Chapter 18;- The Skyborne Citadel

Rhaegar stood on the balcony of his chambers, the cold wind biting into his skin as he gazed at the storm-darkened horizon. The night had been merciless, yet the morning brought no solace. His wounds still ached, his body weary from the battle against the Forsaken King, but his mind was already elsewhere.

High above the clouds, beyond the reach of mortal kings and war-torn lands, lay the Skyborne Citadel—a fortress of legend. A place said to house ancient knowledge, powerful relics, and warriors untouched by time.

And he needed to reach it.

The Forsaken King was slipping through his fingers like smoke, evading death at every turn. If Rhaegar wanted to truly end him, he needed something more—power beyond what he already possessed.

That power lay in the Citadel.

He turned away from the balcony and strode toward the grand map table in his chambers. A parchment lay stretched across it, detailing the treacherous routes that led to the floating fortress. The Citadel did not rest upon land—it was said to drift through the sky itself, hidden by raging tempests and powerful enchantments. Only those deemed worthy could find it.

"Worthy," Rhaegar muttered, scoffing. He had never cared for the riddles of ancient orders or the arrogance of self-proclaimed gatekeepers. If the Citadel held what he sought, then he would take it—whether they allowed him entry or not.

A sharp knock at the door disrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," he commanded.

The door creaked open, and Aelor, his trusted strategist, stepped inside. The older man's gaze immediately flickered to Rhaegar's injuries, his brows knitting together. "You look like you've just crawled out of the Abyss."

"I feel worse," Rhaegar admitted, but there was no humor in his tone. He turned back to the map. "Tell me what you've found."

Aelor sighed, stepping forward. "The Citadel is no mere castle. It moves with the wind, concealed by the skies. The only way to find it is to track the Stormglyphs—ancient markers hidden in the ruins of the old world."

Rhaegar traced a gloved finger along the map, stopping at three points marked with an unfamiliar symbol. "And where are these ruins?"

"One in the Shattered Peaks, another deep in the Eldertide Forest, and the last…" Aelor hesitated.

Rhaegar looked up. "Speak."

Aelor's jaw tightened. "The last is in The Howling Wastes—Forsaken King's territory."

Silence stretched between them.

Of course. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

"Then I'll start with the Peaks and the Forest," Rhaegar said, rolling up the map. "I don't have time to waste."

Aelor frowned. "You're still wounded."

"I don't have the luxury of rest."

Aelor sighed but knew better than to argue. "Then you'll need a guide. The Stormglyphs aren't just lying in the open. They react only to certain bloodlines… and to those marked by the abyss."

Rhaegar stilled. The abyss.

The very thing that had cursed him… and yet, perhaps, it was also his key.

Aelor continued, "There is a woman—Seraphine of the Hollow Sky. A scholar, outcast, and some say, the last living descendant of the Skyborne. If anyone can find the Citadel, it's her."

Rhaegar nodded. "Where is she?"

"In the ruins of the Veilspire Keep, west of here. But be warned—she isn't exactly… welcoming."

Rhaegar smirked. "Neither am I."

The Journey to Veilspire

The road was long, winding through valleys of mist and past the remnants of forgotten civilizations. Veilspire Keep was once a great stronghold, but now it was little more than shattered stone, claimed by the wilds.

Rhaegar rode in silence, his mind focused on what lay ahead. The idea of a Skyborne survivor intrigued him. If she truly carried the knowledge of the Citadel, then she would lead him there—willingly or otherwise.

By nightfall, he reached the ruins.

The Keep was barely standing, its towers crumbling and its gates torn apart by time and war. Only one light flickered within—a lone torch burning atop the central tower.

She was here.

Rhaegar dismounted and approached. The moment he crossed into the ruins, a voice cut through the silence.

"Leave. Now."

He paused, scanning the shadows. A woman stood on the broken stairway ahead, a dagger glinting in her hand. Her silver hair was unkempt, her dark eyes sharp and guarded.

Seraphine.

"I don't take orders from exiles," Rhaegar said coolly.

Seraphine narrowed her eyes. "And I don't entertain strangers. Get lost."

Rhaegar smirked. "I'm looking for the Skyborne Citadel."

Something flickered in her expression—recognition, then resentment.

"I can't help you." She turned to leave.

Rhaegar moved faster. In an instant, he was behind her, his grip closing around her wrist before she could vanish into the shadows. "You can."

Seraphine stilled. Her dagger was pressed against his throat before he could react. "You don't know what you're dealing with," she whispered.

Rhaegar didn't flinch. "Then tell me."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, she sighed, pulling away. "You're persistent. That'll either get you killed… or get you what you want." She turned, staring at the sky.

"The Citadel isn't just hidden. It's protected. If you want to reach it, you'll need more than just directions." She met his gaze. "You'll need to survive the trials."

Rhaegar's jaw clenched. "Then tell me what they are."

Seraphine gave a wry smile. "Fine. But if you fail…" She sheathed her dagger. "Don't expect mercy."

The Skyborne Citadel awaited.

Rhaegar's eyes locked onto Seraphine's as the wind howled through the ruins. The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken challenges. He had dealt with reluctant allies before, but there was something different about her—something guarded, something dangerous.

Seraphine crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "You think you can just waltz into the Citadel and claim its power?" She shook her head, scoffing. "You don't even know what you're asking for."

Rhaegar remained unfazed. "Then enlighten me."

She let out a slow breath, stepping past him and gazing at the darkened sky. "The Citadel isn't just floating above the world like some forgotten ruin. It's alive, shifting, protected by forces beyond mortal comprehension. Those who seek it often die before they ever lay eyes on it."

"I don't die easily."

Seraphine smirked, though there was no humor in her eyes. "That's what they all say."

Rhaegar studied her, his mind already turning. He didn't have time for riddles, nor the patience for cowardice. If she truly knew the way, he would extract the information by force if necessary. But something told him that brute strength wouldn't work here.

So he played along.

"What exactly do the trials demand?" he asked, stepping closer.

Seraphine tilted her head. "The first is endurance. The storm that hides the Citadel is no ordinary tempest. It's sentient, crafted by the old gods themselves. If you enter it unprepared, it will tear you apart—not just body, but soul."

Rhaegar's expression remained unreadable. "And how does one prepare?"

Seraphine hesitated. "You have to let it in."

Silence stretched between them. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the ruined walls, making her look almost spectral, like a ghost from an age long past.

Rhaegar frowned. "Explain."

Seraphine finally turned to face him fully. "The storm isn't just a barrier—it's a test. It seeks to know you, to unmake you, to force you to confront the truth of what you are." Her gaze darkened. "If it finds you unworthy, it will break you. There will be no second chances."

