The Throne That Devours

The silence did not end.

It thickened.

Grew teeth.

Began to chew at the edges of their thoughts.

Elías stood before the throne, the feather still bleeding ink into the void, his fingers trembling not from fear — but from choice. Every second stretched. Every breath echoed like prophecy unwritten.

Behind him, his companions waited.

But none dared speak.

This was not a moment for words.

It was a moment for weight.

And Elías — for the first time — felt his own story pressing back.

---

The Crownless turned away.

"You are not ready," he said again.

"But you will be."

---

The cathedral began to shift.

The throne rose, lifted by chains of memory. The crown followed, higher now, beyond reach — for now.

And below, through the glass floor, the upside-down city opened its eyes.

Millions of them.

All watching.

All reading.

All waiting.

---

A voice rose from beneath:

"One rises. One falls. One writes. One is written."

---

Verrun finally broke the silence.

"What in the name of any god is that supposed to mean?"

The Crownless didn't answer.

Instead, he raised his hand — and a wall of light split the cathedral open, revealing an archway made of regrets, flickering with images of things that never happened but almost did.

"This is your door forward," he said.

"Beyond this path, monsters walk wearing truth as skin. You'll find no allies. Only mirrors. And echoes."

Elías nodded.

"I'm used to that."

---

They passed through the arch.

The moment they crossed, the world changed again.

Gone was the cathedral.

Gone was the Crownless.

They now stood in a place between stories — a wasteland of fragmented realities, each shard pulsing with unfinished thought. Trees grew sideways. Rivers flowed upward. Stars wept black fire that screamed instead of burned.

And in the distance…

A battlefield.

---

But no armies.

Only corpses still fighting.

---

Creatures of flesh and parchment clawed at one another. Broken angels wept ink. Wolves with human hands tore at shadows made of grammar. Vampires drank the meaning from others, not their blood. Lycan-forms howled prophecies before collapsing into laughter.

Each one wore a name stitched into their skin — not their own, but one taken.

Leshra gasped.

"They're fighting to keep their identities."

Tirian drew his blade.

"They're fighting not to be unwritten."

---

Then one of them saw Elías.

A tall, skeletal figure with books fused into its chest.

Its face was a shattered mirror.

Its voice was a thousand pages turning all at once.

"You…" it rasped.

"The unwritten king…"

It lunged.

---

Elías didn't run.

He raised the feather.

A word bloomed midair — glowing, sharp, fragile.

"Reject."

The creature shattered before touching him.

Not killed.

Just removed.

---

Verrun stepped back.

"That's… new."

Elías looked at the feather.

"It's not a weapon."

Leshra nodded slowly.

"It's an eraser."

---

They moved forward through the battlefield.

Every step pulled memories out of them — tested their resolve. They passed scenes from lives they hadn't lived:

— A version of Elías crowned too early, burning nations to prove he deserved it.

— Leshra with black wings, crucified over a city of silence.

— Tirian kneeling before an empty throne, his mouth stitched shut.

None spoke.

Some truths are only endured in silence.

---

At the far end of the battlefield, a massive door stood.

Made of bone.

Locked with questions.

Twelve symbols hovered around it, each one a concept: Betrayal. Sacrifice. Ascension. Loss. Power. Death. Time. Love. Madness. Origin. Ending. Self.

To open the door, Elías would have to choose three.

The feather pulsed in his hand.

He stepped forward, and whispered:

"Sacrifice."

"Origin."

"Self."

The door trembled — and opened.

---

Beyond it: darkness.

Not void.

Not shadow.

Introspection.

They stepped into themselves.

Or something worse.

---

They emerged moments later — or maybe lifetimes.

Changed.

Not stronger.

But realer.

The story around them grew heavier.

The air denser.

Ahead, the path rose again — stairs made from the names of those who'd failed.

And at the top…

The Archive of Fallen Gods.

---

A place few reached.

Fewer left.

None unchanged.

---

Elías looked back once.

The battlefield burned behind him.

The feather in his hand whispered nothing.

Because now… it listened.

---

Question for the reader:lf you had the power to erase only one thing from your life — a memory, a choice, a name — would you still be you?