The creaking doors swung open with a rumble of stone.
Kaelen stepped inside.
The Hall of the Black Throne had retained none of its former splendor. Shattered stained-glass windows cast fragmented shafts of light across a cracked floor, and the partially collapsed ceiling let a slow rain of dust descend.
At the far end, shrouded in shadow, stood the Throne.
Massive. Black. Carved from a single block of obsidian, it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. A frigid aura radiated from it, and even the torches flickered in its presence.
Alone, Kaelen approached.
All around him, the voices rose—clearer, more insistent.
> "You bear the mark."
"You wish to rebuild what cannot be."
"You know nothing of the cost."
Silhouettes began to coalesce from the darkness—translucent figures as though sculpted from mist. Ancient kings. Fallen queens. Crowned children far too young. Each wore the Black Crown. Each bore the same expression: regret, rage, emptiness.
Kaelen halted a few paces from the throne.
— What do you want from me? he challenged.
A voice deeper than the rest imposed itself—a king of old with eyes like molten embers.
> "It is not what we want… but what you desire."
> "You wish to restore. To reunite. To rule. But do you understand what that demands?"
The white-haired mage who had followed him in silence appeared at the doorframe, concern etched on her face.
— If you sit, she whispered, you let them in.
Kaelen closed his eyes.
Images flooded his mind: a capital city aflame, friends betrayed, armies routed by shadow… and him, alone, standing crowned in ash.
He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the throne.
— Then let them enter.
He stepped forward. The hall trembled.
A black light burst from the floor. The specters cried out, merging with the throne.
Kaelen placed a hand on the cold armrest.
A breath—a distant scream.
Then he sat.
Silence fell like a blade.
And in that silence, Kaelen felt…
Something entering him. A memory. A will. A fragment of all who had come before.
He saw their downfall.
And understood what he must do to avoid their fate.
When he opened his eyes again, the torches had gone out.
And in the gloom his voice rang out, calm, icy, resolute:
— I am not one of them.
I am the last.
And I will be the first.
To be continued…