The stairs creaked.But they were bone—Not stone.White. Ancient.Etched with runes Vael didn't recognize.
Each step echoed.
Reylen muttered, "How deep does this go?"
No one answered.
Nyra lit a small flame.It flickered blue.The air was too still.Too cold.
Eron walked last.Silent. Watching.
At the bottom—A gate.
Two enormous bones twisted into an arch.A sigil burned at its center.The broken crown, inverted.
Vael reached out.The sigil pulsed.The whispers returned.
Faint. Feral.
"Return us… to silence..."
Nyra grabbed his arm."Don't listen. They're not voices. They're residue."
"Of what?" Reylen asked.
She didn't answer.
They stepped through.
The room beyond was a crypt.Hundreds of thrones.Each empty.Each faced inward—toward a pit in the center.
Vael walked between them.
Every throne had a mark.A name.And a piece of a crown.
Broken. Burned. Twisted.
"These were all…?" Vael whispered.
Eron nodded.
"Past wearers. All failed."
A silence fell.
One throne was different.No dust.No mark.
Waiting.
Suddenly—The pit flared with light.
Not warm.Not bright.Just wrong.
A hand reached out.Skeletal.Crowned.
A voice rose.
"You took what was never yours…Now give it back."
Vael stepped toward the pit.
And the First King rose.