The Throne of the Forgotten

A cold wind whispered through the ruins, though no breeze should have been able to reach this far underground. The air carried a scent of ash and something old—older than the stones beneath their feet, older than the very kingdom of Seraphis itself.

Ophelia clutched her lantern tighter as she and Zoriel stepped deeper into the cavernous ruins, their footsteps muted by the thick layer of dust coating the floor. The passage they followed had no visible end, its walls lined with ancient markings that pulsed faintly, like dying embers struggling to hold onto their last flickers of warmth.

Something about this place felt wrong—not just forgotten, but erased. As if it was never meant to be remembered.

Zoriel, walking slightly ahead of her, suddenly stopped. His golden eyes, reflecting the dim light, were locked on something at the far end of the chamber.

A door.

But not just any door.

It was blackened stone, smooth and seamless, with no visible hinges or handles. Its surface bore symbols Ophelia had never seen before—sigils that twisted and flickered as if refusing to be understood.

This was no ordinary ruin.

And then—the ground trembled.

⸻

A Door That Should Never Be Opened

Ophelia instinctively reached for Zoriel's arm. "What is this place?" she whispered.

He didn't answer immediately. His jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists. He was remembering something.

"I don't know," he said at last, but his voice was strained, uncertain. "But I feel like I do."

Before she could respond, the sigils on the door flared to life.

Not with fire. Not with light.

With shadow.

The symbols twisted and distorted, pulling inward, their glow flickering erratically—like a dying star just before collapse.

A deep hum resonated from within, a sound Ophelia felt more than heard, vibrating in her bones.

And then—

The door vanished.

Not opened. Not broken.

Just… gone.

And beyond it, in the darkness that stretched impossibly far—

Something moved.

⸻

The Chamber of the Forgotten

The air inside was different—thick, suffocating, ancient. Ophelia's pulse quickened as she stepped through the doorway after Zoriel, the cavern beyond impossibly vast.

Massive stone monoliths, cracked with age, rose like skeletal fingers from the earth. Their surfaces were covered in markings similar to those on the door, but here, they were more erratic, more desperate—as if someone had carved them in a hurry.

And then she saw it.

A throne.

It wasn't grand like the royal seat in Seraphis. It wasn't adorned in gold or encrusted with jewels.

It was simple, cracked, and dark as night.

But it hummed with power.

Something about it called to Zoriel.

She could see it in the way he stared at it—as if he had seen it before.

And then—a whisper.

"You should not have come."

Ophelia froze.

The voice didn't belong to Zoriel. It didn't belong to her.

It belonged to the shadows.

⸻

A Name Erased From Time

Dark figures began to emerge from the edges of the chamber. They wore flowing black robes, their faces hidden behind shifting veils of shadow. Their movements were silent, weightless, as if they were not entirely part of this world.

Their eyes—if they had any—were nothing but endless black voids.

"You should not be here."

The voice wasn't spoken. It was felt.

Ophelia's fingers clenched around her lantern. She could feel something cold brushing against her mind, like fingers searching for a way in.

Then Zoriel spoke. His voice was calm—too calm.

"You erased me."

A ripple passed through the chamber. The figures did not move. But something shifted.

And then, as if the world itself had torn apart—

The throne was no longer empty.

A figure sat upon it.

His posture was regal, but his presence was wrong.

His eyes—golden.

His face—Zoriel's.

But older. Colder.

"I am the first king, the last king. The one who should not have been."

Ophelia felt the weight of those words settle over them, pressing down like a heavy fog.

The ground trembled.

The walls cracked.

The very air shivered.

Because now, Zoriel remembered.

And reality itself was breaking.

⸻

The Rift in Memory

The chamber began to collapse. The monoliths cracked apart, the symbols flickering like dying embers. The figures in black robes did not retreat. They simply watched.

Because this wasn't just a ruin.

This was a sealed memory.

And it was unraveling.

"Zoriel!" Ophelia reached for him, but he didn't move. He was locked in place, staring at the throne—at himself.

Then the shadows surged forward.

Ophelia felt a force wrap around her chest, pulling her away. She struggled, gasped—

And then—

Darkness.

⸻

The Fall of Memory

When she opened her eyes, she was back in the ruins.

The chamber was gone. The door—sealed shut once more.

She gasped for breath, cold sweat clinging to her skin. Her lantern flickered weakly beside her.

Zoriel stood nearby, silent.

But something was different.

His golden eyes—once warm, once human—now flickered with something else.

Something ancient.

Something no longer fully his own.

Ophelia whispered, "Zoriel?"

He met her gaze.

And for the first time—he looked afraid.

Because now, he knew the truth.

And the Forgotten would not let him keep it.