The wind howled through the broken arches of the chapel ruins, carrying the scent of damp earth and forgotten blood. Outside, the world moved on, blind to the oath about to be forged beneath its feet.
Kael stood before the weathered altar, the ancient scroll clenched tightly in his hand. Its words still burned behind his eyes, heavier than any blade he'd ever carried.
He wasn't just Kael, the outcast.He was the Thornborn. The last true heir.
Lyra paced behind him, her boots crunching on shattered stone. "You don't have to claim it," she said, voice low. "We can destroy it. Leave this all buried."
Kael didn't answer.
Claiming a forgotten throne wasn't like winning a battle. There were no cheers. No certainty. Only more blood to spill, more eyes watching, waiting to slit your throat the moment you faltered.
But walking away wasn't peace either. It was surrender. And Kael had tasted too much loss to stomach that kind of silence.
He approached the altar. It was cracked and worn, but something ancient pulsed beneath the stone—as if the very bones of the kingdom still remembered its true kings.
He knelt.
Not in prayer.
In promise.
"I won't wear a crown," he said aloud. "Not yet. Not until I've earned it."
Lyra drew closer, watching him, her eyes unreadable.
"I swear it," Kael continued, voice steady. "I won't run. I won't kneel to false kings or turn away from the blood that made me. Let them hunt me. Let them fear me. But I will not be forgotten."
The room seemed to still. Even the wind quieted, as if the chapel itself listened.
Lyra stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Then we fight. Together."
Kael looked up at her, and for the first time in days, a spark of resolve lit behind his tired eyes.
Not for vengeance. Not for a crown.
For truth.For those who bled and were buried without names.For the future that still waited to be rewritten.
He stood, the oath heavy in his chest, unspoken but unbreakable.
Let the world call him crownless.
That would only make it easier when he took it back by force.