The Citadel's corridors stretched on without end, each step Kaelen and Seralyn took swallowed by the oppressive dark. The walls, slick with veins of shadow, seemed to hum faintly, as if the Citadel itself were alive and listening.
Kaelen's grip on Lumenbrand tightened. The sword's silver light flickered — not from any breeze, but as if smothered by a presence older and heavier than the air itself.
His thoughts, unbidden, turned to the legend every soul whispered but none dared to say aloud. The day Vorath slew the Sun-Titan.
Vorath, though unseen, remembered it differently.
The sky had burned that day.
Aurelion, the Sun-Titan, descended like a living dawn, his colossal frame forged of pure flame, his spear a shard of the sun itself. His voice was a storm of light and thunder:
"Vorath, forsaken one, your shadow ends here. Kneel, and I shall grant you mercy."
Vorath had stood amidst a plain of bones and ash, his black sword drinking in the Titan's radiance until the land dimmed and the air froze around him. His eyes glimmered crimson, calm and unshaken.
"You mistake me, Titan," he had replied, his tone like cold iron. "It is not my shadow that spreads. It is your light that fades."
Then the sky tore apart.
Aurelion's spear fell like a star ripped from the heavens, its impact enough to boil seas and level mountains. But the black blade rose, and with a sound like the shattering of reality itself, the spear broke. Fragments of burning sun scattered across the world, igniting forests, melting rivers.
Vorath had not moved an inch.
Kaelen's chest tightened as he recalled the priests' whispers. They had said the sun dimmed for three nights after the Titan's death, the sky painted red by Aurelion's final scream. They claimed Vorath walked away wreathed in the god's fading light, his shadow stretching farther than the horizon.
But no priest spoke of what came after. None dared.
Vorath remembered.
The Titan's golden ichor had spilled across the ash, searing the ground like molten gold. And then, they came — the whispers.
Soft at first, carried by the wind. Voices not mortal, not divine. They did not command. They worshipped.
"More," they had murmured."Take more. Break more. Feed us."
Vorath had gazed skyward at the flickering sun, its glow waning, and muttered softly: "One by one, they will fall. Until the heavens kneel."
The whispers had not left him since.
The corridor ended.
Before Kaelen and Seralyn stood the Throne Room's doors, towering slabs of blackened stone carved with writhing reliefs of gods crushed beneath a single crowned figure — their faces twisted in agony, the figure's expression calm, almost indifferent.
The whispers returned.
"…he feasted on the Sun-Titan…""…his shadow swallowed the day…""…kneel… kneel… kneel…"
The voices didn't just echo through the hall; they dug into Kaelen's thoughts, scraping against his mind like claws.
He shoved the doors open.
The Throne Room yawned before them, cavernous and cold. Sickly green-black flames flickered along the walls, casting long, reaching shadows that seemed to twitch and shift of their own accord. At the chamber's heart stood the Throne of Skulls.
It was no mere seat.
The thing breathed.
The countless skulls — human, demon, dragon, and unrecognizable things — shifted ever so slightly, their jaws creaking open as Kaelen stepped closer. Hollow sockets glimmered with faint spectral light, some weeping soundlessly, others muttering in tongues lost to time.
"…feed us…""…fresh blood… warmth…""…kneel, little light… feed the hall…"
The temperature plummeted. Frost crawled along the obsidian floor. Kaelen's breath misted, his heart hammering against his ribs as the whispers overlapped, becoming a grotesque chorus.
Seralyn's knuckles whitened on her staff, her whisper shaking. "He's… not here."
Kaelen's eyes stayed locked on the Throne. It didn't just sit there. It watched. The way its sockets pulsed faintly with each breath they took… the way the whispers grew louder when his fear spiked…
The silver light of Lumenbrand flickered again, weaker this time, as if the sword itself recoiled.
And then — the whispers stopped.
All at once.
The silence was worse.
Kaelen's breath sounded deafening in the void. The Throne didn't move, but it felt alive — waiting. Listening. Hungry.
And Vorath was nowhere to be seen.