Chapter 33: Splinters of the Throne
The wind carried the scent of smoke and scorched marble as Rayan stood atop the cliffside ruins, the shattered skyline of Kareth below him like a broken crown. His right hand gripped the hilt of the obsidian-forged blade he'd pulled from his brother's corpse. It still pulsed with faint warmth—a reminder of blood, betrayal, and the lingering ember of vengeance.
"Gone," he muttered.
Leina stepped beside him, wiping soot from her face. "The High Spire's gone. The Echo Courts too."
"And the throne?"
She shook her head. "Collapsed beneath the weight of the rebellion. Xavren's banners fly from the upper tiers."
A gust of wind swept through the jagged remains of the ancient towers, fluttering the torn flags of the old regime like the wings of dying birds.
Rayan's voice came low. "He moves quickly."
Leina crouched, pulling a dagger from her boot. "He always did. It's how he survived in the undercourts. But this time… he's not lurking in shadows. He thinks he's already won."
"He hasn't." Rayan turned to face her fully. "The Pact may have taken the palace, but not the people."
"The people are starving. Scared. Scattered."
"Good," Rayan replied. "Fear can be molded. Hunger can be fed. But loyalty… loyalty must be earned in fire."
They descended from the hill into the scorched alleys of Kareth's outer district, where embers glowed in blackened windows and silence lingered like smoke. Survivors peeked from behind shattered doors. Children watched from rooftops with hollow eyes.
One old man stepped into their path, his tunic stained with ash and dried blood. "You're… the Ash Prince."
Rayan nodded.
The man dropped to one knee. "Then we have hope again."
---
That night, in the crypts beneath the Temple of Fallen Kings, the first council met.
Leina lit the old pyre with a single flick of flint. Shadows danced across the ancient stone, and around the fire sat the beginnings of rebellion—Aesin and Voren, the twin blade-runners from the southern fangs; Korran, the weathered general who once fought for the crown and buried a son beneath it; and Mae, the blind seer who'd foreseen the first collapse.
Korran eyed Rayan with skepticism. "The last time a prince stood in this hall, he begged for mercy before the walls fell."
"I'm not that prince," Rayan replied.
"You carry his face. His blood."
"I also carry his death," Rayan said flatly. "My brother sold our legacy for gold and steel. I won't do the same."
Korran looked into the fire. "And what do you offer?"
"Truth." Rayan unsheathed the obsidian blade and held it aloft. The fire reflected off its edge like a molten promise. "This blade belonged to the first king. It passed down through betrayal, through hands soaked in kin's blood. It ends with me."
Mae spoke then, her voice ethereal. "You speak of ending bloodlines. But what of the future? What will you build?"
Rayan met her gaze. "A city that doesn't burn every generation. A throne that echoes justice, not fear."
Aesin grinned. "Then give us something to bleed for, Ash Prince."
And so, the Phoenix Rebellion was born.
---
Chapter 34: The Heart of Ashes
A week later, fire and steel returned to Kareth's veins.
The Pact's soldiers patrolled with arrogance, wearing stolen colors and parading as saviors. But beneath the streets, in tunnels lit by cracked sunstones and faith, Rayan's rebellion stirred.
They struck first at the grain vaults.
At midnight, Leina led a silent strike team through the sewage grates. The Pact guards never saw the knives. By dawn, bread was being handed out freely in the lower tiers, wrapped in old royal banners. On the crusts were etched three words:
"Ash Will Rise."
In the eastern quarters, Voren rigged the bell towers with ancient war powder. As the Pact's officers gathered for inspection, the towers collapsed, ringing out a twisted chime of defiance.
Mae's whispers guided hidden couriers through danger, carrying letters bearing Rayan's seal: an open palm aflame, encircled by a broken crown. These messages didn't promise war—they promised reckoning.
Korran, despite his age, donned his battered armor once more. "I told myself I'd never serve another crown," he muttered to Rayan as they prepared to raid the Iron Barracks.
"You're not," Rayan replied. "You're serving the people."
Korran chuckled darkly. "That's even worse."
They moved at twilight.
Steel clashed with steel in the barrack corridors. Rayan led from the front, his blade singing through armor. The obsidian weapon was unlike any other—it shimmered with a soundless resonance, each strike carrying not just force but memory. Each wound it left behind glowed faintly red.
By the time the battle ended, the barracks lay in ruin. Rayan's cloak dripped with blood, not all of it his own. He stood beneath the shattered sigil of the Pact, breathing heavily.
Leina found him an hour later, sitting on a broken throne chair in the barracks.
"It's begun," she said.
Rayan didn't answer.
"Too many already following you for this to stop now."
Still silence.
She stepped forward. "What's wrong?"
He held out his left hand. It trembled violently. Not from exhaustion—but something deeper. Something colder.
"Ever since I took this blade," he whispered, "I feel it whispering. Like it remembers every king who wielded it. And every crime they committed."
"You're not them."
"But their sins still echo." He looked up at her, his eyes hollow. "How do I lead when I fear what I might become?"
She took his hand and placed it over her heart. "You lead by remembering who you are. And letting us stop you if you forget."
---
That night, Rayan dreamed of fire. But it wasn't destruction. It was rebirth.
From the ashes of his brother's throne, a new crown formed—not of gold or steel, but of glass and flame.
And at its center stood a king who refused to kneel to legacy.
Only to truth.