The Blood Crown

Chapter Ten: The Blood Crown

The storm gathered at the gates of Emberhold.

Smoke curled across the sky as rebels surged through the upper city, street by street, sweeping aside what remained of the Regent's patrols. The clang of steel, the roar of fire, the thunder of rebellion—Emberhold trembled not from earthquakes now, but from its people.

Nyra stood before the palace gates, ash swirling around her like snow. The ancient walls loomed above, blackened and cracked from centuries of secrets. Behind her, hundreds of rebels held their ground. Some wounded, some bloodied, all unbowed.

The Emberblade pulsed in her hand.

Kael joined her side, armor dented, a streak of blood on his cheek that wasn't his.

"This is it," he said.

Nyra nodded. "The throne room?"

Kael pointed to the highest tower. "Beyond the upper hall. But it's not the throne you should fear. It's what lies beneath it."

She remembered the letter.

If you awaken what sleeps below, the cost will be more than fire can pay.

"Let's end this before that becomes true," she said.

The palace doors gave way with a scream of iron.

The rebels poured into the great hall, torchlight dancing across the cold stone. Gold and crimson tapestries hung torn and faded. Statues of kings long dead stared down in silent judgment.

Then—movement.

A dozen royal guards stepped into the corridor, clad in blackened plate, helms shaped like snarling beasts.

One raised a hand. "The Regent decrees death to all traitors."

Nyra didn't hesitate. "Then let him come do it himself."

She surged forward.

The Emberblade met their swords with a crash of heat and light. Kael was beside her, moving like a ghost of vengeance. The rebels followed with a shout.

It was brutal.

But short.

And when the last of the guards fell, the great bronze doors at the end of the hall groaned open.

Inside stood the Regent.

Kaelen wore no crown. His armor was dark silver, etched with veins of black flame. A long cloak of deep crimson swept the marble behind him, and in his hand, he held a scepter tipped with an obsidian shard that pulsed with violet light.

"Nyra," he said, voice calm, almost amused. "How far you've come."

She stepped forward, chest heaving. "Surrender the throne."

He chuckled. "Oh, child. The throne isn't something you can take. It chooses. And you're not the only one with fire in your blood."

He raised the scepter.

The marble floor split.

A surge of black fire erupted around him, forming a twisted barrier of shadow and flame. His body lifted an inch from the ground, eyes turning pitch.

Nyra felt the pull instantly.

The Grave Flame.

It didn't burn. It consumed.

Kael grabbed her arm. "That's not just magic. It's a parasite. It's feeding on the throne's power."

The walls around them shook.

Kaelen laughed, voice distorted. "You want your kingdom back? Take it from me."

The battle began.

Flame met shadow.

Nyra launched herself toward him, Emberblade blazing, but the Regent's shield of black fire deflected her strike. Kael moved around to flank, but the scepter pulsed and sent a shockwave that threw him across the room.

The throne itself began to bleed fire from beneath, cracks running down its base like veins. The stone hissed, and a low growl echoed through the marble.

The dragon was stirring again—angry, confused.

Nyra struck again, this time channeling the memory of Marn Hollow, the pain of her mother's death, the weight of every soul that had suffered under Kaelen's rule. The Emberblade burst with light.

She drove it into the Regent's shield.

And for a moment—it cracked.

He screamed.

Then struck back.

Dark tendrils lashed from the scepter, wrapping around her wrists, her throat, her chest. She gasped, dropping to her knees.

"You think light is enough?" he hissed. "The Hollow Queen thought the same. And now she screams beneath the earth."

Nyra clenched her fists. "I am not her."

From deep below, the dragon's roar thundered.

Flames erupted from the floor, breaking through the stone in molten cracks. The throne began to sink, swallowed by heat.

Kael staggered to her side. "He's drawing the Grave Flame into himself. If he merges with it—"

"I know," Nyra breathed. "We'll lose everything."

She looked at the Emberblade, then at the throne, which was now glowing red-hot and pulsing like a heartbeat.

The throne isn't just a seat of power—it's a prison.

Suddenly, she understood.

The throne was not made to rule from—it was made to contain.

Her ancestors hadn't just sat on it. They had guarded it. The flame wasn't only a gift—it was a key.

And the cost of unlocking it…

Kael looked at her. "What are you thinking?"

"I have to bleed on it."

"What?"

"The Blood Crown. That's what it means. One of royal blood must open it."

"Nyra—"

She was already moving.

With one swift cut, she slashed her palm and pressed it to the stone seat.

The Emberblade pulsed in reply.

The throne shattered.

The room exploded with light.

In that moment, the Grave Flame screamed.

Kaelen clutched his chest, reeling back as shadow peeled away from him like burning cloth. The obsidian scepter cracked, its magic unraveling in threads of darkness. The black fire that had shielded him was gone.

He fell to his knees, gasping.

Nyra stood above him, blade raised.

"Do it," he spat. "Finish it."

But she didn't move.

Kael stepped beside her. "He'll never stop."

Nyra looked down at the trembling man, once a tyrant, now no more than a vessel for his own greed.

"I'm not like you," she said.

She turned the blade.

And struck the floor beside him, embedding it in the stone.

"I will not begin my reign with vengeance."

Kaelen collapsed, defeated.

The battle was over.

But something deeper stirred still.

From the ruins of the throne, a voice echoed.

"One prison broken… one yet remains."

The dragon beneath the city was free—but something else had woken with it.

And it was not yet done.