The wind howled across the wastelands of Dareth's Spine, carrying with it the scent of ash and old blood. Kael stood at the ridge, cloak flaring like wings behind him. Below, a procession moved slow, silent, and strange.
They wore no banners. No sigils. Their armor was rusted, their weapons dulled, but their presence bled power into the earth. Uncrowned kings, they were called. Warlords who died without legacy, whose bloodlines were forgotten, yet whose spirits refused to fade.
Kael's grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. The whispers had been true. The Uncrowned were rising.
Behind him, Lira shifted uneasily. "These are no ordinary specters. They breathe, Kael."
He nodded. "Not spirits. Not ghosts. Something in between."
"The Crown is drawing them?" she asked.
"Or perhaps they're being summoned," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
They descended into the valley, careful not to draw attention. Kael's every step was heavy with the weight of decisions past. The cursed seal etched into his arm pulsed faintly reminding him that time was running out.
As they crept closer, a figure broke from the line of soldiers. He was taller, crowned with antlers of blackened bone, and eyes that gleamed like dying stars. He did not speak, but Kael felt the voice crawl inside his skull.
"He who wears no crown shall bear the burden of all thrones."
Kael flinched. The curse? Or something more?
Lira stumbled beside him, clutching her temple. "Did you… hear that?"
He didn't answer. The figure raised a hand and the entire line of dead kings halted in perfect unison.
Silence.
Then, the ground split beneath them.
A tremor surged through the valley, cracking the earth like glass. From the depths rose an obsidian obelisk, covered in ancient runes that shimmered with crimson light. The same light bled from Kael's cursed arm, syncing with the obelisk's hum.
Whatever this was, it wasn't chance.
It was invitation.
"Kael," Lira whispered, stepping back. "We shouldn't be here."
But Kael stepped forward.
He was done running.
The Uncrowned watched in silence as he approached the obelisk. The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the runes blazed brighter, and the antlered figure bowed his head.
"The march has begun. The Uncrowned will follow their king."