The Weight of the Crown

The throne of Vaelthane loomed before Kael, its blackened steel entwined with ancient roots, pulsing faintly like a living thing. The weight of the crown—cold, unyielding—rested in his hands, but he felt no triumph. Only unease.

The people knelt, murmuring his name. Their faces were a mixture of hope and fear, as if his presence was both salvation and omen.

Kael clenched his jaw. He wasn't meant to be a king. A warrior, yes. A wanderer, perhaps. But this? This was a trap wrapped in destiny.

At his side, Eryx stood tall, unreadable as ever. Rhia remained silent, her eyes darting toward the throne as if it would devour him whole.

Then came the voice. Whispering. Ancient. Hungry.

"You were always meant to return."

Kael stiffened, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. The whisper did not come from the people. It came from the throne itself.

The moment his foot touched the first step, the entire hall shuddered. The air rippled, and a sharp pull yanked at his chest—his bond with the shadow responding violently.

Then the visions came. Fire. Chains. A broken crown. And a figure in the dark, waiting.

Something was wrong.

Vaelthane was not just cursed. It was alive. And it had been waiting for him all along.