Chapter 39 – The Glass Throne
Ashen winds scraped across the battered stones of Elraith's broken palace. Once the symbol of unity, now it stood hollowed, desecrated by fire and betrayal. The royal banners were nothing more than charred ribbons dangling from jagged spires. Blood still stained the marble steps where the last loyalists had died defending a kingdom already lost.
Rael staggered through the grand hall, dragging his crimson blade behind him. The echo of its steel rang like a funeral bell in the dead silence. His armor—burned, dented, and cracked—hung from his body like the shell of a ghost. His once-shining mantle now cloaked only scars.
Before him stood the Glass Throne, a cruel creation of Vyrebrand's magic—transparent and sharp, forged from the memories of those who'd died building the empire. It pulsed with threads of violet light, feeding on forgotten names. Every time Rael looked at it, he saw the face of his father, bleeding from the eyes, whispering, "You were too late."
Rael didn't bow. He didn't kneel. He simply stared.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Aevira, cloaked in frostfire silk, her pale face unreadable. She had once been Rael's closest ally—now her loyalty was blurred.
"You've returned," she said. "Alone."
Rael's voice was cracked and hollow. "The others are gone. Slain in the tunnels. Vyrebrand's Shade caught up to us. I made it here through the Maw."
Aevira studied him. "And the Echo Key?"
Rael lifted his left hand. Embedded deep in his flesh was the black shard, pulsing red. "It fused with me. I didn't ask it to."
She stepped forward, cautious, uncertain. "Then you are marked. The Echo wants you."
Rael scoffed. "The Echo wants to erase everything. I'm just another voice it plans to silence."
A rumble shook the throne room. The stained-glass windows trembled, and a cold fog leaked through the cracks in the walls. From beneath the floor, the Whispers of the Crownless began to chant, low and mournful.
"You don't have much time," Aevira whispered. "If you sit on that throne, it will devour your soul. But if you don't, the Shadow Houses will rise unchecked. They've already bound three of the Heart Relics."
Rael's head throbbed. "This throne killed my family. Why would I let it take me?"
Aevira took his hand. Her grip was warm, and for a brief moment, Rael remembered who they used to be—rebels, lovers, survivors. "Because sometimes, to burn out the rot, you have to sit in fire."
He looked into her eyes, finding no lies, only pain.
Then Rael sat.
Glass pricked into his spine. The throne hissed, threads of memory piercing into his mind. He screamed as visions overwhelmed him—his mother's fall, the betrayal at the Dread Gate, the massacre at Hallowspire. All of it washed over him, not like memory, but punishment.
Then, silence.
Rael opened his eyes.
The Glass Throne had accepted him.
And beneath his voice, another echoed.
"Then rise, Rael Thorne, bearer of the Crimson Echo. For you now wear the legacy of none."
---
Chapter 40 – Shatterborn
Outside the palace, the sky split with red lightning.
The city of Elraith stirred with chaos. Vyrebrand's Shades sensed the disturbance. From the old catacombs, they poured into the streets, trailing smoke and corrupted fire. Survivors fled, and the last defenders of the Crownless rose for one final stand.
On the balcony above the throne hall, Rael stepped forward. His presence bent the air. His eyes glowed not with rage, but something older—inheritance denied.
Behind him, Aevira stood ready, spear in hand. To her left stood Kharn, the last exile of the Ironhowl, clad in broken steel. And beside him, the hunter-priestess Thena Vire, her tattoos lit with bloodlight.
"The city won't hold," Thena muttered. "We need to move now. The Obsidian Seraph is in the eastern quarter, and the Woken Flame is coming behind it."
Rael turned to her. "Let them come. I want the Echo to see what I've become."
The team descended into the lower levels of the palace, where hidden corridors led into the Furnace Arches—a system of forges and forgotten magitech once built to create relic weapons. Only ruins remained now.
Inside, Rael found what he was searching for: the remains of the Wyrmheart Engine, its runes still flickering. From its twisted gears, he pulled out the final piece of his legacy—Shatterborn, a blade forged in silence, tempered by betrayal, and powered by the last scream of a god.
As he touched it, the blade awakened, and the Crimson Echo inside him resonated. Power surged through his veins, not as a gift, but a burden—a voice whispering, "Break the world if it won't kneel."
"We head to the Citadel of Ash," Rael ordered. "Vyrebrand will expect me to wait. So we strike before he draws the last Seal."
They moved swiftly, navigating the ruined undercity. But in the dark, a figure followed—Kelric, Rael's brother, thought dead. Twisted now, changed by the Echo's corruption.
Rael halted. "Kelric?"
Kelric smiled, teeth sharpened, skin cracked. "You let me fall. You saved yourself."
Rael stepped forward. "You were gone."
"No," Kelric growled. "I was left behind."
The two clashed. Shatterborn met voidsteel. The impact blew apart the tunnel walls. Kelric fought like a phantom, fueled by hatred and Echo-fragments. Rael didn't hold back. He fought not to save, but to end.
Steel bit bone. Blood sprayed the stone.
Rael stood over Kelric's broken form.
"You were my brother," he whispered.
Kelric, eyes wide, gasped, "Then die as one."
From his chest, an Echo shard erupted. It exploded, throwing Rael into the wall.
Darkness swallowed him.
---
He awoke in chains. The Citadel of Ash loomed outside the barred window. Vyrebrand's laughter echoed down the corridor.
"Welcome, heir of none," the tyrant mocked. "You carried the Crimson Echo well. Now… let it consume you."
Rael clenched his fists.
And from inside, the Echo replied:
"Not yet."