, his face pale, his breath unsteady as if he were suffocating despite the air around him. He collapsed onto his knees beside Aqua's corpse, his trembling hands pressing against the ground, trying to process what had happened... but he couldn't.
This wasn't just another death… It was something greater, something that had torn a piece of his very being away with it.
At that moment, the hall was drowned in a heavy silence... not the silence of stillness, but the silence of loss. The silence of moments when no one knows what to do. Many eyes stared, but they were empty. Bodies stood, but they did not move, as if the world itself had frozen, waiting for what would come next.
On the other side of the room, Blatir reached out a trembling hand toward the throne, trying to steady himself, but his strength failed him. Beside him, Baron Kimri Akimont struggled to staunch the bleeding, pressing a cloth against the deep wound. His eyes were filled with worry, but he said nothing. There was something in his gaze... perhaps pity, or maybe something else no one could understand.
As for Raymond, he was shaking... not from fear, but from realization… The realization that this moment, no matter what followed, would never leave him the same. A cold current swept through his chest, and suddenly, he remembered…
He remembered his mother. He remembered her laughter, now nothing more than a distant echo… He remembered the warmth that no longer existed… He remembered the shadows her absence had left behind. Then, his memory shifted to something else... something far darker…
His eyes fell on Aqua's sword, Firesong, lying on the ground. Its blade was no longer Dark as it once was but a deep crimson, soaked in the blood of those it had slain. He stared at it for a moment, then slowly extended his hand… and grasped it.
When he stood, it was not just a simple movement... it was as if he were rising from one life into another. His steps were heavy, yet steady, carrying the weight of everything this moment had accumulated.
Meanwhile, Ser Darren had slowly approached Aqua's body. He knelt in silence, his eyes burning with fury, never leaving the lifeless form before him. The Marchioness Atris followed, but she couldn't look for long. She averted her eyes in pain, as if afraid she would be consumed by the sight.
And Raymond... he had arrived. He stood before his father, the sword in his hand dripping with blood, yet he did not waver. Nearby, Ser Variss watched in silence, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword... but he did nothing. For a moment, there was conflict in his eyes, but it passed quickly. He turned away, as if abandoning his duty, his role, or perhaps something deeper than that.
Then, slowly, Raymond raised the sword and held it before Blatir, its cold edge barely touching his throat. His hands were trembling... not from fear, but from everything boiling inside him, from everything he could no longer endure.
When he spoke, his voice was not a scream. It was not even a threat… It was a whisper, yet it carried the weight of an entire world, the weight of a soul cracking under the burden of pain. His voice was broken, hoarse, as if the words themselves struggled to escape his throat. He was speaking, yet he could barely breathe between the words.
Raymond, his voice choked and trembling:
"Did you kill her...?"
The tears had begun to fall. He didn't know who he was crying for the most… For his mother, whose warm touch he could no longer remember? For his friend, lying lifeless before him, his once-powerful body now reduced to silence? Or for his father… the man he no longer knew if he hated, or if he hated himself for having to stand here now?
His fingers tightened around the sword's hilt, but he didn't feel strength... only coldness. A chilling cold that swept through his body, as if something inside him was freezing and dying with it.
Blatir, despite the pain, despite the bleeding, looked at him. There was no anger in his eyes, no fear… Only astonishment, as if that question alone was heavier than the dagger buried in his chest. For a moment, he said nothing, as if searching for an answer he had never found before.
Then, finally, Blatir closed his eyes, as if the darkness of his confession was too much to face with them open. For a brief second, Raymond thought he wouldn't answer... that silence would be his final choice. But when he opened them again, his voice was weak, exhausted… as if his words were crumbling before they could even leave his lips.
Blatir, in a faint, trembling voice: "It wasn't on purpose…"
He paused for a moment, exhaling a shaky breath, as if even the air itself was too heavy in his lungs. His eyes, which had always held the sharp glint of authority, had faded into the shadows of a sorrow he had never acknowledged. Or perhaps… a sorrow he had tried to forget.
Blatir: "But... Believe me… I...
I loved her."
But in the end, love was not enough. It had never been enough.
There was no hesitation. There was no scream. Only a hand that moved with an eternal weight, as if carrying out an inescapable fate.
Raymond pressed down on the sword.
With deadly ease, as if death had been waiting for him all along, the blade sliced through Blatir's throat, encountering no resistance, as if his body had been ready to leave this world long ago. Blood burst forth like reversed raindrops, staining the royal floor, drenching the regal robes, defiling everything… except the silence.
A deeper silence. A heavier silence. A silence that felt like the sound of the end itself.