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. He had already faced death and come back stronger. He had fought monsters, both human and otherwise. What could a storm possibly show him that he hadn't already endured?

"Fine," he said. "What's next?"

Seraphine studied him for a long moment before continuing. "The second trial is combat. Guardians patrol the Citadel's entrance—warriors who have long since died but refuse to rest. They are bound to its gates, protecting its secrets with an unrelenting fury. You cannot reason with them. You can only survive them."

"Good," Rhaegar said, his fingers twitching near his sword's hilt. "That, at least, is something I understand."

Seraphine gave a dry chuckle. "Don't be so eager. These aren't common soldiers. They wield magic beyond mortal comprehension, their bodies reforged by the very forces that sustain the Citadel. Killing them is… difficult."

Rhaegar's patience was thinning. "Nothing is impossible."

She sighed, shaking her head. "You're either the most stubborn man I've ever met, or the most foolish."

"Both," he said without hesitation.

Seraphine chuckled despite herself, then grew serious again. "The final trial is judgment."

At this, Rhaegar finally frowned. "Judgment by whom?"

She hesitated. "By the Skyborne themselves."

A flicker of surprise crossed his features. "The Skyborne are dead."

Seraphine's lips curled in a ghost of a smile. "Are they?"

Rhaegar studied her, searching for deception. If she was telling the truth—if the ancient Skyborne still existed in some form—then this was far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

"And if they judge me unworthy?" he asked, voice low.

Seraphine's smile vanished. "Then you won't leave the Citadel at all."

The weight of her words settled between them, but Rhaegar didn't falter. He had not come this far to be stopped by legends and myths. If the Skyborne sought to judge him, then so be it. He would force their approval if necessary.

"I'll need to leave before dawn," he said, adjusting the sword at his hip.

Seraphine raised an eyebrow. "So that's it? You hear the risks and decide to go anyway?"

"Of course." He stepped closer, his voice unwavering. "I don't fear judgment. And I don't need permission."

She studied him for a moment longer, then shook her head. "You're either going to save this world or burn it to the ground."

Rhaegar smirked. "Maybe both."

For the first time, Seraphine looked truly unsure. But after a moment, she sighed and turned away. "Then I hope you're ready, Rhaegar Crowne. Because once we step onto this path, there's no turning back."

"I never do," he murmured, following her into the darkness.

The journey to the Citadel was unlike any Rhaegar had ever endured.

The storm was already visible on the horizon—a monstrous, swirling maelstrom of black and violet clouds, pulsing with raw energy. It wasn't a natural storm. It was alive, shifting and twisting as if it were waiting for them.

Seraphine led the way, her expression tight with tension. She had grown quieter the closer they got, her usual sharp remarks giving way to uneasy silence. Rhaegar noticed the way her fingers trembled slightly, the way her jaw clenched as if she were bracing for something unseen.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Seraphine shot him a glare. "Hardly." She turned back to the storm. "I just hope you're ready for what's coming."

Rhaegar smirked. "I always am."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You're arrogant."

"I'm alive."

"For now."

The wind howled as they approached the outer edges of the storm. Lightning crackled through the air, illuminating the swirling mass above them. It wasn't just noise—it was whispers, voices carried on the wind, indistinct yet filled with malice.

Seraphine stopped. "This is where it begins."

Rhaegar studied the storm. "The trial?"

She nodded. "The storm is sentient. It will try to break you. You must let it in—but not let it consume you."

Rhaegar glanced at her. "And you? Do you have to endure this as well?"

She hesitated. "I've already passed the trial once."

A cryptic answer. But Rhaegar didn't press her. Instead, he stepped forward. The moment his foot crossed into the storm, everything changed.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

The wind roared, tearing at his skin, his armor, his very soul. Shadows twisted around him, forming shapes, figures. Memories.

He saw himself, standing before his father's throne, blood dripping from his sword.

He saw his mother's lifeless body cradled in his arms, her eyes dull and unseeing.

He saw the faces of those he had killed—some in battle, some in cold blood.

And then, he saw something worse.

Himself.

But not as he was. As he could become.

A king, seated upon a throne of corpses. His armor black as night, his eyes devoid of humanity. The world burned around him, cities crumbling into ruin. And he—this version of himself—laughed.

A cold, hollow sound.

Rhaegar clenched his fists. "You're trying to scare me."

The storm whispered. This is your fate.

"No," he growled. "It isn't."

The wind howled louder, the voices growing more insistent. You are a monster. You will become this. You cannot escape it.

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. He knew the darkness within him. He had seen it, felt it, wielded it as a weapon. But he would not let it define him.

He took a step forward.

The storm resisted. The whispers clawed at his mind, but he pushed forward, step by step, until—

He broke through.

The storm shattered around him, fading into silence.

And then he was standing at the base of the Citadel.

A massive fortress of gleaming stone and dark iron, suspended in the sky, connected to the ground by a single, impossibly long bridge. It pulsed with energy, an ancient power radiating from its very core.

Seraphine emerged beside him, looking mildly impressed. "Not bad."

Rhaegar exhaled sharply. "I told you. The storm doesn't scare me."

She arched an eyebrow. "Maybe not. But the next trial might."

Rhaegar followed her gaze. The bridge leading to the Citadel was lined with figures.

Not men. Not anymore.

The Guardians.

Once-human warriors, now twisted into something else. Their bodies were clad in ancient armor, their eyes glowing with unnatural light. They did not move, did not breathe. They simply waited.

Rhaegar smirked, drawing his sword. "Finally. A challenge I can cut through."

Seraphine sighed. "Try not to die, will you?"

And then the Guardians moved.

Faster than expected. Shadows blurred, steel flashed. The first of them lunged at Rhaegar, blade coming down in an arc of silver light.

He parried, twisting his body to the side, his own sword slicing upward. Sparks flew as metal met metal, and then—black blood sprayed as he cut the Guardian down.

But more were coming.

A dozen. Two dozen.

They fought with eerie precision, never hesitating, never faltering. Rhaegar met them head-on, his blade a whirlwind of death. He moved like a storm himself—fluid, relentless, merciless.

One Guardian tried to strike from behind. Rhaegar twisted, impaling it through the chest before ripping his sword free. Another swung at his side—he ducked, driving his dagger into its throat.

Still, they kept coming.

Seraphine fought beside him, her daggers a blur of motion. Unlike Rhaegar, she didn't fight with brute strength—she danced through the battlefield, striking with precise, lethal efficiency.

"You enjoying yourself?" she called, slashing through another Guardian.

Rhaegar grinned, blood dripping from his blade. "Are you?"

She scoffed. "Hardly."

