The Scorching of the Court

"The throne was built on bones.

Now the bones are waking."

The Royal Capital, Caelareth

The sun never truly rose in Caelareth.

Instead, it simmered behind the storm-choked skies, casting the entire court in a permanent shade of rust.

Today, however, the air tasted different.

People gathered in silence.

Not because they were ordered.

But because something was coming.

The bells didn't toll.

The guards didn't speak.

The nobles in their velvet masks shuffled on trembling feet, as whispers spread like ash:

"The exiled ones… they've returned."

The Palace Gates

And then the gates opened.

Not burst.

Not shattered.

They simply… opened.

As if the palace itself had remembered who its true owners were.

Three figures stepped inside:

Aelios, clothed in fire-wrought cloth, bearing the Scroll of Names.

Virelya, veiled in silver, her eyes like judgment itself.

Seren, armored in memory and silence, her sword echoing the steps of every ghost who had ever died in this court.

"Let the court see what it buried," Aelios said.

The Masquerade

The High Court of Caelareth had assembled — draped in gold, drowning in perfume and pride.

Each noble wore a mask carved from rare ivory — expressions of false humility, serenity, wisdom.

But when Aelios stepped into the chamber… the masks cracked.

Literally.

One by one, the masks began to split, crumbling under a pressure none of them could explain.

"We come not for blood," Virelya said. "We come for the truth. And it's heavier than your crowns."

The Scroll

Aelios raised the Scroll of Names.

And unrolled it.

Wind burst from it silent wind yet every ear heard what it carried.

The names of every innocent executed.

Every truth twisted.

Every child taken for 'noble experiments'.

Every peasant falsely charged.

As each name was spoken by the scroll, a glow lit the palace floor until the entire hall blazed in the haunting gold of truth remembered.

The nobles screamed not from pain, but from being seen.

Isareth's Final Move

At the throne stood one figure still.

Isareth.

The High Lord.

The deceiver.

The last tyrant.

He did not flee.

He smiled.

"So noble. So theatrical," he said, voice smooth as black wine.

"Did you think I'd wait here to be judged?"

He clapped.

The air changed.

From behind the throne, the wall split open.

Something crawled out.

The Crown Eater

It had no face.

Only mouths rows of them, gnashing in spiral shapes across a serpentine body of golden armor and living flesh.

A weapon built from forbidden rituals and fused bloodlines.

A beast whose only hunger was for thrones.

"Meet the Crown Eater," Isareth whispered.

"It devours sovereigns and leaves only ashes."

It leapt not toward Aelios…

…but toward the entire court.

Chaos

Nobles screamed.

Guards fled.

The stained glass shattered from its roar.

But the Oathbound Three did not move.

"This is what their kingdom bred," Seren said.

"Let it taste its masters."

The Crown Eater began feeding not on flesh, but titles. Nobles it touched lost their names, their lineage, their minds becoming empty shells.

Isareth laughed.

Until he realized… it was turning toward him.

"You summoned a beast of hunger," Aelios said.

"But you forgot we carry something it cannot devour."

He raised the Scroll.

"Memory."

The Crown Eater paused confused.

Because in the presence of true memory, it could not feed.

It turned, shrieking.

And in that moment Virelya raised her hands.

Moonlight spilled from her palms like rivers.

She cast a circle of silver around the Crown Eater and the names of every forgotten soul carved themselves onto its flesh.

The beast screamed.

Then imploded.

Not with blood, but with names millions of glowing lights rising from its remains and drifting through the palace like fireflies.

"Now the dead can speak," Virelya said

Isareth

Isareth tried to flee.

But Seren stood in his path.

She said nothing.

Only raised her blade forged from guilt and memory.

He begged.

Cried.

Lied.

But memory doesn't blink.

She struck once.

And Isareth fell, his mask cracking down the middle revealing a boy who had once believed in power more than people.

"He wasn't born a monster," Aelios whispered.

"He chose it."

The Throne

They did not sit on the throne.

They left it burning.

Instead, they walked into the crowd and began speaking names.

One by one, the citizens repeated them.

A chant of the forgotten.

A memory made eternal.

The city didn't crown them.

It followed them.

And thus, history was rewritten.

Not with swords.

But with truth.