The Lost Throne

The battle never came.

One moment, Kael stood among the ruins, his sword drawn, shadows rushing toward him. The next, the world twisted—ripped apart by a force unlike anything he had ever felt.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Then, light.

A sky stretched above him, vast and endless, painted in hues of violet and gold. The air was thick with the scent of wildflowers, crisp mountain winds brushing against his skin. For a brief, breathless moment, Kael thought he had fallen into a dream.

But then he turned.

Towering stone walls loomed ahead, covered in ivy and silverlight moss, glowing faintly in the dusk. Beyond them, a city unlike any he had ever seen stretched across the valley—grand structures woven with nature, waterfalls cascading through stone arches, bridges connecting towers that seemed to touch the sky.

A kingdom. Hidden. Untouched by time.

"Welcome home, Alpha."

Kael stiffened. The men who had bowed before him now stood tall, their dark cloaks billowing in the wind. The leader—the one who had spoken before—stepped forward.

"This is Vaelthane. The last kingdom of your bloodline."

Kael swallowed hard. "I never asked for this."

"You didn't have to," the man said simply. "It was always yours."

Behind him, Rhia and Fenrir stood frozen, taking in the sight with wary eyes.

Kael turned back to the city.

Home? No. This wasn't home.

Yet the land seemed to hum beneath his feet. As if recognizing him.

As if waiting.

Then, the great gates swung open.

And Kael stepped forward, toward the throne that should never have been his.

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