The last Guardian fell, its body crumbling into dust.

Silence returned.

Rhaegar exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Is that all?"

Seraphine didn't answer. She was staring ahead.

Rhaegar followed her gaze—and froze.

The gates of the Citadel had opened.

And standing there, waiting for them, was someone unexpected.

Not a Guardian. Not a monster.

A man.

Tall, clad in deep violet robes, his face obscured by a hood. But the power radiating from him was unmistakable.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure tilted his head, as if considering. Then he spoke, his voice smooth and unhurried.

"I am the Keeper of the Skyborne."

Rhaegar gripped his sword tighter. "And what exactly do you keep?"

The Keeper smiled. "The past. The future. And, most importantly—judgment."

Seraphine tensed beside him. "We've passed the trials. The storm. The Guardians. We have a right to enter."

The Keeper nodded. "You have passed the first trials, yes."

Rhaegar frowned. "There's more?"

The Keeper's smile widened. "Oh, yes. You see, mortal—before you may claim the power of the Skyborne, there is one final test."

Rhaegar's grip tightened. "And what would that be?"

The Keeper stepped forward. His presence alone made the air feel heavier, charged with unseen energy.

"The test," he said softly, "is truth."

And then, without warning—

The world shattered.

Rhaegar barely had time to react before the world twisted around him. The solid stone beneath his feet dissolved, and suddenly, he was falling—plummeting into an abyss of swirling violet and silver light.

The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It wasn't merely a fall—it was a separation, as if his very soul was being unraveled, thread by thread. Voices whispered in the void around him, soft and insidious.

Truth. Truth. Truth.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the fall ended.

Rhaegar landed on solid ground, but it was not the bridge, nor the entrance to the Citadel. He stood in a vast, open space, its boundaries undefined. The air was thick with an eerie luminescence, and in the distance, a throne loomed.

A black throne.

He recognized it.

It was the throne from his vision in the storm—the one where he had seen himself as a tyrant, ruling over a kingdom of corpses.

And seated upon it was himself.

Not the man he was now, but the version he had seen before—the King of Ashes.

Clad in obsidian armor, his long, dark hair streaked with silver, his crimson eyes glowing like embers. A cold smirk curved his lips as he rested his chin on one hand, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his throne.

"Ah," the dark Rhaegar drawled. "So you finally made it."

Rhaegar tensed, gripping his sword. "I don't have time for illusions."

The other him chuckled. "Oh, but this isn't an illusion." He spread his arms. "This is you. The truth of what you will become."

Rhaegar scowled. "I don't need a prophecy to tell me my fate."

The King of Ashes leaned forward. "You think this is a prophecy? No, no, no. This is certainty." His smirk widened. "You are already on this path, Rhaegar. You think vengeance will end with your enemies? No. It will consume everything. You will burn kingdoms, slaughter innocents, and sit upon this throne bathed in the blood of those who dared to love you."

Rhaegar's grip tightened on his sword. "You're wrong."

"Am I?" The King gestured, and the space around them shifted.

Images formed in the air—ghostly, flickering visions of the future. Rhaegar saw himself standing over Seraphine's lifeless body, his sword dripping with her blood. He saw the ruins of the Skyborne Citadel, its mighty towers crumbling into dust. He saw Asteria engulfed in flames, the people screaming, begging for mercy—mercy he would not grant.

He saw himself, crowned in darkness, seated upon the black throne, his crimson eyes empty of humanity.

Rhaegar's breath hitched. The visions felt too real.

The King of Ashes chuckled, standing from his throne. "You will become me, Rhaegar. No matter how hard you fight it." He took a step forward. "And the best part? You won't even regret it."

Rhaegar clenched his teeth. "You think I'll let that happen?"

The King smirked. "I think it's already happening."

Rhaegar didn't hesitate. He lunged, sword flashing toward his darker self.

The King of Ashes moved.

Faster than should have been possible.

Their blades clashed, the impact sending out a shockwave of power. The force of it nearly drove Rhaegar to his knees, but he gritted his teeth, pushing back.

The King of Ashes laughed. "Good! Fight me, struggle against the inevitable!" His blade danced through the air, cutting toward Rhaegar's throat.

Rhaegar barely managed to parry, stepping back as the King advanced.

Slash. Parry. Dodge. Counter.

Each strike was like fighting a mirror—every move Rhaegar made, the King of Ashes had already anticipated. Their blades met again and again, sparks flying as steel kissed steel.

But there was something wrong.

The longer he fought, the heavier his sword became.

The more his limbs ached.

It was as if the battle itself was draining him.

The King of Ashes smirked, effortlessly dodging a strike. "Ah. Do you feel it?" He gestured at the space around them. "This realm does not favor you. It favors me."

Rhaegar's breathing was ragged, his arms shaking. But he refused to falter.

He had fought gods. He had died and clawed his way back from the abyss.

He would not lose to himself.

With a roar, he launched forward, feinting left before twisting his blade downward. His sword bit into the King's side, slicing through armor and flesh.

The King of Ashes staggered.

For the first time, his smirk vanished.

Rhaegar didn't waste the opening. He drove his sword forward, impaling his darker self through the chest.

The King of Ashes gasped, crimson eyes widening. For a moment, silence hung between them.

Then—

He laughed.

Low and hollow at first, then rising into something manic.

Rhaegar pulled his sword free, stepping back. The wound was fatal. He knew it.

But the King of Ashes still stood.

Blood dripped from his lips, but his smirk returned. "Well done," he murmured. "But you still don't understand, do you?"

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed.

The King of Ashes took a staggering step forward, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You cannot kill what is already within you."

And then—

The world collapsed.

Rhaegar felt himself being pulled backward, yanked from the abyss by an unseen force. The vision shattered around him, and suddenly—

He was back.

Standing before the Keeper, sword still in hand, breath ragged.

The bridge was whole. The storm was gone.

Seraphine was staring at him, concern flickering in her violet eyes. "Rhaegar?"

He exhaled sharply, his mind still spinning. The battle, the visions—they had felt real.

The Keeper nodded approvingly. "You have faced the truth."

Rhaegar clenched his fists. "Was that… real?"

The Keeper tilted his head. "Does it matter?"

Rhaegar's jaw tightened.

It did matter.

Because the darkness he had seen—the tyrant he had fought—was still inside him.

Waiting.

Watching.

And maybe, just maybe… the King of Ashes was right.

Maybe it was only a matter of time.

The Skyborne Citadel (Continued)

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, gripping his sword as he steadied himself. The sensation of falling, of being ripped through space and time, still lingered in his bones. The visions had been too real, too vivid to simply dismiss as an illusion. But he was back—here, standing before the Skyborne Citadel's grand entrance.

