The Weight of the crown

The throne of Vaelthane loomed before Kael, its onyx surface pulsing as if alive, whispering to him in a language older than the kingdom itself. The air was thick with shadows, curling like serpents, eager, watching. His blood burned, his bond with the shadow thrashing inside him, both resisting and yielding at once.

"You were never meant to bow, Kael of the Forgotten Bloodline."

The voice—deep, ancient—resonated in his bones. He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his side. His fire, the one that had awakened with Rhia's oath, flickered in response, not as a weapon, but as if it, too, was listening.

Rhia shifted beside him. Her face was pale, her breathing unsteady. She felt it too. Their bond linked them, tying her fate to his. The fire between them had made them more than just allies—it had made them something else.

"You were meant to rule."

Kael took another step forward. His pulse pounded like a war drum, but something about this moment felt… inevitable.

Then the air shattered.

A howl, deep and raw, ripped through the hall. But it was not the howl of a wolf. It was something else.

Kael turned sharply as the shadows behind him convulsed, swirling into a vortex of darkness. And in the center of that chaos was her.

Fenrir.

But not as she had been. Not as the beast who had stalked at his side, a creature of fangs and fury. No, this was—

A woman.

Her body was wreathed in silver fire, shifting between forms, caught in the space between what she had been and what she was becoming. Her back arched, her breath coming in ragged gasps as claws melted into fingers, as her fur vanished, leaving behind bare, pale skin etched with faint markings, like the echoes of a curse not fully lifted.

Her silver eyes—unchanged, fierce as ever—locked onto Kael's.

And then she collapsed.

Kael moved before he could think, catching her before she hit the stone. Her body was trembling, drenched in sweat, and though she was human now, he could still feel the wolf in her—lingering, restless.

Her lips parted, voice hoarse. "You weren't supposed to take the throne."

Kael's blood ran cold.

She knew.

She knew something about all of this—about him, about the throne, about the power that was trying to claim him.

Rhia knelt beside them, concern in her gaze, but Fenrir's attention was only on Kael. She reached up, weak fingers brushing his jaw, her touch sending something violent and familiar through his body.

"You have to choose."

The throne pulsed behind him, calling. Demanding.

Kael looked down at Fenrir—at the woman who had once been a wolf, the one who had stood beside him when no one else had.

And in that moment, he knew—choosing the throne meant choosing something else, something irreversible.

But what if he had no choice.