The throne was burning.
Flames licked the marble pillars, devouring crimson banners stitched with gold. Screams filled the vast imperial hall where once nobles had whispered prayers of loyalty. Now, they fled in terror—silks trailing fire, jeweled crowns melting like wax.
At the center of the inferno sat a man upon the shattered throne.
Dark hair glimmered like moonlight against the smoke. His eyes, two pits of black flame, regarded the chaos with chilling calm. Blood dripped lazily from his fingers onto the throne's armrest, staining the ancient crest of House Ardyn.
Beneath his boot lay the crown prince's body, sprawled in regal robes now soaked with crimson. Beside him, the princess's jeweled dagger lay broken, her lifeless gaze fixed on nothing. Around them, generals, dukes, and archmages—those who once commanded armies—were reduced to heaps of ash.
The man's voice was soft, yet it carried above the roaring fire.
"They called me useless."
He rose, slow and deliberate, each step cracking the ruined marble.
"They called me exile. Traitor. Failure."
The flames bent away from him, bowing as though even fire recognized its master. He stooped, picked up the shattered crown, and held it against his chest. For a fleeting second, there was weariness in his gaze—then it vanished, replaced by a smile too sharp to be human.
"Yet here I stand. Crownless… but king all the same."
The empire trembled.
And then the vision dissolved— like smoke vanishing from a nightmare.