Chapter 51: Letter

The Kingless Throne

The moment Sylas reappeared, he felt it.

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of dust, decay, and something far more unsettling—the remnants of an old, forgotten reign.

Before him stood a throne room without a king.

The chamber was vast, grand beyond mortal comprehension, but it carried an eerie silence, the kind that belonged to places abandoned by time itself. Tall obsidian pillars stretched toward a high, domed ceiling carved with celestial symbols that had long since faded. The walls, once adorned with banners of victory, now bore only shadows of their former glory.

And the door—the massive, engraved doors that loomed behind him—carried only a single word, etched deep into the ancient metal:

KINGLESS.

Sylas stepped forward, his boots echoing against the marble floor. The sound should have been deafening in the silence, but the room seemed to swallow it, as if refusing to acknowledge his presence.

His eyes flickered across the chamber, and his breath stilled.

Bodies hung from the rafters.

Dozens of them. Noblemen. Soldiers. Scholars. Their lifeless forms dangled like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Their faces, twisted in eternal agony, told stories of betrayal, of failure, of a kingdom that had long since fallen into ruin.

It was a massacre.

But not one born of battle.

No.

This was something far worse.

A purge.

His fingers tightened around the disguised Crown of the Fallen, still appearing as an unassuming pen in his grasp. He closed his eyes for a moment, activating its power. A ripple of invisible energy pulsed outward from his body, expanding across the throne room and stretching beyond, sweeping through the castle, the city, the land itself—

Scanning.

Detecting.

A hundred miles.

Two hundred.

Nothing.

No monsters. No enemies. No lingering presence of whatever force had enacted this slaughter.

Sylas exhaled, his breath visible in the unnatural cold. Whatever happened here… it was over.

But why did it feel like the kingdom itself was still waiting?

His gaze shifted to the throne.

It loomed before him, a seat of absolute authority, untouched by dust or time. A testament to power now lost. Ornate, made of polished black stone and silver filigree, its very presence demanded submission.

For a moment, he hesitated.

But only for a moment.

Then, he walked forward.

Step by step, past the bodies, past the echoes of a fallen dynasty, past the silent, kingless halls.

And then—

He sat.

The moment his body sank into the throne, the room breathed.

The silence shifted. The air stirred.

And somewhere, far beyond the mortal plane—

Something watched.

The cold stone of the throne pressed against Sylas's back, and for the first time in a long while, he felt still. Not at peace, not resigned, but simply… still.

His fingers traced the edges of the Crown of the Fallen, the supposed relic of an age long past—an artifact he had claimed, worn, and bled for. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it, setting it upon his head.

Nothing changed.

Or perhaps, everything did.

A weight settled on his shoulders, one that had nothing to do with the crown itself. A quiet authority hummed in the air around him, not one that came from power earned, but from power inherited—the kind that did not ask, did not negotiate. It simply was.

This throne. This ruin. This kingdom that no longer had a king.

And him.

A pretender, sitting where a ruler should be.

The thought would have amused him once.

Now, it was just empty.

Sylas exhaled, his mind unwillingly drifting to her.

Livia.

Her name still felt like fire on his tongue, but he no longer knew if it was from lingering warmth or the burn of betrayal.

He had long abandoned the idea of chasing the Seven Treasures. What was the point?

There had been a time when he believed—no, when he knew—that every step forward meant something. That every relic he sought, every power he acquired, was part of some larger, inevitable design.

But what was inevitability against a knife in the back?

Against her blade, in his chest?

His fingers twitched against the armrest, and without thought, the air itself seemed to shift around him.

There was a force at work, unseen yet absolute.

Something moved, something obeyed.

A stone from across the room lifted into the air as if an invisible hand had plucked it from the ground. It hovered there, waiting, before Sylas blinked and let it fall.

Power without effort.

It was not magic. Not sorcery.

Something older.

A force that was not cast, but simply willed.

A truth that had existed before time had been given shape.

The Rulers—beings like Uriel, creatures beyond the comprehension of mortals, those who shaped and dictated unseen laws—held such authority. They did not grasp with hands, nor did they command with voice. Their will was absolute, and the world itself bent to their whims.

Was this what it meant to sit upon a throne that no longer had a king?

His grip on the armrest tightened.

Livia's face flashed in his mind once more, not as he last saw her, with steel in her grip and resolve in her eyes—but before that.

Before betrayal. Before blood.

The soft curve of her lips when she smiled. The way her voice carried when she spoke of things she believed in. The certainty in her step.

Had it all been a lie?

Or had he simply not seen it coming?

The Crown of the Fallen hummed against his skin, its presence neither comforting nor condemning.

Sylas leaned back into the throne, the weight of old power settling around him like a mantle.

He had long given up on chasing the Seven Treasures.

But the past, it seemed, had not yet given up on him.

A sharp caw echoed through the ruined throne room, breaking the silence. Sylas looked up just in time to see a crow gliding down from the cracked ceiling, its dark wings slicing through the dim light. It landed on the stone armrest of the throne, talons clicking against the ancient surface.

A letter.

Tied to its leg with a thin black ribbon.

Sylas exhaled slowly, reaching out. The crow didn't flinch as he unfastened the parchment, its edges slightly crumpled from travel. His gaze lingered on the wax seal before he tore it open.

A letter from them.

His fingers hesitated for only a moment before unfolding the paper.

Sylas,

It's been a while since we last heard from you, and to be honest, we didn't expect to receive another letter so soon—let alone one delivered in such a strange way. A gate, really? You never did care much for subtlety.

You say you'll be gone for a long time, and that we shouldn't worry. How typical of you. You always say things like that, as if we could ever not worry about you.

We don't know what kind of place you've ended up in this time. You never tell us much, only bits and pieces, like breadcrumbs for us to follow—but we can always tell when something is off.

There was something in your words, something in the way you wrote this time. A weight. A distance.

Something happened, didn't it?

We won't pry. We never do. You'll tell us when you're ready.

But whatever it is—whatever road you find yourself walking, whatever throne you find yourself sitting on—just remember: you are not alone.

You never were.

And you never will be.

Your mother made your favorite dish last week. She said it reminded her of you. I fixed the old gate. Nothing ever really changes here.

Oh, and—one last thing.

Your grandfather mentioned something recently, something about the land we call home. You know how he is, always speaking in riddles and old stories, but this time, he seemed… certain.

He said that a long time ago, before any of us were born, before even the oldest of our ancestors could remember, this place had another name.

It was called Feros.

Take care of yourself, Sylas.

—Your Family

Sylas's grip on the parchment tightened slightly as he reread the last line.

Feros.

(A/N: Remember feros from chapter origins?)

The name hummed in his mind, unfamiliar yet weighted with something ancient. Something that should have been forgotten.

His eyes drifted to the crown on his head. The throne beneath him. The ruins around him.

Nothing was a coincidence.

With a slow breath, he folded the letter and set it aside.

The crow cawed once before taking flight, disappearing into the darkened rafters.

Sylas leaned back into the throne, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the armrest.

Feros.

A name long buried.

And yet, for some reason, it felt like the first step toward something he wasn't meant to uncover.