The descent from the Spires was not a retreat.
It was a rebirth.
Ayla no longer stumbled. The path parted for her. Stones that once shook beneath her steps now held still, as if recognizing a name long whispered in forgotten rituals.
But with power came weight.
The third flame—Ruin—had settled into her bones like a second spine. Not chaotic, not evil, but honest in a way that terrified her.
It didn't burn wildly. It waited.
And whispered.
"You are not what they think you are. You are not what you think you are."
The Road to Delvaris
Their next destination was not some lost ruin or haunted tomb.
It was Delvaris, the kingdom that had once ruled the east.
Once a capital of scholars, healers, and sanctified mages. Now a graveyard, abandoned after the Rift collapsed its core and left the high towers crumbling like ancient teeth.
But Ayla had to return.
Because Delvaris held the Ashen Throne—a relic of power tied to her bloodline.
And perhaps, the final message of the First Queen.
"Is it wise to go back?" Varra asked as they crossed the charred river that once flowed with enchanted waters.
"No," Ayla replied. "But it's necessary."
Ghosts of Stone
Delvaris did not welcome them.
The gates hung crooked. Banners rotted. Statues of kings and queens leaned like drunkards in the wind.
And above all—the silence.
It wasn't natural.
Even decay should make a sound.
They entered the palace at dusk. The Watcher said nothing. He walked ahead, as if retracing steps he'd taken in a life before memory.
Inside, the throne room stood intact.
Mostly.
The Ashen Throne was carved from dragon bone, veined with silver, and glowing faintly—alive in a way no throne should be.
Ayla approached.
But as she did, a figure stepped from behind it.
The Monarch of Dust
He wore no crown.
Just dust and time.
His face was cracked stone, held together by threads of magic and grief. His eyes were hollow pits glowing with regret.
"I was the last king," he said. "Before the Rift took my name."
Ayla held her ground. "Why are you still here?"
"Because you are," he said. "And the throne remembers."
He raised a withered hand. The flames in Ayla's chest surged.
"You carry all three flames. But do you understand what they are?"
"Memory. Potential. Ruin."
He shook his head slowly. "They are doors. Not gifts. Each opens a part of the Sanctuary long sealed."
"And if I open them?"
"You will either restore the world—or become its final queen."
Ayla stepped forward, heart thundering. "Then I need to know what came before."
The king smiled.
And the throne answered.
The Ashen Throne pulsed.
Ayla stepped closer—and it pulled her in.
Not physically. Spiritually. Like falling into a flame that remembered everything it ever burned.
The hall vanished.
And she was elsewhere.
The Past Unsealed
A white temple.
An endless field of banners.
A Queen stood upon a hill, eyes gleaming with power and sorrow. Not Ayla—but the First Queen, wrapped in robes of crimson and silver.
Behind her, the world burned.
Her council stood broken. Her allies had turned. The flames at her command no longer danced—they raged.
"They will call me monster," the Queen whispered.
A voice responded—soft, old, and loving.
"They will call you necessary."
The First Queen turned. The man who spoke stood cloaked in gray, a crown in his hand.
"Then give me the crown. And the fire."
She took both.
And the sky broke.
Echoes of the Throne
Ayla collapsed to her knees.
She was back.
The throne before her. The king still watching.
"You saw it," he said.
"She took the flames," Ayla whispered. "But not to rule. To... end something."
"To seal the first Rift. But the cost was her name, her kingdom, and every soul who stood with her."
Ayla stood shakily. "And now I carry what she carried."
"No," the king said. "You carry more. Because the world is not ending from one Rift. There are many. And some... are opening again."
The Watcher stepped forward, face pale. "The western horizon. I felt it last night. Something stirred."
Ayla looked west.
The wind no longer howled.
It begged.
A Crown Reforged
The Ashen Throne shifted.
Stone cracked. Silver bled.
From its heart emerged a crown—not gold, not bone. Something living. Forged of flame and silence.
It hovered before Ayla.
The king knelt. Not in submission, but respect.
"The throne does not rule nations anymore," he said. "It rules flame. Take it, and you become its heir."
Ayla hesitated.
Ruin pulsed in her chest. Potential surged. Memory wept.
But this time, she didn't flinch.
She took the crown.
It sank into her flames—not resting on her head, but within her very being.
She was crowned with purpose.
And war would follow.