In the shadow of the throne, betrayal always costs more than loyalty.
The mountains of Askar had not heard the ring of steel for centuries. The wind that howled through their peaks carried only the forgotten whispers of war—fragments of memory carved into black stone. It was here, amid the silent ruins of a cursed stronghold, that Kael and Ysara arrived, fleeing the wrath of Duke Aramon, the fangs of the High Council, and the snares of a kingdom that forgave nothing.
The cold bit through their cloaks, but Ysara did not shiver. Her gaze, hard and resolute, betrayed the princess she had once been. The invisible chains of royal loyalty had shattered with a deafening crack, and her heart still bled from the break. Her father, her brother, the crown itself—she had betrayed them all. For Kael. For a truth deeper than the golden lies of the palace.
"Are you sure?" Kael asked, eyeing the broken steps that led into the ossuary of Askar.
"I've never been more sure," she replied.
Behind them, the world burned. Ahead lay a forgotten power, waiting in silence.
The legend of the Ashes of Askar was known only by madmen and mischievous children. According to ancient songs, when the kingdom of Elsareth had nearly fallen to northern invaders, King Elion the Black had bound his soul to a legion: a thousand fallen warriors, raised by magic, whose loyalty could never be broken. They obeyed only the royal bloodline—and the Shadow Throne.
But the cost of that power had been steep. After the war, the soldiers would not rest. They wandered, neither alive nor dead, driven mad by the magic that gave them life. Elion entombed them at Askar, sealed by spells and blood, and forbade anyone from waking them again.
Ysara, however, had read the forbidden archives. She knew what Kael carried in his blood: the key to the oath. And she had stolen the words of awakening.
Kael knelt before a shattered altar. The stone was inscribed with fading runes, half-swallowed by time. The wind screamed now like a warning. Ysara stepped forward, holding a scorched parchment, charred at the edges but still legible.
"When I start," she said solemnly, "you must not turn away."
"Even if the dead rise?" Kael asked.
"Especially if the dead rise."
She unrolled the parchment, and her voice began to pour out the spell, dark and ancient:
"O son of kings, son of throne, son of shadow,
Let the oath bind, let the ash live.
Let not the blade rust, let not the heart die,
And may those who slept rise once more."
Silence followed. Even the wind held its breath.
Then… a pulse.
The stones trembled. The ground groaned like a heartbeat beneath them. A terrible sound echoed—metal scraping, bones cracking. Blades rusted but sharp, armor shattered yet gleaming, skulls crowned with embers. One by one, the Ashes of Askar emerged from their tombs.
A thousand hollow eyes, glowing faintly red with reawakened magic, turned to Kael.
The first among them—a towering figure crowned with a helm of bone—stepped forward and knelt.
"Command us… King of Shadows," he murmured.
Kael recoiled slightly.
"I'm no king."
"You carry the blood. You carry the curse. And you have been chosen."
The floor cracked open, revealing a crypt below. In its heart stood a scorched throne. Not the Shadow Throne, but its reflection—a pale, blackened twin. Kael felt something pull at him. Not physically, but in spirit.
Ysara placed a hand on his arm.
"You don't have to sit. But you must accept who you are. Otherwise, they won't follow."
He nodded, stepping down into the crypt.
When he touched the throne, pain lanced through his chest. Visions overwhelmed him—ancient wars, blood-soaked oaths, betrayals inked in shadow. He saw Elion. He saw the Ashes marching. He saw the throne burning… and being reborn.
And then he heard a voice:
The oath waits. The shadow watches. Do you wish to be king?
Kael did not speak. He did not need to. The throne understood. The dead rose in perfect unison, and a low, ancient chant vibrated through the valley.
The Legion of Ash was awake.
They marched south. Ysara at Kael's side, the Ashes behind. A thousand steps into the night. A thousand promises of reckoning. The kingdom would tremble.
But ancient magic never comes without cost. Each day, Kael felt the shadow grow deeper inside him. His skin paled. His gaze grew sharper, colder. Sometimes he spoke in forgotten tongues. Sometimes, he dreamed only of blood.
Ysara noticed. And she feared—not for herself, but for what he might become.
One night, camped at the edge of Liaran Forest, she confronted him.
"You need to stop. You don't sleep. You don't eat. You're changing."
"I don't have the luxury of rest, Ysara. Aramon is preparing. If we wait, he'll kill what's left of justice in this kingdom."
"And what if there's nothing left of you by then?"
He looked away.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Just remember—don't become worse than those you fight."
That night, they lay together under the stars. Their love was not soft—it was scarred, desperate, forged in war. They clung to each other not for passion, but because they knew the morning might tear them apart.
The next day, enemy scouts found them. Aramon's troops, arrogant and unaware, charged into the Ashes.
The result was slaughter.
The Ashes did not die. And those who faced them didn't understand what they were fighting.
Blood soaked the forest floor. Screams pierced the canopy. And in Kael's mind, the Shadow Throne whispered louder:
The kingdom is yours. Take it. Burn it if you must—but rule.
Kael raised his sword—black as midnight.
"Forward! For the Shadow! For the truth!"
The dead answered with one voice.
We are the Ashes. And the fire returns.
In Lysandre, Duke Aramon heard whispers of the reawakened legion. He trembled—not from fear, but fury. He had crowned himself already—without ceremony, without right. And now a dead army marched against him.
"If he wants war," Aramon growled to his generals, "let him taste the fire I've prepared."
In the catacombs beneath the capital, dark mages toiled. They would summon a counterforce. A legion of flame. A war of shadow versus fire.
But Kael did not want to win by brute force. He wanted revelation. To expose traitors, unearth secrets, and break the chains of false rule.
Ysara had a plan: infiltrate the palace. Let the Ashes serve as a distraction. Force the Shadow Throne itself to pass judgment.
"Do you think it will listen?" Kael asked.
"I think it already is," she replied.
As the Ashes neared the capital, the sky darkened. Not with storm—but with omen. The entire kingdom held its breath.
The Shadow Throne had not yet chosen its king.
But war had begun.
End of Chapter 8
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