Raymond did not move. He did not even breathe. His body was rigid, his glassy eyes fixed on the fallen king. But there was no victory in his expression, not even relief.
It was over.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
At that moment, silence engulfed the hall completely. The air was heavy, so much so that breathing became suffocating, and the vision was blurred. Every pair of eyes in the room had frozen in place. From the royal guards to the nobles seated in the front rows, not a single soul could believe what had just happened before them. Blatir, the king who had been the symbol of power, dominance, and prestige, had fallen... his noble blood spilling onto the floor. And before their very eyes, he was gone.
Baron Kimri Akimont stood beside the throne, a cold shiver running down his spine as if time itself had frozen. Blatir's blood was not just a mark of injury; it was the proclamation of an era's collapse. Ser Darren, who had always been prepared for such a moment, seemed lost, his face twisted in an expression of disbelief.
Marchioness Atris stood in the center, watching in somber silence. She cast a glance at Raymond, her gaze filled with both sorrow and astonishment. Meanwhile, Ser Variss, who had never once lost his composure, remained at a distance, his eyes wandering into an empty void... as if something vital had just perished in that very instant.
Then… Raymond moved.
Not with the urgency of battle, or the grief of a brother, but with the slow, heavy steps of a man walking toward a graveside. His eyes, weary beyond their years, lifted toward the dais. Toward the throne.
It stood there, silent and imposing—a monolith of obsidian and gold, its lines too sharp, its presence too cold. This was the seat his father had loved, his friend had coveted, and Blatir had killed for. This was the altar upon which they had all been sacrificed.
And in that moment, Raymond saw it clearly for the first time.
It had never been about Blatir. Not truly. The king was but a vessel—a temporary occupant. The true ruler had always been the throne itself. It did not speak, yet it whispered. It did not move, yet it orchestrated. It demanded devotion, fed on ambition, and repaid loyalty with betrayal. It was a silent puppeteer, and they had all been dolls in its show—dancing to a tune none of them had chosen, yet all had obeyed.
His voice, when it finally came, was not the roar of a warrior or the decree of a lord. It was fractured. Barely a whisper, yet it carried through the hall like a verdict.
Raymond: "This throne…" he began, his words trembling with the weight of revelation. "…was never a symbol of power. It was a mirror. It showed each of us what we desired most—and then it showed us the price."
He took another step, his boot echoing softly in the crushing silence. "We thought we were fighting for a crown. For honor. For justice." His eyes swept over the still forms of Blatir and Aqua, over the stunned nobles, over the blood staining the stone. "But we were only ever fighting for its amusement. It offered us a dream… and in chasing it, we became nightmares."
His gaze returned to the throne—cold, empty, yet more powerful than any king who had ever sat upon it. "It is not a seat of power," Raymond said, his voice thickening with something between sorrow and fury. "It is a predator. And we… we were merely its prey."
He fell silent then, the truth hanging in the air like smoke after a fire—a truth too terrible to hold, yet too stark to deny.
What he meant was clear to anyone who could hear him over the violent pounding of his heart; who seeks the throne... he does not sit upon a throne of fire… but upon a throne of his own desires.
Every crown that gleams in the dark is nothing more than a reflection of our own darkness. It has no power by itself; we are the ones who grant it power each time we whisper in secret: I deserve more… I deserve everything.
He is the devil we do not see, for he dwells in the shadowed corners of our consciousness, dancing to the rhythm of our burning ambition. He needs no horns, no tail… his most terrifying form is when he looks exactly like you.
He offers you the crown on a silver platter… but he does not tell you that every jewel upon it is a fragment of your soul. He whispers that power is your right, that freedom means having the strength to do as you will… without ever telling you that you will be the first slave to that very strength.
The throne of Newfear remained. Unchanged. Unmoved. Waiting for the next dreamer foolish enough to believe it could ever be theirs.
He paused for a moment, as if drawing the words from the depths of his soul, then continued: "Everyone who sat upon it believed they wielded power… but they were merely prisoners in a gilded cage. And my father… was the last to believe that lie."
Then, as if something inside him had snapped, he took his first step toward the throne. His eyes were transfixed, carrying the weight of an ancient mystery. Gripping the throne from behind, he yanked it violently, and before the eyes of everyone present, he began dragging it toward the royal balcony overlooking the town.
Every person in the hall watched cautiously... some afraid of the unknown, others afraid of the truth that was beginning to reveal itself. Ser Darren struggled to make sense of the situation, but it was clear he was paralyzed. Marchioness Atris closed her eyes, as if awaiting her fate.
