The night after the shard sank into his chest, Eryndor awoke to whispers swirling around him. Stepping outside, he found his feet drawn up cracked rooftops. On the highest point, a stranger waited tall, cloaked, wearing a mask of ivory.
"You feel it, don't you?" the figure rasped. "The world bending for you."
Before Eryndor could answer, a blade flashed. He dodged instinctively faster than any mortal should. The masked assassin sliced again, but Eryndor's body moved in a blur, grabbing the attacker's wrist and twisting until bones snapped.
As the assassin staggered away, Eryndor saw fear. Then the masked figure dissolved into shadow and was gone.
When dawn broke, Eryndor returned to his mother's bedside with a pouch of coins taken from the assassin. Enough to buy her medicine for months. But when he paid, the apothecary recoiled.
"These coins… this is mint from the House of Veins forbidden here. They'd execute you just for holding it."
Eryndor left, shaken. Who was the assassin working for? And why was this strange currency tied to kingdoms across the sea or perhaps beyond it?
That evening, by torchlight at the market's fringe, he met Seris Amara. Or rather, she found him. Eyes like searing sapphires, dark hair flowing over a cloak of midnight silk.
"You have the Astra Mourn inside you," she breathed, studying his chest. "I came to save you from yourself."
Before he could protest, her hand pressed over his heart. A surge of heat. Visions of countless thrones some made of ice, some writhing with serpents. He collapsed.
When he awoke, he was in a gilded hall, golden chandeliers dripping with candles. Nobles dined in splendor, their laughter brittle. At the far table, Seris sat, wearing a mask now, her eyes only barely meeting his.
A lord raised his glass. "To the new heir of realms he does not yet know. Drink with us, Eryndor Kael."
Poison. Eryndor sensed it before the cup reached his lips. His power flared, vision sharpening. Under the table, the dagger was already drawn by the man beside him.
He flipped the table, seized the lord by the throat. Screams erupted. In moments, Eryndor was running blood on his hands, Seris close behind.
They fled to a hidden vault below the city, where Seris showed him what she had stolen for them: piles of foreign gold, gemstones that glowed from within, silks woven with runes.
"All of this can be yours," Seris whispered. "We will need it to buy armies, silence kings, bribe gods themselves."
But in Eryndor's chest, the Astra Mourn pulsed. Almost as if it disapproved of such petty hoards.
Outside, the night cracked. From the mists emerged a creature wrapped in shadow and silver no face, just empty hollows dripping dark light.
Eryndor drew breath, and the Astra Mourn blazed. Energy arced across his hands. With a roar, he hurled it forward, striking the hunter and shattering cobblestones. But as the creature dissolved, a whisper slithered into his mind.
"We are many. And you wear a throne not meant for mortals…"
In a quiet temple afterward, Seris bandaged his wounds. Her fingers trembled. "You don't understand yet. The shard chose you, Eryndor, and with it… you've inherited enemies that rule galaxies." He laughed weakly. "I just wanted to pay my mother's debts."
She leaned in, breath warm against his ear. "Then survive this. Live for me too." Their lips met, slow, burning. Somewhere far inside, the Astra Mourn pulsed again and the temple candles blew out.
They crossed the sea on a merchant's ship bought with stolen gold. But in the ship's hold, Eryndor found crates marked with a serpent's crown the seal of an empire whispered about only in nightmares.
"We're not free yet," Seris said.
"No," Eryndor agreed. "But by the gods, we're rich now. And we're dangerous."
Above deck, thunder rolled. A storm waited and ships with black sails approached. Lightning forked the sky. On the deck, soaked to the bone, Eryndor gripped Seris's hand.
"If I fall, run."
"No," she snapped. "If you fall, I'll drag your stubborn corpse back to life."
Together they turned to face the boarding ships. The Astra Mourn lit his chest like a beacon drawing the enemies to them, yes, but also feeding him power that made his heart race with savage joy. This was only the beginning.
Enemy ships struck like sharks. Grappling hooks bit the wood. Eryndor roared as shadowed figures climbed aboard.
Steel clashed. Seris danced with twin blades, her face hard as iron.
Eryndor, heart afire with the Astra Mourn's glow, swept his hands out arcs of violet energy blasted enemies into the sea.
By dawn, the deck was slick with blood.
Eryndor staggered. So much power, yet it drained him brutally. Seris caught him. "Don't you dare die, Kael. We have worlds to conquer."
Their ship limped into Calethria, a city of spires so clear it seemed woven from light.
Nobles with jewels instead of eyes watched them from balconies. Merchants offered living birds sculpted from rubies.
But under that beauty seethed hidden rot thieves in golden masks, whispers of a queen who fed traitors to whispering pits.
Eryndor found he couldn't trust even the streets, which sometimes shifted underfoot.
Deep in the underbelly of Calethria lay a market where no law reached. There, vendors sold vials of stolen memories, curses wrapped in silk, even captured moonlight in glass. A ragged woman approached Seris, pressing a small scroll into her hand.
"Your destiny is knotted with thrones beyond realms. Untangle it, or drown in it."
Then she vanished.
Guided by half-mad maps, they found an underground vault doors taller than any hall, etched with scenes of gods kneeling before mortals. Inside lay coffers of wealth to shame entire nations. Jewels the size of fists. Coins from empires long crumbled.
But at the center stood a stone pedestal with claw marks deep into its sides. Whatever once rested there… was gone. And Eryndor felt an echo in his chest the Astra Mourn stirring uneasily.
They spent that night in a rented high tower, overlooking Calethria's sparkling madness.
Seris stood on the balcony in a thin shift, hair like black silk in the breeze. Eryndor wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"You could have stayed a princess," he murmured. "And missed this chaos with you? Never." They kissed, not softly but as if they could devour each other, bodies pressed against the railing with only the abyss below to catch them.
Next day, a man with a porcelain mask shaped like a coiled serpent approached them in a colonnade.
"The House of Veins knows you hold the Astra Mourn. Return it, and we will let you live like princes in peace."
Eryndor laughed harshly. "Keep your mercy. We'll build our own throne." The man tilted his head.
"Then may you enjoy the hunt. It will not end until your blood stains our ledgers."
Then he melted into the crowd.
That night, Eryndor dreamed vividly of worlds with triple moons, of forests that sang hymns in languages older than stone, of thrones carved from dark matter floating in the void.
When he woke, his hands glowed faintly, the sheets scorched where his fingers touched. Seris sat up beside him, eyes wide.
"Eryndor… what are you becoming?"
The city's secret council seized them.
In a vast amphitheater of mirrors and gold, masked judges pronounced.
"Power unchecked endangers all realms. You will duel our champion. Win, and leave alive. Lose, and feed the mirror beasts."
The champion was a giant draped in sunsteel armor. Eryndor fought with brutal desperation, dodging killing strikes, blasting arcs of power that cracked marble. Finally, he drew the giant close and the Astra Mourn erupted. Light exploded. When the glow faded, only Eryndor stood.
They were released the crowd awed, the council grim. But later that night, Eryndor vomited dark blood. The power was devouring something inside him, not just feeding on him.
Seris held his hair back, wiping his mouth after.
> "We'll find a way to control it. I won't let it take you." Her words were fierce. Her hands trembled. As they prepared to leave Calethria, an old merchant stopped them.
"Build your throne carefully, boy. Thrones can shelter or consume. Yours may do both." Eryndor smirked, pulling Seris close.
"Then we'll burn down the wrong kind and build ours from the ashes." The merchant simply bowed, eyes sad. "That is what they all say. At first."