Ryn didn't sleep that night. He lay on the wooden crate that was his bed, staring at the ceiling like it was about to fall on him. His hand burned under the cloth wrap. Every time he closed his eyes, the voice returned.
"King die. Thtones wait. You are choosen"
Chosen. He almost laughed, but it came out broken. He was nobody. He had no family name, no roof. He stole to eat. Chosen for what? To suffer more?
Morning came gray and cold. The streets was already busy, merchants shouting, kids chasing each other with stale bread. Ryn tried to walk normal, but his arm felt heavy, like it carried more than his body could.
"Ryn!"
Elan's voice.his friend came running, hair a mess as usual, holding two loaves. Elan always shared even when he had little. His eyes caught Ryn's pale face.
"You look sick. What happen?"
"Nothing," Ryn lied,his response too fast. He pulled his sleeve down, hiding the marks.
Elan frowned. "Don't lie. I know your eyes. You touched something you shouldn't have."
Ryn wanted to shout, to tell him everything. The tomb, the ember, the whisper. But the Crown—no, the Throne—murmured inside him: "Silence keeps you safe."
So he stayed quiet.
Elan sighed, pressing bread into Ryn's hand. "Eat before you fall down. Whatever trouble you started, don't drag me into itwith you."
The words cut deeper than a knife, but Elan didn't mean to sound so cruel. Still, Ryn felt alone. More alone than he ever had.
As he chewed dry bread, a shadow passed over them. Black cloaks. Arbiters. They carried iron rods, faces hard like stone. Searching. Hunting.
Ryn's palm burned under the cloth. The Throne chuckled in his head, cruel and soft.
"They are looking for you"
Ryn's throat turned dry. He wanted to run, but his legs was stone. Elan glanced at the cloaks, then at him.
"Ryn… what the actual fuck did you do?"