The citadel stood upon a windswept hill, its stones weathered by centuries and its banners frayed to little more than memory. Dawn crept through the mist, pale and reluctant, as though uncertain whether such a place still deserved light.
Shino and Soo-min approached the great gates in silence. The guards did not challenge them — there were no guards left to do so. Only empty watchtowers and the faint clatter of chains swaying in the cold morning air.
"Another fallen seat of power," Soo-min murmured, her voice carrying softly against the stone.
Shino's eyes lifted to the crest above the gate — a lion half-faded, half-proud, its crown cracked in two. "Power seldom falls all at once," he said. "It decays, quietly, while those who bear it pretend not to notice."
Inside the fortress, they found the throne room. Its once-majestic floor of polished marble was fractured; the grand stained-glass windows were patched with dull glass, dull as the faces of those who remained.
Upon the throne sat a man — old, slender, draped in a robe that had once been royal but was now more thread than cloth. His crown sat askew, a faint reflection of the kingdom's own imbalance.
He did not rise when they entered. His gaze drifted between them, sharp yet heavy, the eyes of someone who had seen too much and forgotten how to stop seeing.
"You are travellers," he said, his voice calm but hollow. "Or perhaps ghosts, come to mock the living."
Shino stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Neither, Your Majesty. We are wanderers seeking only truth, and the quiet that follows it."
The old ruler gave a thin smile. "Truth. A fine word. Once, I built a realm upon it. Or so I believed. But truth is a cruel guest — it arrives uninvited and stays too long."
He gestured for them to sit, though there were no chairs left unbroken. Soo-min remained standing beside Shino, studying the faded tapestries that told stories of victory — battles won, oaths sworn, crowns exchanged.
"They call me a king still," the ruler continued, "but I am only a keeper of ashes. My court is gone. My knights are bones beneath the fields. Yet every morning, I sit upon this throne — as though the act alone might deceive time."
Shino's gaze softened. "A throne is not power, Your Majesty. It is memory carved in wood and stone. What gives it meaning is not who sits upon it, but whether the world beyond its walls still remembers why it was built."
The ruler looked at him for a long time, as though measuring his words against years of silence. "And you," he asked, "why do you wander, young one? Have you not a place to rest?"
"I do," Shino replied, "but it is the kind of rest that follows understanding, not comfort. I walk to learn, not to be seen."
A faint wind drifted through the hall, carrying dust and the scent of rain. The king's fingers tapped the armrest of his throne — a rhythm of thought, perhaps, or simply the echo of habit.
"There was a time," he said at last, "when I too sought wisdom. I thought I could rule wisely, end the wars, heal the old wounds. But history," his voice faltered, "history does not forgive sincerity. It only remembers mistakes."
Soo-min stepped closer, her tone quiet yet firm. "Then perhaps, Your Majesty, you should teach the next generation not to forget the pain, but to carry it differently."
The ruler's eyes flickered towards her, a spark of something — regret, perhaps hope. "You speak like one who has not yet been broken by years."
"Or like one," she said softly, "who refuses to let them break her."
Silence settled again. Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall against the shattered windows, tracing paths down the cracked glass like tears.
At last, the old king rose from the throne. The movement was slow, deliberate — a farewell, not to Shino and Soo-min, but to the seat itself.
He descended the steps and stood before Shino, his frail hands clasped around a golden ring dulled by time. "If thrones are memory, then let this one rest," he said, placing the ring in Shino's palm. "Take it far from here. Let the wind scatter the story. Let the world forget my name, so it may remember peace."
Shino bowed, closing his hand around the ring. "Sometimes, Your Majesty, forgetting is not loss — it is mercy."
The ruler nodded once, then turned away, his figure fading into the dimness of the hall as though returning to the stones themselves.
When Shino and Soo-min stepped out into the rain, the citadel behind them seemed smaller, quieter — as if relieved of a long-held breath.
They walked down the winding path, the distant thunder rumbling like history itself, heavy and unending.
Soo-min glanced back once. "Do you think he'll ever leave that throne?"
Shino shook his head. "He already has."
And as they disappeared into the storm, the lonely throne remained — not as a symbol of rule, but as a monument to what happens when power outlives purpose.