They used to call that thing a "Throne", once.
But it was nothing more than cracked stone, drowning in moss and forgotten prayers. No banner waved above it. No choir sang for the blood that once soaked its base. And yet, a boy knelt before it — alone.
His name was not written in any scripture.
His cries were not heard by any human nor by any god.
His hand trembled over the remnants of a dream that no longer exists.
Ash clung to his skin like a second layer of his body. His breath caught the cold like glass shattering inside his lungs. Around him, the world had already ended — but no one noticed.
The heroes had returned home.
The kings had toasted their victory.
And the world slept peacefully, forgetting the name of the boy who burned for it.
"Why?" he asked the silence.
"Why am I the only one left to bleed?"
There was no answer. Only the soft wind, brushing through the ruins like a ghost ashamed to speak.
But something heard him.
Something older than time.
Something darker than the void between stars.
And in that moment, the boy changed. Not in body — but in soul. Something in him died so completely it took years for even rage to find a home in his chest.
The gods forgot him.
The world erased him.
But one day, they would regret what they've done.
And when they did…
It would be too late to pray.