The throne room of Ardyn was built to break men.
It was not merely a hall of judgment, nor just the seat of an empire. It was a cathedral to power itself. The ceilings soared so high they seemed to brush against the heavens, painted with frescoes of conquests that had shaped history. In vivid pigments that had never faded, emperors were immortalized trampling kingdoms beneath their boots, gods kneeling with shattered halos, and at the center of every panel burned the eternal crest of House Ardyn—the blazing sun.
Marble pillars flanked the chamber like unyielding soldiers, their obsidian-black stone veined with gold. They caught the light of the countless braziers burning along the walls, making the entire hall shimmer as though gilded in fire. The air was heavy, oppressive, thick with the weight of centuries of triumphs and blood.
At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of seven ascending steps, rested the Sun Throne. Carved from a single radiant crystal, it was said to be taken from the heart of a fallen star. It glowed faintly, pulsing like something alive, its light refracting in a thousand shards across the marble floor. To kneel here was to be judged. To rise from here was to command empires.
And today, it was to be humiliated.
Chains clinked against marble.
The youngest son of the emperor knelt at the base of the dais, wrists bound in iron cuffs that had already rubbed his skin raw.
Kael Ardyn.
Fourteen years old. Too young for war, too young for politics. Too young, even, to truly understand the vast machinery of power that turned around him. And yet—here he knelt, condemned not as a child, but as a criminal.
The iron was cold against his flesh. The marble colder still. It bit into his knees, grinding bone against stone until each breath seemed to vibrate through his entire body. But he did not bow his head. He did not weep. His spine remained straight, his gaze steady.
Around him, the court gathered. Nobles and generals, priests and ministers—all packed the throne room like vultures circling carrion. Their whispers filled the chamber, a low, ugly hiss that never quite stopped. Some masked their malice behind fans of silk, others leaned forward openly, eyes bright with cruel amusement.
To them, this was not a trial. It was entertainment.
The herald stepped forward, voice booming as though eager to please the spectacle. His words carried across the chamber, reverberating between the golden-veined pillars:
"Kael Ardyn, youngest son of His Majesty Emperor Veylon, you stand accused of high treason, of consorting with enemies of the crown, and of dabbling in forbidden sorcery. How do you plead?"
The accusation itself was absurd—everyone knew it. But truth did not matter here. Truth had never mattered in this hall.
Murmurs immediately spilled out across the chamber, a tide of contempt that washed over Kael like acid.
"That's the useless one, isn't it?"
"The boy who can't wield proper magic."
"Pathetic. Even if he tried treason, he would fail at that too."
The words stung—Kael would not pretend they didn't—but they did not wound. He had grown up drowning in whispers just like these. To the empire, he was already branded worthless. Weak. A shadow in a dynasty of blazing suns.
Kael lifted his head.
The torchlight caught his face—pale from weeks in the dungeon, gaunt but unbroken. His hair, black as midnight, hung unkempt around his shoulders, brushing his collarbones. Strands clung stubbornly across his brow, but they did not dim the glint in his eyes. Grey eyes, steady and unnervingly calm, as though the boy before them was not about to be cast into oblivion, but merely observing, memorizing every sneer, every smirk, every betrayal.
On the dais above him, the imperial family looked down.
Crown Prince Darius lounged like a predator at rest, broad shoulders encased in gilded armor that gleamed beneath the braziers. His smirk curved lazily, the kind of smile wolves wore when they scented blood in the air.
Beside him, Princess Elira lifted a painted fan to her lips, hiding her mouth, but her emerald eyes glittered cruelly over its edge. To her, this was nothing but a performance. A brother's disgrace served like wine at court.
Even the younger cousins leaned forward eagerly, eyes wide, whispering among themselves as though watching a play unfold.
And above them all, upon the Sun Throne itself, sat Emperor Veylon.
The emperor was a figure carved of iron and shadow. His hair, long and streaked with white, fell to his shoulders, the strands framing a face lined with years of power, not mercy. His robes—black trimmed with gold—seemed woven from night itself, shimmering faintly as though the threads resisted even the light around them.
He did not move. He did not speak. And yet the weight of his gaze pressed down like an ocean, crushing, suffocating, inescapable.
The herald's voice rang again, sharper this time, echoing through the suffocating silence:
"How do you plead?"
Chains clinked as Kael shifted slightly, the iron biting into his raw wrists. His lips parted, the faintest curl of breath escaping before he spoke.
"I plead guilty."
The words rang out like a thunderclap in the marble hall. For a heartbeat, it was as if the very air recoiled. The courtiers who had been whispering and sneering fell silent all at once, as though some unseen hand had struck them dumb. Gasps rolled across the chamber in waves, crashing against the high vaulted ceiling and tumbling back down again.
A painted fan slipped from a noblewoman's hand, clattering against the floor. Princess Elira's own fan froze mid-motion, its lacquered ribs catching the light. Even Emperor Veylon's brow, carved in stone for decades, lifted the faintest fraction.
And then came the laughter.
Darius threw back his head, the sound booming and cruel, echoing from pillar to pillar. The Crown Prince's gilded armor glinted as his shoulders shook, his smirk splitting wide like a predator tasting blood.
"So the whelp admits it!" he crowed, voice thick with triumph. "Father, you see? I told you he was nothing but rot in our bloodline!"