Seraphine was still watching him, her violet eyes searching his face. "What did you see?" she asked softly.

Rhaegar hesitated. How could he explain it? That he had fought himself? That he had seen a future where he lost everything—where he became everything he despised?

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

Seraphine frowned. "You're lying."

"Maybe," Rhaegar muttered, stepping forward. "But now isn't the time."

The Keeper watched them in silence before finally speaking. "You have passed the Trial of Truth."

Rhaegar clenched his fists. "And what does that mean?"

The Keeper gestured toward the towering gates of the Skyborne Citadel. They loomed above them, ancient runes glowing faintly along their golden surface. "It means you are one step closer to the throne."

A cold chuckle escaped Rhaegar. "I don't care about a throne."

"Liar," the Keeper said simply.

Rhaegar's gaze darkened. "I came here for power. Nothing else."

"And yet," the Keeper mused, tilting his head, "you fight so desperately against your own fate."

Rhaegar scowled, his fingers tightening around his sword's hilt. He didn't have time for this. He pushed past the Keeper, stepping toward the massive doors. As he did, the runes flared, the ancient magic within them reacting to his presence.

A deep rumbling shook the air.

The gates opened.

Beyond them stretched a grand hall—vast, lined with towering pillars of gleaming white stone. Banners of long-forgotten empires hung from the vaulted ceiling, their colors faded by time. Chandeliers of floating crystal illuminated the space with a soft, ethereal glow.

At the far end of the hall stood a throne.

Not black, not tarnished by shadows—but golden. Pure. Radiant.

It was unlike any throne Rhaegar had ever seen. It was not a seat of dominance, nor one of tyranny. It was a throne meant for a ruler who carried the weight of their people—not just their power.

Seraphine inhaled sharply beside him. "This place… it feels…"

"Holy," Rhaegar muttered. The very air hummed with energy, like the whispers of long-forgotten gods.

The Keeper stepped forward, his robes rustling. "This is the true throne. The Skyborne Throne. It was once ruled by the Eternal King, before time itself forgot his name."

Rhaegar's eyes remained locked on the golden seat. It felt distant, untouchable—meant for someone else.

Not him.

Never him.

The Keeper continued, his voice calm. "To claim the Skyborne Citadel, you must face its final trial."

Rhaegar's gaze snapped to him. "Another test?"

The Keeper smiled faintly. "You have conquered truth, but now you must face judgment."

Seraphine stiffened. "Judgment?"

The Keeper gestured toward the throne. "The spirits of the past rulers will decide if you are worthy."

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose. "And if I fail?"

"The Citadel will reject you."

Rhaegar's lips twisted. "Meaning?"

The Keeper's gaze did not waver. "You will not leave this place alive."

Silence stretched between them.

Seraphine turned to Rhaegar. "You don't have to do this. We can leave."

Rhaegar let out a quiet chuckle. "No, we can't."

Seraphine's expression hardened. "You're not a king, Rhaegar. You don't need their approval."

"That's not what this is about."

Seraphine crossed her arms. "Then what is it about?"

Rhaegar's jaw clenched. "Power."

Seraphine scoffed. "Liar."

Rhaegar looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his crimson eyes. "Maybe."

He stepped forward.

The moment his foot touched the floor before the throne, the air shifted.

A low hum filled the hall. The chandeliers flickered, their glow pulsing with an unseen force. The temperature dropped, and the shadows cast by the towering pillars seemed to move, stretching unnaturally.

And then—

They appeared.

Figures, translucent yet radiant, materialized around the throne. Kings, queens, warriors—all those who had once ruled the Skyborne Citadel. Their faces were solemn, their eyes aglow with celestial light.

One figure stepped forward. A woman, clad in silver and blue, a crown of starlight resting upon her brow. Her voice was like an echo of the wind.

"Why do you come before us, Rhaegar Crowne?"

Rhaegar met her gaze. "For power."

The spirits murmured among themselves.

The woman's expression did not change. "You seek power, yet you carry the weight of vengeance. Such desires have corrupted kings before you."

Rhaegar smirked. "And yet, you still sit on your throne while your kingdom is nothing but ruins."

The spirits stirred, whispers rising like wind through dead leaves.

The woman's gaze sharpened. "Arrogance does not make one worthy."

Rhaegar took another step forward. "Neither does blind idealism."

The woman studied him for a long moment. Then, she extended a hand.

The ground trembled.

A blinding light burst from the throne, swallowing the hall in its radiance. Rhaegar flinched but did not look away.

And then—

He was no longer in the Citadel.

He stood on a battlefield.

Corpses lay strewn across the ground, the scent of blood thick in the air. The sky was red with fire, the screams of the dying echoing in the distance.

And at the center of it all—

Himself.

Not the King of Ashes. Not a vision of the future.

But him, as he was now, standing over a broken body.

Asteria.

She was dying beneath him, blood pooling around her as she reached for him with trembling fingers.

"Rhaegar…" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

His sword was buried in her chest.

His hands were covered in her blood.

He staggered back.

"No," he whispered.

Asteria's violet eyes—so much like Seraphine's—begged for something he could not give.

Mercy.

The battlefield blurred.

He was back in the Citadel, his breath ragged. The spirits still watched him, their gazes unreadable.

The woman's voice was soft. "This is what your path will bring."

Rhaegar's hands shook.

But then—his eyes hardened.

Slowly, he exhaled. Then, he lifted his chin.

"And if I do not take this power?" he asked, voice steady.

The woman's gaze did not waver. "Then the world will break beneath the weight of those who will."

Rhaegar's heartbeat slowed.

A decision.

A throne.

A choice.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

He hesitated.

Rhaegar's breath came slow and measured, but his mind was anything but calm. The visions, the voices, the weight of judgment pressing upon his chest—it all threatened to consume him. The spirits of the Skyborne Citadel stood before him, waiting, their ethereal eyes piercing through every inch of his being.

The woman who had spoken—the Eternal Queen, the last ruler of this forsaken place—watched him with patience. Too much patience. As if she had seen countless souls before him make this very choice, and she already knew how it would end.

He hated that look.

"Your hesitation betrays you, Rhaegar Crowne," she finally said, her voice like the whisper of wind through hollow halls.

Rhaegar scoffed, shaking his head. "You show me a vision of a future I do not claim, then expect me to bow? To grovel at your feet, begging for redemption?" He sneered, taking a step forward. "I am not some foolish prince blinded by prophecy. Whatever fate you claim awaits me is not set in stone."

The Queen tilted her head, considering him. "Then tell me, Shadowborn King—what is it you truly desire?"

