The Road to the Throneless Keep

The wind changed.

It always did at the edge of old kingdoms—where borders bled into wildness and the names of nations were eaten by dust. Here, beyond the forest of hollow lights, the land opened into dead valleys and bone-white hills. The sky stretched too wide. Even the clouds seemed lost.

Tellen wrapped his scarf tighter and kicked a stone into the cracked road. "This was once a trade route," he muttered. "Silks, spices, manuscripts. Now it's just dust and the bones of fools."

Arjuna said nothing. His cloak fluttered behind him, ragged from days of travel. The mark left by the soulbound child still throbbed faintly on his wrist—a scar shaped like a whisper, fading. He didn't ask how long it had been. Time had become too fluid.

"What do they call this place?" he asked finally.

Tellen glanced up from his notes. "The Ravenspire Wastes. No kings. No gods. Only warlords and the things that cling to old graves."

Arjuna's gaze fixed on a crooked peak in the distance. A broken fortress crowned its summit—more ruin than citadel. Even from here, he could make out the burned standards that hung like torn wings. And above it, drawn into the stone itself, a symbol.

A black sun.

He stopped walking.

"I've seen that before," he said.

Tellen followed his gaze. "The Throneless Keep," he said grimly. "Capital of heresy. A hundred bandit clans swear to it. They call themselves the Ash-Blooded."

Arjuna turned sharply. "Ash-Blooded?"

Tellen frowned. "Yeah. Worship a dead god-king said to rise from fire and memory. You know how stories twist out here. They think he'll come back one day. Slay the false kings. Reunite the sundered tribes. Reignite the war."

Arjuna's mouth went dry. "What else?"

"Their prophet calls him the Flame-Walker. Or the Vow-Breaker. Depends who's telling the tale." Tellen hesitated. "There's one name they all agree on, though."

Arjuna looked at him.

"They call him Arjuna."

The silence stretched.

A wind howled through the dead trees. Crows burst into flight, circling overhead like omens.

"…They worship me," Arjuna said flatly.

Tellen nodded. "Or what they think you were."

They pressed on.

The foothills of Ravenspire grew sharp and cruel. Camps lined the road—shanties of rusted metal and old war banners, their bearers sunburnt and half-mad. Children painted their faces with ash. Warriors wore skulls for helmets. No one challenged Arjuna and Tellen as they passed.

In fact, they bowed.

Tellen flinched every time. "This is bad. This is worse than bad. You're being treated like a bloody messiah."

Arjuna didn't respond. His eyes scanned every mural, every carving.

And everywhere, the same image.

A man in crimson armor. A sword wreathed in fire. Eyes like night stars. Leading armies of flame across shattered lands.

Sometimes his face was serene. Sometimes monstrous. Sometimes both.

He stopped at one crude statue. It bore his likeness—but with horns.

"He's a god to them," Tellen said softly. "Or a devil."

"What if they're right?" Arjuna murmured.

Tellen turned. "Don't."

"I can't remember what I was. But they can."

"That doesn't make it true. Stories don't remember the shape of things. Only the shadows they cast."

Arjuna's hand tightened on his sword hilt. The blade pulsed faintly—never hot, never cold. Just… waiting.

Ahead, the gates of the Throneless Keep groaned open.

They were welcomed by a procession of the Ash-Blooded. Dozens of figures in mismatched armor bowed, knelt, chanted. Drums beat a slow rhythm. Incense smoke filled the air—bitter, cloying, thick with something darker than memory.

From the crowd stepped a man draped in crimson robes and crowned with broken blades.

"Flame-Walker," he said with a reverent smile. "We have waited."

Tellen whispered under his breath, "That's Vargo. Crownless Prophet of the Black Vow. And lunatic."

Vargo approached slowly, barefoot, eyes wide. He dropped to his knees before Arjuna and pressed his brow to the earth.

"You have returned. The Oathbreaker walks again. The sky shall weep."

"I didn't come here for worship," Arjuna said, voice hard.

"No," Vargo said, lifting his face. "You came to reclaim your throne."

Arjuna took a step back. "I have no throne."

Vargo grinned. "That is why it waits for you."

He gestured to the great inner courtyard. Within it, atop a broken stair, rested a throne of rusted iron and bone. Black banners hung behind it, each embroidered with symbols Arjuna couldn't quite read—but felt burn behind his eyes.

Whispers rose from the crowd. Ash-blooded. Flame-born. God-returned.

Tellen tugged Arjuna's sleeve. "We need to leave. This place is a story dying to consume you."

But Arjuna couldn't look away.

He climbed the steps.

Every footfall echoed in silence. His breath came slower. The dreams stirred again—visions of battle, fire, weeping stars.

He stood before the throne.

And sat.

The sky darkened.

Crows screamed.

And somewhere in the shadows of the fortress, a woman in torn white watched from behind a veil of ashes. Her eyes glowed faintly with violet fire.

She smiled.

"It begins again," whispered Nyssara.