The hidden thrones

Chapter 29: The Hidden Thrones

The Hollow Weave had calmed, but the world had not.

Loki's ascension to Sequence Eight sent ripples through Carcera and beyond. Those who walked in light whispered of miracles and curses. Those who crawled in shadow watched with quiet anticipation—and dread.

The known world believed that Sequence Seven was the peak of ascension. Only a handful of scholars, secret societies, and long-lived lords whispered of a rank beyond—Sequence Six. Officially, no one had reached it in generations.

But unofficially?

They had never left.

They simply stepped behind the curtain of reality, choosing obscurity over dominance.

In the frozen catacombs beneath the northern spine of the Veil Mountains, six stone thrones lay in a circle—each one bearing a different sigil: a bleeding crown, a silent hourglass, a wolf devouring its own tail, a mirror cracked in two, an eye with no iris, and a skeletal hand holding a quill. The thrones were carved from a substance older than stone, cold to the touch and resistant to time itself.

The air was thinner here. Time ticked differently. The snow outside never melted. The mountains themselves whispered of those who ruled in silence.

Only two of the thrones were currently occupied.

A figure in white furs stirred first, her face veiled, her breath forming delicate spirals in the air. "Another has passed the Eighth Gate," she said softly, her voice like wind over frozen graves. "This one has potential."

Across from her, a man cloaked in threads of molten copper exhaled a plume of golden smoke. It curled through the silence like a living thing. "A Trickster, no less. Not a Seer. Not a Reaper. Not a Judge. That's... inconvenient."

She tilted her head, as though listening to distant echoes. "He may serve our needs. Or undo our chains."

The copper-cloaked man tapped a finger on the armrest of his throne. "And if he finds the path to Sequence Six?"

"We ensure it ends before the threshold," she said. "Like the others who dared step too close."

He leaned forward. "Or we let him reach it—and watch what breaks first. The path. Or the man."

Back in Carcera, Selena and Loki traveled under moonlight.

They walked side by side in silence through the outer marshes, mist curling around their feet. Above them, the stars pulsed erratically—as if uncertain whether to shine or fall.

Loki was quieter now. Not because he lacked words, but because he felt every one of them might shift the world around him. He had awoken with a strange ache behind his eyes, like there was more in his mind than just himself. Like something had stepped in—or something had awakened from within.

"I can hear stories rewriting themselves," he told Selena. "I step into a village and legends bend. People remember me doing things I never did. Or don't remember what I've clearly done."

Selena looked at him with unease. "Do you think you're still in control?"

"No," Loki said. "But I think I'm learning to steer the chaos."

His footsteps sometimes echoed twice. Birds flew in patterns that mirrored the scars on his back. Once, a dying flower bloomed again as he passed—then burst into flame.

Selena knew he was changing. But so was the world around him. And neither seemed willing to slow down.

In the sanctum of the Archivist, the emissary from the southern dunes had returned with reports.

"The Trickster rewrites perception. The people are beginning to fear him. That makes him vulnerable."

The Archivist studied her reflection, which blinked independently of her.

"We don't fear him because he's powerful. We fear him because he's still human enough to doubt. That makes him unpredictable."

"Should we make contact?"

"No," she said. "We watch. And when he reaches for Sequence Seven... we guide his hand to the wrong gate."

The emissary bowed. "And the ones beyond the Sandglass?"

"They stir," the Archivist whispered. "But even they remember what happened the last time a Trickster reached the Gate of Lies."

She turned back to her books. One had begun writing itself.

And in a tower of obsidian, Magnus stood before a flame that burned blue and cold.

He touched the old rune embedded in his arm. It pulsed with memory.

"I told you once, brother," he whispered. "That fear will dress itself as love. I see now... it also dresses as freedom."

He stepped toward the glass, watching the sky shift. A crimson star had appeared where none had been before.

"Begin the culling," he said to the robed figure waiting behind him. "Let's see how the Trickster handles truth... when it bleeds."

The figure nodded and vanished.

Outside the tower, the winds howled through the banners of the old houses.

And far beneath the estate, something ancient stirred. Something Magnus had kept locked away not for power—but for leverage.

A final move.

If Loki truly reached beyond what was permitted… Magnus would remind the world why Sequence Six chose to disappear.