Rhaegar's fingers curled at his sides. A question so simple, yet so insidious.

Power. Revenge. Freedom. The words hovered on his lips, but they all felt… wrong. Incomplete. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

"I want to carve my own path," he said at last. "Not one dictated by prophecy, nor one dictated by fate."

The spirits whispered among themselves, their voices like rustling leaves. The Queen did not react immediately, merely studying him, as if weighing his very soul. Then, slowly, she descended the steps of the golden throne.

"You believe yourself free of fate's grasp," she murmured, her voice softer now. "And yet you carry the weight of vengeance like chains around your soul."

Rhaegar stilled. The words hit him harder than he expected.

Seraphine took a step closer, her gaze flickering between him and the Queen. "He doesn't need your riddles," she snapped. "If you want to test him, then do it. Otherwise, let us pass."

The Queen's violet eyes—too much like Asteria's—flickered toward Seraphine. "You are bold for one who walks beside a cursed king."

Seraphine lifted her chin. "And you are slow for a queen who claims to rule the skies."

For a moment, the Queen almost smiled. Almost.

Then, the chamber shifted.

The floor beneath them trembled, the golden light of the throne growing brighter. The air crackled with energy, and the very walls of the citadel seemed to pulse with life.

The spirits spoke in unison, their voices overlapping in a celestial echo.

"Face the judgment of kings."

A gust of wind slammed into Rhaegar. He staggered, but before he could regain his footing, the world around him fractured.

A new battlefield.

A new trial.

He stood upon a floating platform of stone and gold, suspended in the endless sky. Storm clouds churned below him, lightning crackling like caged fury.

And before him—

A figure materialized from the mist.

A warrior clad in gleaming armor, his face hidden behind a celestial mask. His blade shimmered with the light of the stars, ancient and unyielding.

The First King of the Skyborne Citadel.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Of course."

The First King raised his weapon, and without a single word, charged.

The force of his attack was like a comet crashing through the heavens. Rhaegar barely had time to parry, his boots skidding across the stone as he absorbed the impact. Sparks exploded where their blades met, the sheer force sending cracks through the floating platform beneath them.

Rhaegar twisted, using the momentum to swing his sword in a precise arc. The First King sidestepped, faster than he had any right to be, and retaliated with a downward slash.

Rhaegar dodged—barely.

The blade sliced through the stone where he had stood, splitting the very air apart.

Rhaegar's heart pounded. This wasn't like fighting mortals. This wasn't even like fighting the Forsaken King. This was something else entirely.

The First King moved with an elegance that defied nature, each strike calculated, each motion perfect. He was an ideal, an embodiment of everything Rhaegar had never been—and never would be.

But that didn't mean he would lose.

Rhaegar gritted his teeth, shifting his stance. Fine. If this was a battle of skill, then he would meet it head-on.

He surged forward.

Their blades clashed again, a dance of steel and fury. Rhaegar's attacks were relentless—vicious, unpredictable. But the First King countered each one with an ease that made Rhaegar's blood boil.

Then, in a single motion, the First King's blade slid past his defense.

Pain erupted in Rhaegar's side.

His vision blurred for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

The First King's foot slammed into his chest, sending him hurtling backward.

He crashed against the edge of the platform, nearly falling into the abyss below. His breathing was ragged, his body screaming in protest.

The First King lowered his blade, watching him. Waiting.

Rhaegar wiped the blood from his mouth, his fingers trembling. His grip on his sword was unsteady. The weight of his exhaustion threatened to pull him down.

But he did not yield.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet.

The First King tilted his head. "Why do you rise?" His voice was deep, resonant. "You are beaten."

Rhaegar let out a hoarse laugh. "Not yet."

The First King studied him for a moment longer. Then, to Rhaegar's surprise, he smiled.

"Good," he said simply.

And then, he vanished.

The battlefield collapsed.

The sky shattered into golden light, and Rhaegar found himself back in the grand hall of the Skyborne Citadel.

The spirits had gone. The Queen stood alone before the throne, watching him with an expression he could not place.

Rhaegar's breath was still heavy, his body aching from the battle that no longer existed.

"You pass," the Queen said at last.

Rhaegar lifted his gaze. "That's it?"

"You have proven you will not break," she said, nodding toward the throne. "Now, the choice is yours."

He looked at it.

The golden seat of power. The symbol of a kingdom that had long since crumbled.

He stepped forward.

And then, after a long pause—

He turned away.

Seraphine's eyes widened slightly. "Rhaegar?"

He kept walking. "We're leaving."

The Queen did not stop him.

Only when he reached the grand doors did she speak one final time.

"Then may the skies watch over you, King of Ashes."

Rhaegar did not look back.

The doors of the Skyborne Citadel closed behind him.

Rhaegar descended the steps of the grand chamber, his heartbeat still thrumming from the battle that had not been real—and yet had felt more real than anything he had faced before. His side still ached where the First King's blade had cut him, though there was no wound. No scar. Just the phantom pain of a fight that had tested more than just his body.

Seraphine walked beside him, silent. Too silent.

He didn't like it.

"Say it," he muttered, eyes locked forward.

Seraphine tilted her head, feigning ignorance. "Say what?"

"You think I should have taken the throne."

A smirk played on her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I don't think anything, Rhaegar. I just find it amusing that you were given the one thing you claim to desire—power—and you turned away from it."

He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. "A throne means nothing if it's built on ruins."

Seraphine arched a brow. "That never seemed to bother you before."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. He could feel her gaze digging into him, searching for something—weakness, doubt, hesitation. Whatever she was looking for, he refused to give it to her.

Finally, he turned to her, his expression unreadable. "The Skyborne Citadel is dead. A kingdom of ghosts cannot serve the living. I will not waste my time ruling over ashes."

Seraphine watched him for a long moment, as if weighing the truth in his words. Then, with a small shrug, she turned away. "If you say so."

Rhaegar didn't move. His eyes flickered back to the towering doors of the chamber they had just left.

The Queen had let him go. No resistance, no demands.

Why?

Something felt unfinished.

Before he could dwell on it further, a distant sound echoed through the citadel—the howling of the wind, sharp and piercing.

But it wasn't just the wind.

Rhaegar's grip on his sword tightened. "We're not alone."

Seraphine's hand drifted to her dagger, her posture shifting. "I know."

Then—a voice, raw and venomous, shattered the silence.

"You should have taken the throne, Shadowborn."

Rhaegar's blood ran cold.

The shadows at the far end of the hall twisted, unraveling like threads of darkness, and from their depths stepped a figure draped in tattered robes of midnight black.

The air grew heavier, thick with a familiar malice.

The Forsaken King.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. "I thought I told you to stay dead."

