Breno12456

There had never been silence like that.

It wasn’t the absence of sound — it was presence.
Heavy. Alive. A stillness that crushed memory, breath, time.

Elías awakens on cracked earth beneath a sky of rotten red and black-blue. The stars above drift like bloated, decaying eyes — floating in stagnant fluid.

There is no sun. No moon. Only a damp, unholy light that seeps from nowhere. The air tastes like ash and burns like guilt — and something inside him stirs.

He doesn’t remember this world, but it remembers him.
He doesn’t know what he lost, but it’s still bleeding.

When the silence finally whispers his name, he understands:

Elías is not alive. Not dead.
He is what remains.

And this world — whether the last, or just the next — will bleed before it forgets him again

Refuge of the Last Name

The throne was not made of gold, nor stone, nor bone.

A silence so heavy it cracked the walls of the sanctuary that held it. A silence so vast it pressed itself into the bones of the witnesses—those few who dared step into the temple of the Throatless King.

His feet dragged across the ash-carpeted ground. His arms were stained with the dried red of the last fight—his body bore scars, but his eyes held something worse: knowledge. From the corpse-winds of the desert, to the hollow bells of the undead city, to the screams stitched into clouds—he had walked through the echoes of gods, and yet nothing unnerved him like the room before him.

Behind him came Alren, the Hollow-Wolf—half beast, half oath. His breathing was shallow; even his cursed blood feared this place.

"This isn't a throne room," Alren whispered, his voice barely dust. "This is a confession chamber."

The walls were etched with ancient markings—thousands of them. But no one had carved them.

Scratched into the stone by hands that didn't exist anymore. Scratched by teeth. Scratched by those who came to this throne hoping the god who once sat upon it would answer. But the god never had a mouth.

Because it was never meant to speak.

As Elías stepped forward, the red crown atop his head pulsed with heat. It hated this place. But it couldn't stop him.

It was empty—but not unoccupied.

There was weight in that emptiness, a presence heavier than presence itself, like a shadow cast by a future not yet born.

From behind the throne, something stirred.

A mockery of one. Too many fingers. Bent wrong. Veins visible. The hand did not reach toward Elías. It reached into the air, trying to pull something down from the ceiling—as if the sky itself was nailed above them.

Then it withdrew, back into the blackness.

"What is this place?" Alren asked. His voice cracked.

He stepped again. The second stair bled.

The throne pulsed. Then it spoke—but not with sound.

A feeling clawed into Elías's ribs. A phrase, not made of language, but of ruin. A question whispered in absence.

He turned his head. Saw his shadow move on its own. It lifted its hand—his own hand—and held a small, withered memory. A name. A face. The first person Elías ever tried to save.

To step onto the third stair, he had to let go. To forget.

Each step a scar. Each step a part of him left behind.

Because no god could be trusted to answer.

Final Line:Elías did not sit.He simply placed his hand on the throne's stone armrest—and in return, the silence entered him.

Question for the reader:What would you be willing to forget in order to ascend?

“The Throne With No Voice”