The Crownless City
They stepped out of the tower.
But it was no longer where they'd entered.
No longer a valley.
No longer bones.
They stood now upon a plain of glass, stretching endlessly in all directions — and beneath the glass, they saw a city: upside-down, crawling, flickering, screaming without sound. A city built for gods that had been uncrowned.
Towers pierced the mirrored sky below, suspended by invisible chains.
Every building flickered in and out of reality, as though unsure whether it still existed — or ever did.
Leshra shivered.
"This place remembers," she whispered.
Elías nodded.
"No — it refuses to forget."
---
The glass beneath their feet was warm.
Alive.
Every step left behind a word, glowing faintly for a few seconds before sinking into silence.
Verrun tried to write something — just a single curse — but the glass rejected it.
Only Elías' footsteps remained.
"You're marked," Tirian said quietly.
"I think I always was," Elías replied.
---
In the distance, a cathedral of roots rose.
It pulsed, not with light, but with memory. Vines of ink slithered along its walls. Bells rang — but the sound was inverted, echoing before they rang.
"That's where we're going," Elías said.
"How do you know?" Leshra asked.
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know how he knew.
But the feather in his hand whispered in tiny arcs of static. And he followed.
---
They reached the gate.
It wasn't locked.
It was sealed with silence.
A phrase hung over it, half-formed and bleeding syllables into the air:
"To enter is to be rewritten."
Tirian placed his hand against the door.
It took something from him.
He didn't know what — only that it was gone.
But he stepped through anyway.
They all did.
---
Inside was light.
But not brightness.
Just the illusion of it.
The halls bent around them, lined with statues with no faces. Some were weeping. Others screamed without mouths. Some held swords. Others held their own hearts.
One statue moved.
Just a twitch.
But it moved.
They didn't stop.
---
Deeper inside, the cathedral began to shift.
The walls read them.
Each corridor changed shape depending on who walked first. When Verrun led, the walls became crimson, lined with teeth. When Leshra took the front, the stones turned black, and the ceiling lowered. When Tirian stepped forward, everything stopped breathing for a moment.
But when Elías led…
The cathedral opened.
As if it recognized him.
Or remembered him.
---
At the center, a throne of ink waited.
Empty.
Its arms dripped forgotten names.
Its seat was made of first drafts — versions of kings that never ruled, heroes that never rose, prophets who failed before speaking.
Floating above it: a crown.
But not gold.
Not metal.
Not even matter.
It was a concept.
The idea of rulership — pure, dangerous, impossible.
And it watched them.
---
"You shouldn't be here," a voice said.
They turned.
A man stood behind the throne.
Not old.
Not young.
Wearing robes made from erased laws, his face constantly changing — flickering between versions of itself: Elías as a child, as a monster, as a god, as nothing.
He was not Elías.
He was what Elías might become.
---
"Who are you?" Elías asked.
The man smiled — a sad, crooked smile that had bitten too many truths.
"I am the Crownless."
---
The throne trembled.
The crown lowered slightly — not offering itself, but threatening.
"You are not ready," the Crownless said.
"Then why am I here?" Elías asked.
The Crownless approached. His footsteps left behind fragments of failed worlds.
"Because the story brought you. Not because it wants you. But because it needs you."
Elías clenched the feather in his hand.
"Then tell me what it wants."
The Crownless tilted his head.
"No. It wants you to write that."
---
A silence followed.
Heavy. Hollow. Binding.
Then Leshra stepped forward.
"What is this place?"
The Crownless turned to her.
"This… is where kings come to die before they rule."
He walked to the side of the throne and pointed to the glass beneath them.
"Below us sleeps the city that never crowned its god. A people who rejected their prophecy. A war never fought. A hope never born."
Tirian looked at the others.
"Why bring us here?"
The Crownless' gaze rested on Elías.
"To ask him one question."
---
He turned to Elías fully now.
And asked:
"If the crown costs your soul, will you still wear it?"
---
The throne pulsed.
The crown dropped lower.
The feather in Elías' hand began to bleed ink.
---
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Because he wasn't sure the question had an answer.
Not one that would matter.
Not one he'd survive.
---
Question for the reader:If offered a throne built on your own erasure — would you sit upon it… or burn it down?