The Forsaken King grinned, his skeletal fingers twitching at his sides. "And yet here we are, boy. You walk free while I remain bound to this cursed place." His eyes glowed like dying embers. "How poetic."

Seraphine's blade was already in her hand. "You should have run while you had the chance."

The Forsaken King let out a dry chuckle. "Oh, child, you think me a fool?" His gaze flickered back to Rhaegar. "I was watching. I saw your choice. And I must say… disappointing."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "You expected me to take the throne?"

"I expected you to embrace what you are," the Forsaken King hissed. "You call yourself a king, yet you turned away from a kingdom that was yours for the taking. Do you not see the irony?"

Rhaegar smirked. "And do you not see the irony in a dead king lecturing me about power?"

The Forsaken King's expression darkened. The very air seemed to tremble, shadows curling at his feet like serpents. "You mock me, but you do not understand what you have thrown away. The Skyborne Citadel was more than a throne. It was a weapon. A force unlike any other. And now it will remain here, rotting in the sky, because you were too much of a coward to claim it."

Rhaegar took a slow step forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"I am not a coward."

The shadows coiled tighter around the Forsaken King, his form flickering like a dying flame. "Then prove it."

A pulse of dark energy rippled through the air.

The walls trembled. The floor beneath them cracked.

The Forsaken King lunged.

Rhaegar was already moving. His blade clashed against the twisted steel of the Forsaken King's weapon, the impact sending sparks flying. The force of the strike pushed him back, boots scraping against stone.

Seraphine moved like a shadow, her dagger flashing toward the Forsaken King's ribs.

He twisted unnaturally, inhumanly, avoiding the strike with ease. His skeletal fingers snapped forward, catching Seraphine by the throat.

She choked, kicking against him, but his grip was like iron.

Rhaegar's vision burned red.

He didn't think. He moved.

His blade sliced through the Forsaken King's arm, severing it at the elbow.

The creature let out a horrid screech, dropping Seraphine as black mist bled from the wound.

Seraphine coughed, stumbling back, but her eyes were fierce. "That's twice you've saved me today. If this becomes a habit, I might start thinking you actually care."

Rhaegar didn't respond. His focus was on the Forsaken King, who had already begun to reform, his missing limb stitching itself back together like living darkness.

This was a fight they couldn't win. Not here. Not now.

Rhaegar stepped in front of Seraphine, raising his blade. "We're leaving."

The Forsaken King grinned. "Running already?"

Rhaegar's lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

"I don't run. I retreat strategically."

The Forsaken King snarled, lunging once more—

But Rhaegar was faster.

He raised his free hand, muttering a single word.

A pulse of raw power erupted from his palm, slamming into the Forsaken King's chest like a hammer of pure force. The creature was sent hurtling backward, crashing into the far wall.

Rhaegar didn't wait to see if he would rise again.

He grabbed Seraphine's wrist, yanking her toward the exit. "Move."

They ran.

Through the crumbling halls, past the shattered remains of the citadel's past. The shadows chased them, the echoes of curses ringing in their ears.

By the time they reached the outer bridge, the storm had thickened, lightning splitting the sky. The path back to their own world was closing.

Rhaegar didn't hesitate.

With a final glance back at the Skyborne Citadel, he stepped through the threshold—

And into the unknown.

The cold wind lashed against Rhaegar's face as he and Seraphine emerged from the collapsing citadel. The sky above them was a vast abyss of swirling storm clouds, the once-majestic floating kingdom now nothing more than a crumbling ruin behind them.

They had barely made it out.

Seraphine clutched her ribs, her breathing labored. "Tell me we're never coming back here," she muttered.

Rhaegar didn't answer immediately. His eyes were still locked on the towering spires of the Skyborne Citadel, the place that had nearly become his grave. Again.

He clenched his fists. "We're not done here."

Seraphine scoffed. "Oh, we're done. More than done. That thing in there—" she pointed back toward the ruins, "—isn't something we can just 'deal with' and walk away. The Forsaken King can't die. You saw it yourself."

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "Everything can die."

Seraphine studied him for a moment before shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"I'm alive."

"Barely."

The air around them was thick with tension. Even with the Forsaken King behind them, the weight of what had transpired hung between them like a noose. Rhaegar had been given the power to rule—to take the throne of an ancient empire—and he had walked away.

Seraphine had questions.

But for now, they had bigger problems.

The wind picked up, and the ground beneath them shuddered as the bridge leading back to their world began to destabilize. Cracks spread across the ancient stone like veins of lightning.

Rhaegar gritted his teeth. "Move!"

They sprinted forward, dodging the crumbling path beneath them. The storm howled in protest, as if the very world was trying to keep them trapped inside the citadel's cursed domain.

Seraphine nearly stumbled, but Rhaegar caught her by the arm, steadying her before she could fall into the abyss below.

"Don't get sentimental now," she muttered, though her grip on his wrist tightened.

They pushed forward, their steps quickening as the portal at the end of the bridge flickered.

Rhaegar could hear something behind them.

A whisper. A voice. A curse.

You cannot run from me, Shadowborn…

The Forsaken King's presence clawed at his spine, cold and unrelenting. Rhaegar refused to look back.

They leaped through the portal just as the last of the bridge crumbled into nothingness.

The Return to the Castle

The moment Rhaegar's boots hit solid ground, he staggered forward, chest heaving. The oppressive storm of the citadel was gone, replaced by the familiar gloom of his own castle's stone halls.

Seraphine wasn't faring much better. She leaned against the nearest wall, dragging a trembling hand through her hair. "I hate magic doors," she muttered.

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, straightening. "We made it."

Seraphine shot him a glare. "For now."

The air inside the castle was still—unnervingly so. The torches lining the corridor flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows along the stone walls.

Rhaegar frowned. "Something's wrong."

Seraphine pulled her dagger free. "You just noticed?"

They moved carefully through the corridors, their footsteps muffled against the stone.

Then—a sound.

A slow, deliberate clap.

Rhaegar and Seraphine froze.

From the darkness ahead, a figure emerged, dressed in black and silver, his smirk barely visible beneath the dim torchlight.

"Welcome home, my king," the man drawled.

Rhaegar's expression darkened. "Varian."

Varian stepped forward, arms crossed. "You've been gone for quite some time. The court's been… restless."

Rhaegar didn't break his gaze. "And you're here to welcome me back?"

Varian's smirk widened. "Let's just say I've been keeping things interesting in your absence."

Seraphine stepped beside Rhaegar, dagger still in hand. "Oh, I bet you have," she muttered.

Varian chuckled, his gaze flickering between the two of them. "I assume your little excursion was fruitful?" His eyes gleamed. "Did you find what you were looking for, my lord?"

