The throne room had become a war chamber.
The crown had not yet been claimed.
But the flame it represented—authority, legacy, chaos—now pulsed in the air like a second heartbeat.
And in the center of it all, sat Ryon.
Not on the throne.
Not yet.
But surrounded by five women whose loyalty came not from chains, but from choices.
Ryon placed the broken crown on the table. Around him sat:
Kaela – War Priestess, sharp-tongued and sword-fast.
Elara – Ashbearer, haunted but loyal.
Lyria – High-flame Oracle, grace wrapped in fury.
Neive – Scholar of lost systems, eyes filled with quiet knowing.
Shaera – Beast Queen of the Iron Wastes, fire in her blood, hunger in her stare.
Each had bled for him.
Now they would fight with him.
Kaela slammed her gauntlet on the table. "Let me duel her. That witch Vireya isn't half the flame I am."
Ryon shook his head. "This trial is symbolic. The throne won't accept anyone but the one it deems 'worthy.' It has to be me."
