Coliseum of the Earthborn – Present Moment
The throne loomed like a mountain carved from regret.
Atop it sat King Mourntide, unmoving, ageless, half-formed of earth and soul. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of a mountain breathing once per year. He did not blink.
He simply existed.
Luka stepped into the center of the arena.
Snow hovered beside him, eyes wide.
Serene and Gregor waited near the gate, uncertain whether to pray or draw steel.
Vaelrith knelt—metal claws folded across his chest in silence.
Mourntide's voice came not from his mouth, but from the stone itself. A low, grinding thunder that shook Luka's bones:
"You carry the Flame."
"You walk on the bones of the forgotten."
"And you ask for what? Mercy? Alliance? Forgiveness?"
Luka stood tall. "I ask to make it right."
A long silence followed.
Then the king spoke again:
