---
Ardeshir stepped over a corpse with his father's crest burned into its chest.
The palace he once called home was now a battlefield of ash, blood, and betrayal.
He didn't come to mourn the dead. He came to burn the living.
Once-golden banners of the Sassanid Empire lay shredded across shattered marble. Statues of old kings were toppled. The lions carved into the gates had been defaced, their faces smashed in.
His boots were cracked. His cloak was torn. His sword dragged behind him, leaving a line in the dust.
He was the last of his bloodline. The last flame in a kingdom turned to ash.
He entered the courtyard where his father once held court. Where his mother danced. Where he, as a child, had been crowned beneath a banner of fire and gold.
Now it was a graveyard—burned, looted, silent.
Black-armored soldiers stood in a loose circle, weapons drawn. Waiting.
They were expecting him.
Good.
Ardeshir raised his sword.
> "Let's end this."
No words. No hesitation.
The soldiers moved in. Seven of them. Two with axes, three with swords, one with a spear, and one with nothing but daggers in each hand.
They thought he was weak. Alone.
They weren't wrong.
But he wasn't dead yet.
The first came straight at him—heavy armor, fast. Ardeshir sidestepped, spun, and drove his sword through the man's side. It cracked ribs. Blood spurted.
Another shouted and charged from behind. Ardeshir turned just in time to parry the blow, then drove his elbow into the attacker's throat. The man staggered. Ardeshir didn't give him a second chance.
Steel. Blood. Sand. Screams.
He fought like he had nothing left.
Because he didn't.
A dagger scraped past his ribs. A spear glanced off his shoulder. He took the hits, blocked what he could, and pressed forward. But every swing cost him. His arms ached. His breathing slowed. His grip slipped.
Then the axe caught him.
A brutal, two-handed swing slammed into his leg. He dropped to one knee, gasping. Another soldier closed in fast.
He raised his sword to block.
Too slow.
The blade slashed across his chest. He collapsed.
Pain exploded in his lungs. His vision blurred.
This was it.
Then a shadow stepped forward, calm and confident.
Lord Tyren Malvek.
His father's general. Once a friend. Now a traitor.
Tyren wore silver and crimson armor, polished to a shine. A black cloak draped behind him. His eyes were cold. Calculated.
> "You survived longer than I expected," Tyren said. "But this is where it ends."
Ardeshir spat blood into the dust. "Say that again when you're on your knees."
Tyren smiled, then slammed his boot into Ardeshir's chest.
Everything went black.
---
Time passed.
Seconds. Hours. He didn't know.
He was still alive.
Just barely.
The pain kept him grounded.
He felt the blood dripping from his mouth. The dirt in his wounds. The stone beneath his back.
He tried to move.
Nothing.
Then—
Something pulsed beneath him.
Not his heart.
The stone.
It throbbed—once, then again—like a drumbeat buried deep under the palace.
His blood soaked into the cracks of the marble.
The ancient floor drank it.
Then heat bloomed across his spine.
Not fever. Not infection.
Power.
His mother's voice echoed in his skull, soft, broken, beautiful:
> "When your blood touches the palace floor, the crown will remember."
The crown.
The Flameborn Throne.
> No. That was just legend. A story for children.
But the glow beneath him was real.
The ground lit up in rings of gold and red. Fire raced across the floor, forming a pattern—ancient Sassanid runes pulsing with light.
Shouts filled the air. The soldiers backed away.
Tyren shouted something, but Ardeshir didn't hear it.
His body lifted from the floor.
Flames curled around him, starting at his chest and winding up his limbs like vines of fire. His cuts closed. The blood dried. His skin sealed.
His sword snapped in half—
Then reforged itself in the air, glowing white-hot, longer and heavier than before.
And above his head, fire shaped itself into a crown.
It hovered.
Then settled.
The flames dimmed just enough for his eyes to be seen.
They weren't human anymore.
They burned.
Tyren stepped back. "What… are you?"
Ardeshir stood tall. His voice was steel and fire.
> "I'm what you couldn't kill."
> [Lineage Awakened: The Last Flame of Sassanid]
[Skill Unlocked: Sovereign's Wrath]
[Crown Status: Reclaimed]
The soldiers ran.
Even Tyren hesitated.
The flame expanded—slow, controlled, and alive. It didn't consume the palace. It claimed it.
It belonged here.
Just like him.
Ardeshir looked around at the ruins.
This wasn't the end of the story.
It was the start of war.
He stepped forward, each footfall lighting a flame beneath him.
> The last flame had returned. And it would burn a path back to the throne.