The Ruins of Ozyreth were not marked on any map. No charted realm dared acknowledge them, no scholar spoke their name without trembling. It was here, among the shattered bones of supremacy, that Zeirion had once ruled from his Throne Beyond Realms—a citadel carved from cosmic matter and veiled in paradox. It was not toppled by siege or betrayal, but by Zeirion's own decree.
He had shattered it.
And now he returned.
Stone fragments floated in a gravity-defiant spiral, each etched with ancient glyphs that once hummed with laws stronger than gods.
The void here tasted of ash and memory. Stars dared not shine above it. Time twisted inward, as if mourning.
Zeirion and Aralya arrived not by gate, but by will alone. Their presence rethreaded broken space.
They stepped onto cracked marble that had once silenced armies. Aralya knelt, brushing her fingers over a half-buried seal—the crest of the Sovereign Epoch, now faded and dust-choked.
"You ruled here," she said softly. "Before the worlds could even name you."
Zeirion did not reply at first. He walked forward, his boots echoing where no sound should carry. Each step stirred echoes—flashes of what once was.
The Hall of Accord, where deathless empires once bowed.
The Ascendant Spire, where he passed judgment on timewalkers and tyrant-gods.
The Balcony of Sundering, where he had once spoken words that tore through dimensions like lightning through dry parchment.
Now, all lay in ruin.
Except one thing.
At the center, beyond collapsed pillars and broken sigils, stood the Throne-Stone—a jagged remnant of his seat of power, still pulsing with faint red light.
He approached it slowly.
"Zei…" Aralya's voice caught. "This place... it still remembers."
"Yes," he replied. "Because it still bleeds."
He touched the Throne-Stone.
Instantly, the air cracked. The world folded inward.
A vision consumed him.
Vision: The Last Throne Day
He stood atop the throne, a younger Zeirion, cloaked in mantle and flame. Below him knelt a thousand kings, their crowns laid at his feet. Aralya stood behind him, dressed in ceremonial silver, radiant and solemn.
Lightning flickered behind the horizon. Not storm—revolt.
Then came the words.
"You were not born to rule," one of the kneeling kings had dared to say.
"I was not born at all," Zeirion replied. "I was forged."
He had spoken not in arrogance, but in burden.
And then, before them all, he had shattered the throne.
With one blow of Eclipsion, he had torn down the core of his dominion.
"For peace," he had said.
"For her," he had whispered.
And the world had broken in response
The vision faded.
Zeirion knelt, one hand on the Throne-Stone.
"I abandoned power to protect peace," he said aloud. "But peace was never allowed to breathe."
Aralya moved beside him. "Then it's time to build again."
Zeirion's eyes burned brighter. "Not rebuild. Transcend. The world doesn't need a throne…"
He rose, dust falling from his cloak like the past shedding itself.
"…it needs a will strong enough to reshape fate."
Elsewhere: The Eye Opens
In the Vault of Ages, hidden beyond the Veil of Yssira, a crystalline eye opened—one that had not stirred since the Fall of Sovereignty.
It turned its sight toward Ozyreth.
Toward him.
Then it spoke, its voice a harmony of ruin and order.
"The Sovereign walks again."
And across the fractured worlds, powers that had once sworn eternal silence began to rise.