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt. "Not yet."

Varian hummed. "A shame." He tilted his head. "Then again, perhaps you didn't need to leave at all."

Rhaegar's patience thinned. "Say what you mean."

Varian grinned. "Oh, I just find it amusing, my king, that while you were off chasing ghosts, your kingdom was left… vulnerable."

Rhaegar's pulse spiked. His kingdom.

"What did you do?"

Varian's smile never faltered. "Not much. Just ensured that certain… factions saw an opportunity in your absence."

Rhaegar took a slow step forward. "If you let anyone set foot inside these walls—"

"Oh, please," Varian interrupted. "Give me some credit. I would never betray you so openly. No, the real danger isn't inside these walls."

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "It's out there. And it's coming."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Rhaegar's fingers twitched. "Who?"

Varian chuckled, his eyes gleaming. "You'll see soon enough."

Rhaegar's patience snapped. "Enough with your riddles, Varian. Tell me—"

Suddenly, a bell tolled in the distance.

The castle shuddered.

Rhaegar and Seraphine turned sharply toward the sound.

Varian's smirk widened. "Ah. There they are."

Rhaegar's gaze snapped back to him. "Who?"

Varian simply laughed.

And outside the castle walls, in the darkened horizon, the fires of an approaching army began to rise.

The distant tolling of the bell reverberated through the stone corridors, a sound that carried both urgency and doom. Rhaegar's breath came slow and measured as he turned his gaze from Varian to the darkened windows of his castle. Beyond them, faint glows of fire bloomed against the night.

An army.

A force marching toward his gates.

Seraphine shifted beside him, her grip tightening on the hilt of her dagger. "You bastard," she muttered, her voice low with warning.

Varian's smirk didn't falter. "Now, now. No need for insults. I did warn you, didn't I?"

Rhaegar stepped forward, the flickering torchlight casting his shadow long against the stone floor. His voice was steady, but beneath it, the promise of wrath simmered.

"You invited them here," he said, his words slow, deliberate.

Varian lifted a brow. "Oh, I wouldn't say invited. More like… didn't stop them."

Seraphine let out a sharp breath, her dagger flashing as she pointed it at him. "And why, exactly, shouldn't we gut you where you stand?"

Varian's smirk deepened. "Because, my dear, I am the only one who knows exactly what they want."

Rhaegar clenched his fists. The flickering light caught the sharp lines of his face, his expression unreadable. "Then start talking," he ordered.

Varian chuckled. "You always were so demanding, my king."

"Varian."

The amusement in his eyes didn't fade, but there was something else beneath it now. Calculation. Control. He knew he held the upper hand, and he was savoring it.

"The army outside," Varian began, "isn't just any force. It's the remnants of the old empire—the ones who still believe the throne belongs to them." He tilted his head. "And they have a very particular reason for coming here tonight."

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "The Forsaken King."

Varian snapped his fingers. "Correct. Word travels fast, you see. Rumors of your little adventure have reached the wrong ears. They know what you've found… or rather, what you've failed to contain."

Seraphine cursed under her breath. "So what? They think they can control him?"

Varian shrugged. "They think they can use him. And if they succeed…" His eyes gleamed. "Well, let's just say your reign will be a very short one."

The air grew heavier.

Outside, the distant rumble of war drums began.

Seraphine turned to Rhaegar. "What's the plan?"

Rhaegar didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained locked on the growing fires beyond the windows, the silhouette of the approaching army painted against the night sky.

Varian watched him, intrigued. "Well? Shall we surrender?"

Rhaegar's lips curled into a humorless smile. "I hope you're not expecting mercy."

Varian's chuckle was soft. "Oh, I never do."

Rhaegar turned sharply. "Summon the war council," he commanded. "Wake the generals. Prepare the defenses."

Seraphine nodded, immediately striding down the corridor to relay his orders.

Varian sighed dramatically. "And here I was hoping for a warm welcome."

Rhaegar shot him a glare. "You have exactly one chance to prove you're still useful. If you fail…" His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "I will personally make sure you regret it."

Varian smirked but didn't argue. "Understood."

The distant war drums grew louder.

The storm was coming.

The war drums outside pounded with an unforgiving rhythm, echoing through the stone halls of the citadel like a heartbeat of impending doom. The flickering torchlight illuminated Rhaegar's sharp features as he strode toward the council chamber, his cloak billowing behind him. Every step he took was calculated, controlled, yet beneath that carefully maintained exterior, a storm of fury raged.

Varian followed lazily, hands tucked behind his back, his eyes gleaming with amusement despite the impending siege. To him, war was nothing but a game—an elaborate puzzle where the pieces bled and kingdoms crumbled at the wrong move.

Seraphine moved swiftly beside Rhaegar, her fingers twitching at the hilt of her dagger, her every muscle coiled like a predator ready to strike. She had always been sharp-tongued, quick to anger, but tonight, her silence was heavier than any blade. Her eyes burned with the weight of unspoken curses.

They reached the council chamber. The great oak doors creaked open, revealing a round table already occupied by the highest-ranking commanders of Rhaegar's forces. The tension in the room was palpable. Maps were strewn across the table, and figures moved across them like shadows—kingdoms, fortresses, rivers of blood drawn in ink before they could be written in war.

The commanders straightened at Rhaegar's arrival, their gazes locking onto him with unwavering focus. They had seen him bleed, fight, and burn entire cities to the ground, but tonight, there was something different in his stance—something colder. A king who had returned from the abyss, untouched by death, yet carrying its presence within him.

He did not sit. Instead, he placed both hands on the table, leaning forward as his piercing gaze swept across the gathered warriors.

"They are at our gates," he said, voice low but thunderous in its intensity. "A force that believes they can reclaim what was never theirs to begin with."

Silence followed, but not one of uncertainty. It was the silence of wolves waiting for their leader's signal to hunt.

One of the generals, a grizzled man named Corvin, cleared his throat. "We've scouted their numbers. They are not a mere raiding party. They come with siege weapons, trained soldiers—this is not an act of desperation."

Seraphine scoffed. "So they really think they can control the Forsaken King?"

Another commander, Lady Veyra, shook her head. "No. They don't just want to control him. They want to use him to break Rhaegar." Her sharp eyes flickered to the king. "They think you're weakened after your battle."

A slow, humorless smirk tugged at Rhaegar's lips. "Then let them come."

Varian chuckled, stepping forward. "Oh, I do love a good show of arrogance, but let's not be reckless, shall we? There's a thin line between bravery and stupidity."

Rhaegar's eyes snapped to him, and the flickering torchlight cast his gaze in molten gold. "You would know all about stupidity, wouldn't you?"

