The black woods of Anorveil stretched endlessly, a sea of thorns and silence where Kael had been running since dawn. Every step throbbed like a cry inside his fevered skull. His boots were torn, his hands scratched and stained with dried blood. Behind him, the flames of betrayal still blazed in his mind—Aramon's public accusation, the iron chains, his desperate escape through secret palace corridors. Ysara had screamed his name as he vanished into the shadows.
He was no longer a prince. No longer a son. He was a hunted heir to a throne he had never sat on.
But he had a purpose.
Old Nareth, the leader of the Shadow Watchers, had whispered with his dying breath: "The Throne calls to you. Beyond the walls, at the heart of darkness. Listen to its echoes… and it shall judge you."
He collapsed at the base of a gnarled tree, gasping for air. A pale light filtered through the dense canopy. The forest itself seemed to breathe—watching, sentient, ancient.
"You are not ready," rasped a voice like grinding stone.
Kael scrambled to his feet. A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in bark and feathers. An old man. A blind seer. His skin was parchment-thin, his forehead etched with forgotten runes.
"Who are you?" Kael asked, fists clenched.
"A guide. Or a ghost," the man replied. "It depends on what you deserve to see."
"I have no time for riddles," Kael growled. "I've been betrayed. Condemned for crimes I did not commit. My blood is royal—yet everything is denied me!"
The seer gestured toward a narrow path hidden beneath an illusion.
"Then come," he said. "Let the Throne decide."
The path descended into the earth like a wound. Cold torches lit themselves as Kael passed, casting blue light on the stone walls. The silence was heavy. Sacred. The air smelled of dust and memory.
They arrived at a massive obsidian door, marked with the inverted royal sigil: a crown split by a blade.
"The Throne of Shadows is alive," the seer whispered. "Forged in the First Wars, when kings were chosen not by blood—but by Night. It suffers no lies. No weakness."
"And if it rejects me?" Kael asked.
"It does not reject," the old man replied. "It devours."
The door opened of its own accord. Kael stepped inside.
The chamber was circular, empty—except for the throne in the center. Forged of an unknown black metal, it pulsed faintly with inner light, as if it breathed. Its high back was carved with dozens of closed eyes, sleeping… waiting.
Kael approached. Every step awakened something in the stone—whispers, oaths, the screams of those who had once dared sit upon it.
He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the armrest, a soundless scream shattered the air.
The Throne awakened.
The eyes carved into the throne snapped open—all at once. Dozens of blank, soulless stares. Kael tried to move, but his limbs were paralyzed. An invisible force pulled him to his knees.
A voice, ancient and eternal, echoed in his mind—male and female, young and old, singular and many.
"Blood of Elsareth… why do you seek the throne?"
"To bring justice. To restore peace," Kael answered.
"Lies."
Pain ripped through his head. Visions flooded in: his father, the late king, cradling a newborn he refused to name. A weeping mother praying in an empty temple. Dark halls filled with broken promises.
"I—I want to change the kingdom."
"They all say so. Before they fall."
Images of Aramon standing over corpses. Ysara weeping in front of a mirror, dagger in hand. The High Council whispering in secret.
"What must I do?" Kael cried.
"You must show your soul."
Darkness engulfed him.
Kael was a child again, alone in the alleys of Vareth, eyes fixed on the royal tower he could never reach. He relived every wound, every betrayal, every forbidden moment with Ysara. Every time he had doubted. Fled. Hesitated.
Then came a new vision.
A possible future.
Kael, crowned but hollow. The realm at peace, yet devoid of joy. Ysara at his side, but distant, broken. A shadow forever looming over the throne.
"This power will change you. Are you willing to pay the price?"
His heart screamed no. But he understood the cost.
"I do not seek this for myself. Nor even for the realm," he said. "I seek it because if I don't stand between the crown and those who would corrupt it—no one will."
The silence deepened.
Then the voice softened.
"Then drink."
A chalice rose before him, filled with black liquid thick as ink. Kael took it. Drank.
The world unraveled.
He awoke on the cold stone floor. The throne was quiet again. But something within him had changed.
He could hear.
Not voices. All voices.
The whisper of the trees. The thoughts of men. The echo of the dead.
And deep inside, the Throne purred—satisfied.
He rose. A crown of shadow and iron now rested upon his head, unbidden. In the blade's reflection, his eyes glowed silver. His breath misted in the still air.
"You have been chosen," the old seer said, bowing low. "The Throne has spoken. You are its king."
Kael inhaled. A terrible weight settled across his shoulders.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet."
He thought of Ysara. Of Aramon. Of the war to come.
"But I will fight to become one."
Interlude – The Council of Ashes
Back in the capital, Aramon sat upon the Council's high seat. The people filled the square, cheering out of fear, not loyalty. Pyres burned in the distance.
"The bastard prince is dead," Aramon declared. "And I am the crown!"
But in a hidden chamber, Ysara stood silently. In her hand: a letter, sealed with a black crown.
She smiled, faintly.
"He's alive."
She turned, her personal guards already in motion.
"And I'm going to him."
Back to Kael – The Throne's Promise
As Kael emerged from the chamber, the Throne's final words echoed in his mind.
"Those you love will betray you. Those who hate you will serve you. And in the end… you will stand alone."
He paused, gazing up at the grey sky above the haunted trees of Anorveil.
"Perhaps," he whispered. "But I will be a king that history will never forget."
End of Chapter 7
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