The passage smelled of mildew and iron.
Kaelen moved by torchlight, his hand trailing the uneven wall of the old tunnel. He had found the entrance behind a loose slab beneath the archives, a place even the scribes feared to map. The torch crackled softly in the silence as he reached the final chamber—a circular space ringed with ancient murals.
They told a story not found in any royal chronicle.
Not of the first king—but of the first kingmaker.
A woman. Cloaked in crimson. Bearing the bone sigil of the throne. Her hands, stained with blood, held not a crown—but a dagger. She did not sit. She knelt, beside a child whose veins glowed violet. The mural's final panel showed her vanishing into shadow as the boy took the throne, tears in his eyes.
Beneath the image, a single line was etched in forgotten script:
"The throne feeds not on right—but on debt."
Kaelen stepped back. Everything he had known, everything he had been told about the line of kings—it was a lie. Or worse, half a truth.
And half-truths were more dangerous than swords.
Elaine waited for him in the map chamber, surrounded by dusty scrolls and forgotten tomes. She didn't ask where he'd been. She only held out a parchment—an old letter sealed with melted obsidian.
"I found it hidden behind the tapestry of Queen Ilireth's tomb."
Kaelen unfolded it. The letter was written in a dialect older than modern Valcaryan, but the meaning cut clean:
"The blood pact was not with kings—but with those who made them."
Elaine's eyes searched his. "You've found something, haven't you?"
He nodded. "Someone is rewriting the game."
"No," she said quietly. "Someone is remembering the old one."
That night, the masked woman returned—not in dreams, but in flesh.
Kaelen woke to her standing at the foot of his bed, silent as ever. Her mask shimmered with sigils that shifted like water.
"You went below," she said. Not a question.
"I saw the murals."
She tilted her head. "And what did you learn?"
"That we were never kings. Only vessels."
The mask's mouth did not move, but he felt her smile."Good. Then you are ready."
She stepped forward and touched his temple.
Flames engulfed his vision.
He stood in a throne room of fire. No walls. No ceiling. Only a seat carved from fused bones and howling souls.
"The throne does not choose," she whispered in his ear. "It consumes. Until someone binds it again."
The next evening, King Orric summoned a secret audience.
Kaelen arrived at the inner sanctum to find Alric already there, sharpening a ceremonial blade. Two cousins leaned in dark corners. The bastard son of Lord Vael adjusted his gloves with shaking hands.
The king entered without fanfare. Behind him, a priest in grey carried a stone basin veined with glowing crimson.
"The Trial of Worth," Orric announced. "Long abolished. But now... reborn."
Each heir was to press their palm against the bloodstone. If the stone accepted you, it glowed warm. If not...
The bastard went first. The stone pulsed—then screamed.
He collapsed, eyes rolling white, foam at his mouth.
The cousins hesitated. One stepped forward. Survived. The other refused—and was escorted out in silence.
Alric approached next. His hand lingered over the stone. For a moment, just a flicker, the glow dimmed. Then surged back.
Kaelen saw it.
Finally, his turn.
He pressed his palm against the bloodstone.
It didn't glow.
It burned. Violet and black.
The priest gasped. Orric took a step forward.
Kaelen stared into the stone.
It whispered: "You are not the heir."
But something inside him answered:
"No. I am the kingmaker."
The light shattered.
Kaelen withdrew his hand. The stone cracked down the middle.
That night, the silver-haired boy returned.
He stood beside the altar in the forgotten temple, holding a shard of obsidian wrapped in cloth.
"This is the Lock," he said.
Kaelen approached, hands trembling. "To seal the throne?"
"To command it," the boy answered. "But the seal requires a blood price."
Kaelen narrowed his eyes. "What kind?"
The boy said nothing. Only held up a second shard. It bore Elaine's name, etched in Old Script.
"No."
"You will," the boy said. "When the time comes."
Kaelen woke in his bedchamber, drenched in sweat.
On his nightstand, wrapped in cloth, sat the obsidian shard.
Outside his window, the raven waited.
It cawed once—and dropped a black feather.
Kaelen caught it before it hit the floor.
It was warm.
Burning.
Check.