The entire city awakens to the rumble of thunder. Not from the sky, but from the throne.
Hours before sunrise, a pulse of primal magic trembles across the rooftops. Every torch on the royal walls flickers and dies. Dogs howl unceasingly, birds scatter in flight. Those who dream of the old gods stir, jaws clenched, hands shaking. The Dust King is no longer just a name.
In the Hall of Shards, Queen Lavaria kneels before the crown she forged in secret—a jagged obsidian diadem steeped in ancestral blood. With trembling hands, she places it on its waiting pedestal. Above the crown, the air shimmers with flameless fire.
She has offered everything: loyalty, flesh, her own soul.
Now she will have her answer.
On the Road to the Capital
Torian and Arya spur their horses through the southern pass, the beasts lathered in sweat. The once-bustling trade road lies desolate now, as if the land itself cowers from what is to come.
"She'll want someone else to wear the crown in your place," Arya says, her voice taut against the wind. "Or worse—let that thing sit on the throne."
Torian does not respond. His gaze is fixed on the horizon.
He can feel it now—the tether.
With every mile, the voice draws closer.
"Kneel again, Theron. Or I'll rebuild the kingdom with your ashes."
His jaw tightens. "I've died once already. She'll have to live long enough to try."
Arya shoots him a glance. "If she's mastered the Lord of the Dead... you might have to rise higher than before."
Then he looks at her. "So will you."
The Council Breaks
Within the capital, chaos brews behind marble doors.
Queen Lavaria has summoned the High Council for a dawn meeting. Only nine of the thirteen attend. The rest are either dead—or refuse to stand before what she has awakened.
Lord Kaelis speaks first, his voice hoarse. "Your Majesty, this path... this crown... it was not gifted by the gods."
She smiles icily. "No. It is older."
Lady Vesra rises. "Then you would have us serve something that devours gods?"
"I offer you survival," Lavaria says. "The boy you called Prince is gone. He carries the memory of destruction. He will drag us to ruin."
"And the creature you crown?" Kaelis asks. "Is that our future?"
Lavaria holds the obsidian crown aloft in both hands.
"This is all we have left."
She places it upon her head.
The Dusk Gate
As the sun sets, Torian and Arya reach the southern gates of the capital. Braziers along the walls burn fiercely, but no guards stand watch. Silence reigns.
"I don't like this," Arya murmurs.
"I don't think we're supposed to," Torian says.
They pass through.
The city has changed too.
Shadows stretch too long. Doors gape open on empty homes. Distant laughter echoes through the streets—laughter that belongs to no living thing.
The city has surrendered.
In the plaza before the palace, stone is charred black. Runes etched into the ground pulse faintly—binding circles, blood sigils, and something else. Something hungry.
Torian takes a step forward—and the circle explodes with light.
A voice speaks—not loudly, but from within:
"Come back, Theron. We are not done."
He stumbles. Arya catches him.
"You don't have to face this alone."
He meets her gaze. "But I might have to end it alone."
She shakes her head. "Not this time."
They step onto the path ringed by fire.
The palace doors swing open of their own accord.
End of Chapter 11