Chapter 55 – Splinters of the Throne
The night over Vyrebrand was a black ocean, starless and heavy, pressing against the spires and watchtowers like a siege engine made of sky. Only the low hum of the wind moving through the shattered palace gates gave any sign that the city still breathed. Inside the Hall of Crowns, the once-polished marble floor was a battlefield of broken banners, scorched stone, and drying blood.
Alaric stood in the center, armor dented, helm tucked under one arm. His gauntleted fingers tapped idly against the metal, not from nervousness but from a simmering anticipation. He had returned to this hall more times than he could count—each visit marked by another death, another betrayal. The throne itself stood cracked, its golden inlays scorched black, the crest of the old kings pried away by looters who now rotted somewhere in the streets.
"You've taken the heart of the city," said Kaelen, his voice low, his blade still sheathed at his hip. "But hearts can bleed out. They can stop."
"They can," Alaric replied, eyes on the throne. "Unless you stitch them shut with something stronger than loyalty. Fear, perhaps."
"You mean a crown," Kaelen said.
Alaric smirked. "A crown is just metal. But if it sits on the head of a man everyone is too afraid to betray… then it's more than metal."
Before Kaelen could reply, the massive doors behind them groaned open, their hinges still screaming from the assault earlier that day. A column of soldiers entered, dragging between them a man in ceremonial robes. His beard was silver, his wrists bound with steel. The High Chancellor—once the voice of the palace—now looked like a scribe pulled from a dungeon.
"They found him in the archives," said one of the soldiers. "Hiding."
The Chancellor's gaze swept over the ruined hall before settling on Alaric. "You," he rasped. "I told them you'd burn the world if it kept you warm for a night."
Alaric stepped forward. "And yet here you are, still alive. That should tell you something about me."
"It tells me you're saving me for something worse."
"You're right," Alaric said, almost gently. "I need you to open the vault."
The Chancellor's eyes widened. "The royal vault? That's madness. The wards—"
"Are already half-broken from the siege," Alaric cut in. "And I have something that will finish the job."
From beneath his cloak, he produced a shard of obsidian, edges faintly glowing with crimson light. The Chancellor's breath caught.
"You've brought the Furnace Shard here? That relic belongs to—"
"—whoever can wield it," Alaric interrupted again. "And right now, that's me."
The Chancellor's lips tightened. "If you open the vault, you will unleash—"
"Power," Alaric finished. "Enough to make sure no one ever dares to tear me down."
The soldiers shifted uneasily. Kaelen watched in silence, but his hand had drifted near his sword. The room felt heavier, the air thick with something more than smoke.
Outside, a low tremor rippled through the streets, as though the city itself sensed what was about to be awakened.
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Chapter 56 – When the Vault Breathes
The vault was buried beneath the palace—five levels down, past cells that still stank of centuries-old despair, past a corridor where every torchlight seemed to dim without warning. The air grew colder with every step, and by the time they reached the final set of bronze doors, even the most hardened soldiers shivered.
Alaric held the Furnace Shard in one hand, its glow painting his face in molten hues. The doors bore the sigils of the First Kings, etched in lines of silver. At the center was a lock made not of keyholes but of interlocking runes.
"Do it," Alaric told the Chancellor.
The old man hesitated, but under the weight of twenty drawn blades, he pressed his hands to the sigils and began to chant. The words were not meant for mortal ears—harsh, grinding syllables that seemed to scrape the mind itself. The runes shifted, their patterns unraveling like a tapestry on fire.
The Furnace Shard pulsed.
A sound like a heartbeat thundered from the other side of the door.
Kaelen took an involuntary step back. "That's not the vault," he said quietly. "That's something inside it."
With a final word, the Chancellor staggered back, the sigils fully broken. The bronze doors swung open, releasing a wave of air that was neither warm nor cold but heavy, as if it had been held captive for centuries.
Inside was not a simple room of gold or relics—it was a chamber of black stone, its walls carved with spiraling grooves that seemed to drink the light. At the center stood a pedestal, and on it, a crown unlike any other: forged from shadowed steel, with veins of glowing crimson running through it like molten blood.
Alaric stepped forward.
The heartbeat grew louder.
When his hand closed around the crown, the grooves in the walls flared to life, crimson light spilling across the chamber. Something moved—slow, deliberate, like a creature waking after a long sleep.
The Chancellor cried out, "You've woken the Echo!"
A whisper brushed against Alaric's ear—no voice he knew, but one that knew him. Wear me, and they will kneel. Refuse, and they will bury you.
The weight of the crown in his hands felt almost alive, every vein of crimson pulsing with heat. For a moment, he hesitated—not out of fear, but because he understood what this meant. This was no longer about Vyrebrand. This was about the whole of the Crimson Lands.
Slowly, Alaric lowered the crown onto his head.
The chamber shook.
Above them, the city's night sky lit up with a surge of red lightning, branching from the palace spire in jagged veins that tore through the darkness. Every bell in Vyrebrand rang—not from human hands, but from the echoing shockwave that rolled through every street.
Kaelen's voice was tight. "What have you done?"
Alaric turned, his eyes now burning with the same crimson light that bled from the crown. When he spoke, it was with two voices—his own, and something deeper, older.
"I've ended the age of kings," he said. "Now begins the age of echoes."