Varian grinned. "A fair point."

Seraphine exhaled sharply. "Enough of this. We don't have time for your games, Varian." She turned to Rhaegar. "What's the strategy?"

Rhaegar lifted his hand and traced his finger across the map. His voice was steady, controlled, but beneath the surface, there was an edge sharper than the steel at his waist.

"They expect us to barricade ourselves," he said. "To hold the gates, to fight like desperate men defending the last of their kingdom. That is where they will fail."

Lady Veyra's brow arched. "Then what do you suggest?"

Rhaegar's gaze flickered upward, and for a moment, a flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. "We let them in."

A beat of silence. Then:

Corvin frowned. "Let them in?"

Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "Are you insane?"

Varian let out a delighted laugh. "Now this is interesting."

Rhaegar's voice remained firm. "They have come expecting a siege. Expecting to break down our walls, expecting to fight their way inside. But what happens when they are not the invaders, but the ones trapped?"

The realization dawned across the room. Lady Veyra inhaled sharply. "You want to lure them in and close the gates behind them."

Rhaegar nodded. "Once they are inside, they will be disoriented. The castle is not a city—it is a labyrinth. There will be no open battlefield, no siege lines. We will bleed them from the inside, crush them before they even realize they have already lost."

A slow, cruel smile spread across Seraphine's lips. "I like it."

Corvin grunted. "Risky, but effective. And what of the Forsaken King? What if they succeed in freeing him?"

Rhaegar's fingers curled into a fist against the table. "Then I will end him myself."

The torches crackled in the ensuing silence.

It was a reckless plan. Dangerous. Unforgiving. A single misstep could mean their downfall.

But none of them doubted Rhaegar's resolve.

Seraphine smirked. "Then we'd better make sure they never make it out alive."

Varian placed a hand over his heart. "Oh, how I do love a good massacre."

Rhaegar ignored him. His gaze swept over his commanders. "Prepare the traps. I want every corridor lined with defenses. Funnel them through the narrowest halls. They will have the advantage in numbers—we will make sure they never get to use it."

The warriors exchanged glances before nodding in agreement.

Lady Veyra stepped forward. "And the Forsaken King? If they unleash him before we can cut them down?"

A shadow passed over Rhaegar's face.

Then he said, voice cold as the grave, "Then I will burn this entire citadel to the ground before I let him walk free again."

Silence.

Seraphine exhaled, shaking her head. "You're really willing to destroy everything just to keep him buried?"

Rhaegar's gaze was unwavering. "I am willing to do whatever it takes."

Varian whistled. "Well, if that doesn't make for a dramatic finale, I don't know what does."

Rhaegar turned away from the table. "Then let's make sure it never comes to that."

With that, he strode toward the doors, his cloak trailing behind him.

Outside, the war drums thundered louder.

The enemy was at the gates.

And Rhaegar Crowne was ready.

The war drums outside the citadel pounded like a heart on the verge of bursting. The distant shouts of soldiers, the clanking of armor, and the slow, steady creak of siege engines moving into position sent ripples through the air. The night was alive with tension, and in the great hall, Rhaegar's mind was sharper than ever.

As the council dispersed, each commander set off to carry out his orders, leaving only Seraphine and Varian behind. They remained by his side as he gazed over the flickering candlelit map of the castle's inner chambers.

Seraphine crossed her arms. "You're playing a dangerous game, Rhaegar."

He didn't look at her, only traced his finger along the map where the corridors narrowed like veins leading to a heart. "Every war is a dangerous game. The ones who hesitate are the ones who are buried beneath their own hesitation."

Varian smirked. "True, but there's a difference between being fearless and being suicidal. The Forsaken King is not a foe you can take lightly."

Rhaegar's fingers clenched into a fist over the parchment. "He is a relic of an age long past. I will not let him rise again."

Seraphine exhaled, shaking her head. "You don't sound convinced."

His golden eyes flicked to her, sharp and piercing. "What do you want me to say? That I fear him? That I wake in cold sweats imagining what he could do if he was free?" He scoffed. "I do not fear him, Seraphine. I despise him."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Hate and fear are different sides of the same coin."

Varian clapped his hands together. "Well, this is getting delightfully grim. But as much as I'd love to dwell on the emotional complexities of your deep-seated vendetta, we do have an army outside, don't we?"

A loud boom echoed through the halls as something heavy struck the outer walls. Dust rained from the high ceilings.

"They've begun their assault," Seraphine said grimly.

Rhaegar stepped away from the map and moved toward the balcony, pushing the heavy doors open. The night air was sharp and cold against his skin. From this vantage point, he could see the enemy's torches like a sea of fire stretching into the horizon. Siege towers lumbered forward, their iron reinforcements glinting under the moonlight.

A trebuchet launched a flaming projectile, and the impact against the stone sent vibrations deep into the castle's bones.

Seraphine came to stand beside him. "They're bringing everything they have."

Rhaegar's lips curled in a grim smile. "Let them."

Behind them, Varian chuckled. "I do love your arrogance. It's the only thing more unyielding than those walls."

Rhaegar turned, his cloak swirling behind him. "Take your positions. We hold until the gates open."

Seraphine nodded, her dagger glinting as she disappeared down the corridor. Varian, for once, looked vaguely serious. "Try not to die before the real fun begins," he said before vanishing into the shadows.

Rhaegar remained, standing alone against the wind.

The enemy was here.

And the Forsaken King would never be free again.

The battle outside raged with an intensity that sent tremors through the very foundation of the citadel. Flaming arrows streaked across the sky like falling stars, crashing into the ramparts with violent bursts of fire. The clash of steel, the screams of dying men, and the relentless pounding of the battering ram against the main gates created a symphony of chaos.

Rhaegar remained on the balcony for a moment longer, watching as his forces held the walls. His soldiers fought with unwavering determination, meeting the invaders with blades sharp enough to carve through plate armor. The trebuchets on the castle's upper levels retaliated, launching massive stones that sent enemy siege towers crumbling like brittle bones.

A messenger sprinted into the hall, panting heavily. "Your Majesty! The southern wall is holding, but the main gates won't last much longer!"

Rhaegar turned, his golden eyes burning with resolve. "Then we let them in."

The messenger blinked in shock. "But—"

"They expect us to hold them back. They expect a desperate defense," Rhaegar cut in. "But we will meet them on our terms, within the castle walls, where their numbers mean nothing."

The messenger hesitated before nodding and rushing off to relay the order.

As Rhaegar turned back to the battlefield, his lips curled into a cold, predatory smile.

"Let them come."

Rhaegar whispered, "Tonight, the Forsaken fall. Let them taste true despair now."