The Throne Was Never Empty

The ruins shuddered beneath them.

A deep, echoing groan rolled through the chamber, like something ancient and buried was waking up.

Ophelia staggered back, clutching the book to her chest as cracks split through the stone floor. A gust of wind—**cold, unnatural, suffocating—**rushed past her, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something older than time.

Above, the fractured ceiling trembled.

Dust rained from the cracks, spiraling down like a storm of ash.

And then—

A voice.

Low. Hollow. Not a whisper, not the Forgotten.

Something else.

"Who sits upon my throne?"

Ophelia's breath caught.

The sound came from nowhere and everywhere. A voice that did not belong to a body, a voice that had been trapped beneath the weight of centuries.

She turned to Zoriel.

He stood rigid, his golden eyes burning in the dim light. But he did not answer.

He was listening.

Remembering.

The runes along the walls—**the ones that had flickered to life when they entered—**began to change.

The golden glow bled into deep crimson, curling and twisting like veins of living fire.

The symbols—once silent—were speaking now.

A warning.

Ophelia felt it before she understood it.

The air grew thick, heavy, pressing down on her skin like unseen hands. The weight of something unseen, something waiting to be acknowledged.

"Who sits upon my throne?"

The voice came again. Demanding. Waiting.

She swallowed hard, her heart hammering.

No one had sat upon it.

No one had touched it.

But Zoriel—he had stood before it.

He had remembered.

And perhaps, that was enough.

⸻

The Ruins Break Open

A crack split through the chamber floor.

Then another.

Then another.

The ruins shook violently, as if something was clawing its way up from beneath them.

Ophelia stumbled, barely catching herself against the broken stone.

Zoriel moved sharply, stepping in front of her as the shadows around the throne began to twist.

The air darkened.

Something was forming.

Something was coming.

The runes flared, casting eerie, blood-red light across the chamber. The throne—**once cold and lifeless—**began to hum, the black stone vibrating under some unseen force.

Then—

A figure rose from the darkness.

⸻

The Phantom King

It was not human.

At first, it had no form—just a writhing mass of shadow and smoke, shifting and stretching against the ruins like a mirage caught between worlds.

Then, slowly, it began to take shape.

A tall frame.

Broad shoulders.

A crown of jagged black metal, half-buried in the haze.

And then—its eyes.

Two empty voids sat where they should have burned gold. Not alive. Not dead.

Something in between.

Ophelia's stomach turned to ice.

It was a specter. A phantom of what had once been.

A king who had never truly left his throne.

It raised its head, the movement slow, deliberate.

And then—it looked at Zoriel.

Recognition flashed in its hollow gaze.

And for the first time, Zoriel spoke.

"I know you."

The words echoed through the chamber.

And the specter smiled.

⸻

A Name Long Buried

The ruins convulsed.

The shadows twisted.

The air crackled, the weight of the past pressing heavier and heavier against Ophelia's chest.

The phantom did not move.

But it spoke.

"I remember you, too."

Its voice was low and distant, like an echo traveling through time.

Zoriel's jaw tightened. His fingers curled at his sides, and for the first time, Ophelia saw something flicker behind his golden eyes.

A shadow of recognition.

"You were my advisor," he murmured. "Before the war. Before the fall."

The specter's smile widened.

"I was more than that."

Ophelia's pulse spiked.

The phantom took a slow step forward. The floor beneath it did not crack—it dissolved.

It was not bound to this world.

But it was still here.

"You were a king once."

Zoriel did not respond.

"And now, you are nothing."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

Ophelia saw it then—the way Zoriel's hands clenched, the way his breath slowed.

This specter—**whoever he had been—**was speaking the truth.

Zoriel had once ruled.

And now, he was a ghost of his own kingdom.

Her throat tightened.

"You knew," she whispered.

Zoriel finally turned to look at her.

"You knew that someone was still here."

His silence confirmed it.

Ophelia's chest ached.

Zoriel had remembered before they even entered the ruins.

Not everything. Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to know that something—**someone—**had never left this place.

And now, it was awake.

⸻

The War That Never Ended

The specter's gaze flickered between them.

"You were meant to stay buried, my king."

A sharp pulse of power rippled through the air, making the stone walls shudder.

The light of the runes faltered.

The cracks in the ceiling spread.

Zoriel stepped forward.

"So were you," he said.

The specter laughed.

A hollow, fractured sound.

"And yet, here we are."

The ground heaved beneath them.

The ruins were no longer stable.

Ophelia felt it in her bones.

They had awakened something they should not have.

The past was no longer just a memory.

It was here. Now. Breathing. Moving.

She clutched the book against her chest, forcing herself to speak.

"Who are you?"

The specter turned its hollow gaze toward her.

It did not hesitate.

"I am the one who ended a kingdom."

The words cut like a blade.

The ceiling cracked open.

Dust and stone rained from above.

The ruins were collapsing.

Zoriel's eyes flashed.

Ophelia felt his power surge through the air, heat rippling off his skin as the shadows tightened around him.

The specter only smiled.

"I killed you once, Zoriel."

"And I will do it again."

Then—

The ruins gave way.

The world fell apart.

And they plunged into the dark.