When Raymond reached the edge, he stood still for a long second, as if time itself had stopped around him. His gaze fixed upon the town, a city that harbored the throne's secrets, its buildings standing as silent witnesses to more than anyone could imagine. The streets below teemed with movement, with life that never ceased, with the rhythm of countless feet dancing upon the earth that had once been a refuge of hope. But that movement was not as it once was. There was something in the air, in the dim glow of sunlight struggling through the clouds, revealing a painful truth. And the town that had once cradled this throne… was no longer the same.
Beneath his hands, the throne felt cold... its surface unnaturally smooth, yet fractured like the shell of otherworldly. It was carved from black rock, its texture resembling hardened volcanic glass, layered with a strange, organic roughness that almost seemed to breathe under his touch. Along its sides, veins of gemstones branched outward like frozen rivers of fire, their dull gleam catching the faint light filtering through the hall. This was not just a seat of power... it was a monument of something far older, something that had ruled long before any king had claimed it.
Then, with a sudden, forceful kick, Raymond sent the throne lurching forward. Its weight dragged against the floor with a grinding sound, stone scraping against stone, until it tipped over the edge.
For a brief moment, it hung in the air. Then, gravity seized it.
The black stone structure crashed into the courtyard below with a deafening impact, shattering upon the hardened ground. The brittle shell of the throne split apart, sending jagged shards flying across the square. The embedded gemstones fractured, scattering like fallen stars, their glow fading into the dust. A crack rippled through the courtyard's stone floor, as if the very earth recoiled from the throne's demise.
And as the last fragments of the shattered seat settled in the silence, the world around them seemed to hold its breath... watching as the symbol of their rule lay broken, reduced to nothing more than scattered remains.
Blackened fragments collapsed upon the white marble like the wings of a slaughtered king. The throne—that ancient stone being which had borne more delusions than any other creature—split apart at its core with a sound like the breaking of the world.
Yet the sound that shook the souls of all present was not stone shattering, nor history scattering.
It was a song.
A Ghostly Song.
A hymn that carried within it every whisper of the kings who had sat upon it, every fateful decision, every tear stifled behind a crown, every arrogant laugh, and every silence heavy with doubt.
A moment of absolute clarity, when all understood—without words—that they were not witnessing the fall of a piece of furniture, but the death of an idea.
The death of that mythical being called "Power," which had seemed eternal, until the very instant it fell to the ground and became rubble.
Then silence reigned. A silence more terrifying than the crash itself.
Because the song had ended, and no ghost remained to sing.
Beneath his feet, the world grew hazy. But it was not the world itself... it was a deep, sinking feeling, as if a lifetime of deception was beginning to dissipate into the air. This city, this system, this throne that bound them together… was nothing but a fleeting shadow, a broken stage play that had led to the ruin of all souls. And when he looked down at the crowded streets below, something inside him shattered.
Then, slowly, as if every step pulled his heart deeper into the abyss, he took a step back. Everything around him seemed to breathe agony, and he alone stood at the heart of this void.
With a sudden, forceful kick, he sent the throne hurtling forward, as if trying to free everything trapped within him from the chains of indifference. The sound of the throne rolling toward the edge echoed like thunder in the silence. With each movement, the ground trembled beneath his feet, as if every fragment of this entity called.'the Neafear Throne' was crumbling into irreparable pieces.
And then, in a single moment, the throne tumbled over the balcony's edge, crashing into the courtyard below... shattering into scattered remnants upon the ground.
Far below, in the square, the gathered crowds held their breath as one, as if bracing for an explosion. Among them was Leon Cypher, watching the scene with wide, disbelieving eyes, as if life itself had been stripped from him. He fell to his knees, his gaze filled with shock and denial. His heart crumbled like an ancient tree that had suddenly lost all its leaves. He knew then... every sacrifice, every effort he had made, had been for nothing.
Arcadia, with all its history and honor, had collapsed in a single instant. And everything had become as fragile as scattered sand.
In that moment, the world fell silent.
Everyone in the throne hall stood still, their breaths caught in their throats. There were no words left to speak... the weight of the truth was far too heavy for any of them to bear. The winds had ceased, as if the very sky itself had stopped breathing.
And in that moment, a voice shattered the deep silence, as if the universe itself had paused to listen.
Raymond, now more unyielding than stone, with fragments of his very soul reflected in his eyes, spoke with unwavering resolve.
Raymond: "The royal rule... is over."
The words that left his lips were more than just a declaration. They were the death knell of everything that had come before. They were not merely spoken... they were the conclusion of a battle waged within him, a leap into the unknown that no one had ever dared to imagine.
His voice merged with the suffocating silence, as if time itself had stopped, and the world had begun to dissolve into this new dawn.