The Answer of a Mortal

The Throne's Final Challenge

Ethan stood unmoving.

The Throne of the Betrayer loomed above him, an impossible monument to every Riftborn who had failed before him. The golden chains that had sought to erase him now lay shattered in the abyss, flickering like dying stars.

Yet, despite everything—the Throne remained.

His golden-shadow flames rippled outward, illuminating the abyss with an eerie glow. The battlefield no longer made sense. The sky was a swirling mass of golden cracks, bleeding light that neither shined nor faded.

It was as if existence itself was waiting.

Then—the voice spoke again.

"Do you understand now?"

Ethan's golden eyes narrowed. His fists clenched.

"I understand one thing," he said evenly. "You want me to play your game."

A low chuckle echoed across the abyss. It was not mocking. Not cruel. Simply amused.

"And what will you do, Riftborn?"