The capital is under siege. Duke Aramon seizes power by force. The people are torn. Only one crown can rule. Civil war erupts.
Night had not yet given way to dawn, but Lysandre was already burning.
Pillars of flame tore through the darkness, casting twisted shadows across the obsidian and marble walls of the royal palace. Screams echoed through the streets—citizens, soldiers, children. War horns clashed with cries for mercy. Hooded figures rushed down alleyways, brandishing Duke Aramon's banner: a black crow against a field of ash.
From the bell tower's terrace, Ysara watched the chaos unfold, her eyes brimming with tears. The city of her childhood—the city she had loved despite its walls of deceit—was falling, piece by piece, under the hand of a usurper. The people—hungry, bitter, desperate—had not resisted for long. They had torn themselves in two between ancient order and a fragile hope born in the shadows.
Behind her, Kael tightened the leather straps of his dark gauntlets. His armor, marked with the sigil of the Ashen Guard of Askar, seemed to absorb the fading light. His face bore the weariness of sleepless nights, of choices forged in blood and fire. At his side, Captain Malrik of the Ashen, a hollow-eyed veteran, stood in solemn silence.
"The city will fall by dusk," Kael said, his voice grim as he gazed toward the line of fire slithering across the port.
"It has already fallen," Ysara replied quietly. "And so have we, if we don't act now."
Kael turned to her. In her eyes he saw the same fury that burned in him—the fury of a soul betrayed by blood, by crown, by legacy.
"Aramon has released the Red Molossians from the Imperial crypts," Malrik growled. "Three hundred beasts in human form. They slaughter any who refuse to kneel."
Kael clenched his fists. The Molossians—exiled decades ago for crimes too cruel to recount—now returned, unleashed upon the capital like rabid hounds. Aramon hadn't just betrayed the crown. He had made a pact with damnation itself.
"Then we strike now," Kael said, voice low and resolute. "Before he claims the throne entirely."
Ysara nodded, but fear gnawed at her. Time was bleeding out. The loyalty of the Ashen Guard, though sealed in royal blood, was not eternal. They obeyed a magic that bound them to Kael's lineage… and that magic weakened with every heartbeat, for Kael still resisted the pull of the Throne of Shadows.
The Black Council
In the grand hall of the palace, Aramon already ruled.
Though the Throne of Shadows sat vacant behind him, he lounged upon a war chair carved of bone and adorned with the sigils of the old kings. The kingdom's crest had been defiled beneath his boots, stained with the blood of loyalists. Around him gathered the Black Council—traitors, exiled mages, corrupt nobles. They toasted Aramon as a savior.
"Kael the Pretender approaches," hissed the mage Azmeth, green fire flickering in his eyes. "But the Throne has already rejected him. He hesitates. He still loves. He is weak."
Aramon's expression didn't shift.
"Then he will die. The Throne crowns only those who've lost everything. I have nothing left to lose."
A chilling laugh echoed through the chamber.
But the Throne—silent, dormant—quivered. It stirred, faintly. It sensed the blood. It remembered betrayal. It listened, patient and cruel.
Three Fronts
The battle fractured into three fronts.
Ysara led the first, targeting the city's grain stores. By cutting Aramon's supply lines, she hoped to turn the starving masses against him. She rode at the front of her column, sword unsheathed, fire in her veins. Citizens loyal to her late father joined her ranks.
The second front, commanded by Ser Malrik and the Ashen Guard, stormed the city's watchtowers. Their mission: open a path to the palace. Silent and tireless, the Ashen fought like wraiths. Their unblinking gaze unnerved even the Red Molossians. Where they passed, silence followed.
The third front moved beneath the city—through forgotten tunnels, crypts, and catacombs. Kael led a chosen few: exiled Watchers of the Shadow, rogue priests, and twin assassins sworn to vengeance. Their goal was singular: reach the throne room before the throne could choose.
The palace was defended by summoned horrors and golems of iron, bound by necromantic sigils. But Kael pressed forward, guided now not by strategy alone, but by a voice he could no longer ignore. The Throne whispered in silence… and he listened.
The Confrontation
At last, he reached the throne steps.
Aramon awaited him, clad in blackened steel, sword gleaming red. The Black Council had fled. Only Azmeth remained, his fingers glowing with unholy flame.
"You're late, nephew," Aramon sneered. "You should've died in shadow, not dreamed of thrones."
Kael said nothing. His hand rested on his sword's hilt. The other reached toward the Throne.
"You betrayed your own blood, Aramon. Swore loyalty to the crown, then desecrated it. The Throne does not answer to liars."
Aramon laughed, bitter and sharp.
"And you? You think it'll crown a bastard born in secret? A whelp raised in caves, hidden like a shameful relic?"
Kael stepped forward. The Throne shivered.
Then it spoke—not in words, but in soundless force. A wave of ancient will echoed through the room. Azmeth screamed, blood pouring from his ears. Aramon staggered. The room dimmed.
Kael let go.
He stopped resisting the Throne's pull. He surrendered. He let the night in—its hunger, its pain, its ruthless clarity. He became what the Throne demanded: not a man, but a king forged in darkness.
The duel was swift. Aramon, though skilled and savage, was no match for the one chosen. Kael struck him down. Aramon fell, his sword shattered, his legacy undone.
"I am not your king," Kael whispered, standing over his uncle's corpse. "I am your reckoning."
Capitulation
When Aramon's head rolled down the marble steps, silence fell over Lysandre.
Ysara entered, her armor scorched, her blade stained red. She found Kael standing before the Throne. He had not sat down. He trembled—barely. His face was unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes were black now, bottomless.
"You did it," she murmured.
"No," he said. "The Throne did."
One by one, the Ashen Guard knelt.
Fires extinguished across the city. Bells tolled in the distance. Citizens emerged from hiding, sensing the shift. A king had risen. Not of law or birthright, but of death, shadow, and pain.
The Throne was not empty anymore. It had chosen.
End of Chapter Reflection
The civil war unraveled quickly after that. Aramon's supporters either fled or were executed. The Black Council vanished, some devoured by their own spells. Kael claimed the palace—but did not sit on the Throne… not yet.
Each night, it called to him. Each night, it demanded the last piece of him.
But Kael still had Ysara. As long as he loved her, as long as he hoped, a part of him remained untouched. Mortal. Human.
And he knew… the Throne would never allow that to last.
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