Chapter Fifteen: The Crown That Waits

The chamber echoed with silence as Althar rose to his feet, every breath tasting like lightning.

The crown remained where it was—resting atop the plinth of ancient stone—yet he no longer saw it as an object. He felt it, like a presence woven into the air, bound to his heartbeat. It had spoken to him. Not in words, not exactly, but through vision, memory, and a pressure behind his eyes that still hadn't eased.

Rorek stepped forward warily. "You alright?"

Althar's voice was steady. "I saw something. A kingdom made of flame. A war not written in our history." He paused, flexing his hands. "I saw myself at its center."

"Another life?" Idria asked, kneeling beside the plinth. She studied the runes glowing faintly around its base. "This magic predates the known age. This crown isn't just enchanted—it's anchored. Bound to blood and memory."

Kael remained by the entrance, bow in hand, silent as ever.

Althar gazed at the crown again. "It didn't ask for obedience. It recognized me."

"And yet," Rorek said, narrowing his eyes, "you didn't take it."

"No," Althar replied. "Because I already bear its mark."

He pulled aside the collar of his shirt. There, above his heart, glowed a faint brand: the same symbol from the plinth—a flame encircled by chains, newly seared into his skin.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

"Then we're dealing with more than forgotten ruins," Idria whispered. "We're standing in a tomb built for a king that never truly died."

They left the ruins that evening, but not without consequence. As they rode away from the valley, the land behind them seemed to shift—the mist thickened, the trees grew still, and the light dimmed unnaturally fast. Whatever they had disturbed had not gone unnoticed.

That night, Althar didn't dream. Instead, he lay awake, staring at the stars, his pulse echoing with the rhythm of the crown.

The visions had shown him fire, war, and thrones not built of stone, but of living magic. And now, with each step he took, he felt as though he were being drawn toward something ancient and unfinished.

The next day, they returned to the capital.

Althar entered the throne hall in silence. The vast chamber was empty but for the advisors awaiting his return, kneeling by the edge of the crimson carpet. He dismissed them with a word, his voice firmer, more resonant than before. They bowed and withdrew quickly, sensing the shift in their king.

He climbed the steps to his throne and stood before it. A simple chair of darkwood, draped in velvet and iron. Familiar, mundane.

And now… unworthy.

The echo of the obsidian throne in his vision haunted him. That ancient seat had not been forged for mortals. It had been forged for kings who commanded more than armies.

Althar wasn't sure what that made him now.

Rorek stood at the base of the stairs. "If word spreads about what we found, there'll be unrest. Nobles already squabble over your 'foreign' bloodline. Add magic to that…"

"They won't hear a word of it," Althar said. "Not yet."

"And the crown?"

"It stays hidden. For now."

Rorek's frown deepened, but he nodded. "We've had messengers from the east. A delegation from the Kingdom of Ilvaren requests an audience. Their princess comes with them."

Althar turned slowly. "Why?"

"They claim it's a gesture of peace. I think they smell weakness."

"Then they'll learn otherwise."

"And the girl?" Rorek asked. "The healer?"

Althar hesitated. The question struck deeper than expected. "What about her?"

"She's been asking to see you. She won't say why."

Althar looked away. He remembered her eyes—gentle, terrified, honest. She had touched him, not with magic, but something stronger. Something human.

Emotion.

"I'll speak with her," he said finally. "After the delegation is dealt with."

Rorek bowed. "As you command."

That evening, before the torches were lit, Althar stood alone at his balcony overlooking the capital. The city bustled below—alive, unaware of the storm brewing in the cracks of the world.

His fingers brushed the faint brand over his heart.

The world believed him to be a cold king reborn.

But he was starting to feel things that terrified him more than any war—fear, longing… and something like purpose.

Not for conquest.

But for truth.

The flame inside him burned steady.

And the crown beneath the mountain was waiting.