In the age before silence—when stars warred and laws were born from swords—the thrones of the realms stood as beacons of dominion. Each was carved from the bones of slain concepts: a throne of Storm, of Flame, of Echo, and of Chains. And above them all, there had once been the Sovereign Throne—crafted from the first twilight and last dawn.
It had belonged to Zeirion Althar.
But the Sovereign Throne was no longer where it had once stood. It had not merely been abandoned—it had been erased. Every realm that once knelt before its presence now bore only scars, and every record of its existence had been cursed into oblivion.
Until now.
Beneath the buried sky of the ruined First Kingdom, Zeirion and Aralya stood before the Dust-Fused Gate—a door that had not opened in ten millennia. The gate was fused from mythic alloys, etched with language lost to even the gods. Behind it lay what was left of the first world he conquered.
Zeirion placed his hand on the surface.
The gate hissed. Screamed. Then, slowly, it opened.
A wave of death and memory spilled forth. Mountains of ash stretched where cities had once reached the sky. Titans of bone lay coiled around shattered fortresses. Black trees, grown from cursed souls, swayed in dead winds. It was a graveyard for the divine and proud—a monument to Zeirion's conquest.
Aralya walked beside him, her gaze distant.
"This was where you burned the Sky Assembly," she whispered.
He said nothing, but his grip on Eclipsion tightened.
They passed a sunken palace, its banners still frozen mid-flame. The Hall of Nine Swords. Zeirion had once fought them all in a single night, each a king of a world. He had shattered their blades with words alone—then slain them for trying to speak again.
Within the ruins, a spark stirred.
A memory, bound in lingering will.
A ghostly figure formed—a man in war robes, his face ageless but scarred by reverence and wrath. He dropped to one knee.
"My Sovereign."
Zeirion's gaze narrowed.
"Rael Korr. You lived longer than I allowed."
"Not lived, my lord. Awaited."
The ghost trembled. "They rise in the west. The Scorchborn, fueled by the Ember Pact. They seek to claim the empty thrones."
Aralya's voice was cold. "Let them. And let them fall."
But Zeirion turned his gaze skyward. The ruins, the ash, the lost empire—they weren't just relics. They were reminders.
"We will restore what was taken. Not for vengeance," he said, "but because the thrones were mine."
He raised Eclipsion.
Lightning split the ash.
And the old banners ignited anew.