The first man died screaming.
Waylen stood among the chosen, his boots planted on cold marble, as black veins crawled up the nobleman's neck.
The man clawed at his throat, eyes bulging, mouth foaming as the crown on the altar pulsed once slow, deliberate.
Then his heart burst.
Blood splattered across the hall.
Panic erupted instantly.
Nobles shoved one another aside. Guards reached for weapons, only to freeze as the crown pulsed again.
A low hum filled the chamber, vibrating through bone and blood, ancient and hungry.
"The curse!" someone shouted.
Another man rushed forward, desperation overtaking reason. "I will rule! I will"
He didn't finish.
The moment his fingers brushed the crown, his body collapsed inward, bones cracking as if crushed by invisible hands. His corpse hit the floor in a wet heap.
Screams filled the coronation hall.
Waylen stepped back.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he wanted nothing.
He had been dragged here by decree, labeled eligible, forced to stand among men who dreamed of power. Kingship. Immortality. Fear.
Waylen desired none of it.
The crown pulsed again.
This time, the sound changed.
Waylen felt it cold pressure behind his eyes, a presence brushing against his thoughts.
Images flashed unbidden: battlefields drowned in red, thrones made of bones, a city burning beneath a blood-dark sky.
The crown was searching.
Guards fell to their knees. A noblewoman began sobbing. The hall reeked of blood and terror.
Then,
The pressure stopped.
Silence followed.
Waylen's breath caught.
Slowly, impossibly, the crown turned.
Not physically.
But in his mind, he felt it.
For the first time in a century, the cursed crown ignored the desperate, the ambitious, the greedy
And noticed the man who wanted nothing at all.
Waylen staggered back, heart hammering.
"No," he whispered.
The crown pulsed once more.
And far beneath the throne, ancient magic awakened.
The curse had found its anomaly.