The courtiers joined him, their laughter spilling like venom, the sound swelling and feeding on itself until the chamber rang with mockery. It was a court's favorite pastime—tearing apart the weak.
Kael let them laugh.He let the venom flow, the mockery ripple, the noise consume the hall like fire on dry grass. He sat in stillness, allowing it to crest, waiting patiently until the echoes began to falter and silence crept back into the cracks.
And when every eye returned to him, expecting tears, begging, or collapse—he raised his head.
"Guilty," Kael said again, his voice calm, steady, deliberate. "But not of treason. Nor of sorcery."
The words slipped into the silence like knives.
Chains rattled as he straightened fully, shoulders squaring despite his age and the bruises darkening his skin. His gaze—grey, unflinching, unnervingly steady—swept the chamber. Not with fear. Not even with defiance. It was the clarity of someone who had already glimpsed the truth, a truth far heavier than the judgment awaiting him.
"I am guilty only of trusting this family," Kael said, each syllable sharpened to a blade. His voice carried, smooth and unbroken, refusing to bend beneath the weight of the court. "Of believing blood meant loyalty. That was my sin."
The chamber fell utterly still.
The nobles, so eager to jeer, faltered. Elira's fan snapped closed without sound this time, her emerald eyes narrowing. Murmurs surged like a storm breaking, violent and immediate:
"Insolence!"
"He dares—!"
"Such arrogance from a child!"
The emperor's voice cut through them all, deep and thunderous, shaking the floor itself.
"Insolent boy," Emperor Veylon intoned, his words carrying more weight than steel. "Even at the end, your tongue cannot stay still."
Kael tilted his head, his expression maddeningly calm.
"If truth is insolence," he said, voice low but piercing, "then perhaps this throne fears honesty more than betrayal."
A ripple of shock coursed through the crowd. Some nobles recoiled as though the words were blasphemy. Others leaned in, unable to look away from the boy who dared speak to the emperor like an equal.
The air cracked as Darius slammed his gauntleted fist upon the armrest, the sound reverberating like a hammer on an anvil. "Enough of this farce!" he snarled, golden eyes burning. "Father, strip him of his name and cast him out before he stains our line further!"
The emperor did not so much as glance at his eldest son. With a slow, deliberate movement, he raised a single hand.
The herald stepped forward, unrolling a scroll with shaking fingers, though his voice carried with rehearsed authority.
"By command of His Majesty," he declared, each word striking like a tolling bell, "Kael Ardyn is hereby stripped of his title, his crest, and all rights of succession. He shall be exiled beyond the borders of the empire. His name will be erased from royal records. His existence—forgotten."
The proclamation hung heavy in the chamber, sealing Kael's fate.
From the shadows of the hall, a knight advanced, bearing the iron brand. The symbol of House Ardyn—the blazing sun—glowed red-hot, smoke curling in thin wisps that carried the acrid scent of scorched metal. Every step the knight took sent ripples of anticipation through the watching crowd.
Kael's tunic was torn aside, baring his pale shoulder. The noble crest of House Ardyn shimmered faintly in the torchlight, its golden ink etched into his flesh since infancy. It had been his birthright, his bond to the empire, the mark that tied him irrevocably to the Sun Throne.
The iron descended.
The sizzle of flesh split the silence. Smoke rose in thick, bitter tendrils as the brand pressed deep, burning away the crest that had defined his blood. Kael's body tensed, every nerve aflame, every muscle screaming for release.
But not a sound escaped his lips.
His eyes never left the throne. Not when his skin blistered. Not when the smell of charred flesh filled the air. Not even when the crest itself blackened, warped, and split into an unrecognizable scar.
The nobles erupted in whispers.
"Stripped clean.""Not even worth a beggar's mark.""Good riddance."
The iron lifted at last, leaving only a ruin where the blazing sun had once shone. Smoke drifted upward, curling beneath the painted ceiling as though carrying away the last trace of his birthright.
Chains tugged at him, dragging his body upright. The guards moved to haul him toward the gates, their grips merciless, their eyes cold.
But Kael stopped.
His boots scraped the marble floor as he turned, head tilting just enough to look back at the dais. The hall seemed to shrink around his voice as he spoke—quietly, but sharp enough to cut through the jeers and the echo of laughter.
"Enjoy your crown, brother."
Darius stiffened, his smirk faltering.
Kael's lips curved into the faintest smile, almost imperceptible, but it struck harder than any shout.
"When I return," he said, his words slow, deliberate, carrying a weight that no chain could bind, "I won't take just your throne."
His grey eyes, cold as winter steel, locked with Darius's golden glare.
"I'll take everything."
Laughter roared again, the nobles clinging to their amusement, but it was thinner now—forced, uneasy. Elira's fan snapped shut with a sharp clack, her gaze dark. Darius sneered, baring his teeth, but for the briefest instant, unease flickered in his eyes like a shadow.
And upon the Sun Throne, Emperor Veylon did not laugh. Did not sneer. Did not speak. His gaze—dark, fathomless, and unreadable—followed his son as the guards dragged him away, heavy with something no courtier could name.
And so Kael Ardyn, youngest prince of the empire, was cast into exile.
To the court, he was finished. Forgotten. Erased.
But within the boy's chest, amid the sting of chains and the ruin of his crest, a vow had already taken root. A vow that smoldered, fierce and unyielding.
A vow that burned brighter than any sun.
The vow of the Crownless Heir.