Chapter Eleven: The First Throne Stirs
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Time bent.
Reality shattered like glass.
And in the space beyond gods, the First Throne awoke.
Kael and Silas, once enemies, now hung weightless in a void that was rapidly collapsing inward. The swirling sky of broken thought and torn memory darkened as the being before them fully took form.
It did not speak in words, but in truths.
I am not ruler. I am the root. The throne from which all thrones were carved. The law before laws.
Kael struggled to rise, clutching his chest. His body burned with the imprint of the Deep Crown, but that power now felt like a flicker next to this colossal force.
Silas hovered nearby, silent. His divine aura dimmed, eyes locked on the massive figure that towered above them, its arms bound in spectral chains, its body shaped like no single race. It had many faces, all shifting.
Kael finally managed a breath. "What... are you?"
The voice echoed again, louder.
I am the First Sovereign. The Nameless One. Born before time, betrayed by my heirs. Buried beneath their kingdoms.
Silas clenched his fists. "You shouldn't be awake."
And yet you woke me. Two heirs of ruin. Two broken crowns clashing in my grave.
The entity raised a chained hand.
The realm began to collapse into itself. All matter bled upward. The throne reformed behind it—monumental, incomprehensible, made of impossible geometry. As the throne took shape, the chains pulled tighter.
Kael's breath caught. His Hollow instincts screamed at him to run. But something deeper called him closer.
The Nameless One turned its gaze upon Kael.
You bear the Deep Crown. The second seed. But you are unripe. You rule shadows, not purpose.
Kael stepped back, but stood his ground. "I took what was denied. I returned from death. I forged an empire of the forgotten."
You are still a child.
It turned to Silas.
And you... the one who fled the old war. The guardian who chose peace over purpose. You wear divinity like a mask.
Silas said nothing. But the divine ring behind him flared.
You were to guard my tomb. Instead, you let your guilt blind you.
The Nameless One raised its hand again.
Chains exploded outward, striking both Kael and Silas. They screamed—not in pain, but in clarity. Visions flooded their minds:
The birth of the first realm. The crowning of the First Sovereign. The betrayal of the twin heirs. The shattering of the divine line.
Kael collapsed to one knee. "Why show us this?"
Because you will choose. One of you must sit upon me. One of you must restore the cycle. Or the world ends.
Silas shook his head, face pale. "You want a puppet."
I want balance. I want judgment. You wear that name, Silas. But do you understand it?
Kael rose slowly. "If I take the throne... what happens?"
The world remakes. Or unravels. The throne is not power. It is fate. You will not command it. It will become you.
Silas gritted his teeth. "And if neither of us chooses?"
The Nameless One looked upward.
The realm cracked.
Then the real war begins. And neither of you will matter.
---
In the mortal world, storms of memory swept across the continents. Entire oceans reversed flow. Monuments to lost empires began glowing.
Nihrex stood atop the black tower at the front of the Legion.
He whispered to himself.
"The Throne breathes again."
Behind him, the Dead Legion began chanting. Not in any known language—but in a tongue buried beneath aeons.
From the east, Lyra watched from the palace walls.
And for the first time, she felt it too.
A pull.
As if something ancient was calling all the bloodlines of the past home.
---
Back in the Nameless Realm, the decision loomed.
Silas floated in silence.
Kael stood bleeding.
And the throne shimmered.
"We fight again," Kael said. "One final time. The one left standing takes the throne."
Silas nodded.
"Then let this be the end."
The Nameless One did not speak.
It simply watched.
As the two heirs of ruin rose.
And prepared to break the world.
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To be continued...