The Throne Room—Moments Later
The Lord of the Dead charges like a tempest—no longer a ghost, but a being wrought from bone, shadow, and ancient fury. His armor howls as he moves, shards quivering under the weight of eons. Behind him, Queen Lavaria spreads her arms, blood trickling from her fingertips as she chants in an archaic tongue—one known only to kings and traitors.
Torian does not flinch.
He feels the throne's call.
This is not a homecoming,
but a reckoning.
The Clash Begins
The Lord of the Dead's blade falls, heavy with the weight of dynasties.
Torian meets it with steel, his sword blazing with the fire Arya awoke in him hours before. Each strike sparks visions—battlefields, betrayals, kingdoms swallowed by sea and flame.
"You are mine, shaped by my hand!" the Lord of Death roars, his voice like crumbling stone.
"You buried your son," Torian snarls. "Now I bury you."
Arya weaves through the chaos like fire through dry grass. Her blade cuts down the queen's guards—creatures not born, but grown from the salt pits beneath the palace.
She sees the queen across the dais, still chanting, blood arcing in precise lines across marble. Each symbol she carves in the air draws the Dead King closer to wholeness—his complete return.
Soon it will be too late.
Arya spins, blade flashing, but a reanimated guard strikes suddenly, sending her to the floor. Blood spurts at her side. She screams—not in pain, but in frustration.
She knows what she must do.
Arya's Choice
She rises slowly, one hand pressed to her ribs, the other gripping the dagger that once killed Theron.
This is not just a weapon,
but a key.
"Torian!" she calls. "You can't kill him— not while she binds him!"
He glances at her, breath ragged.
"She poured everything into this ritual," Arya says, voice shaking. "Even her life. She's holding him together. If she dies, the crown collapses."
Torian hesitates—his blade locked against the Dead King's jagged halberd.
"Then kill her," he yells.
Arya's lips part. "It has to be me."
Torian freezes. "What?"
Arya takes a final step over the edge of the magic circle, where reality warps and the air stings like knives. The queen turns, face blood-streaked, triumphant—until she sees the dagger in Arya's hand.
"No—" Lavaria hisses. "You don't know what's in that blade."
"Oh, I do," Arya whispers.
She drives the dagger into her own heart.
The Ritual Shatters
Light explodes from Arya's chest—blinding gold and red, like a dying sun pouring through broken glass. Her body arches, then falls forward, the runes around the throne blackening in unison.
Queen Lavaria screams, not in fear, but in loss. Her incantation collapses, threads of her soul peeling from her skin. She staggers toward Arya's lifeless form, face contorted in disbelief.
"You were always hers," she spits. "That child—the one who never existed… was hers."
Behind her, the Dead King stumbles. His massive form shimmers and fragments—his essence destabilized. Torian does not hesitate.
He drives his sword into the heart of the shadow.
The Dead King shatters like glass under heat.
Dust and bone fall in silence.
The Queen's Fall
Lavaria turns just as her son approaches—no longer just a prince. Runes on his skin glow with each step, as if the very earth bows to him. He reaches the base of the throne.
"You should have let me love her," he says, voice hollow.
She looks up, tears streaking her bloodied cheeks. "You were never meant to rule. You were born to die, like the rest."
He raises his sword.
"First you."
And he ends her life.
The Aftermath
Silence settles over the throne room, broken only by the faint flicker of torches and the crackle of dying runes.
Torian stands over Arya's body, his blade slipping from his hand. He drops to his knees beside her, hands still shaking as he touches her face.
"She gave everything," he whispers.
Then her eyes flicker.
Not a breath,
but something older.
A voice echoes faintly in the room—not from the air, but from within him.
She walked through the fire. She did not die. She remains in the flame.
Her body shimmers subtly—ashes glowing beneath her skin.
A slow, ancient rebirth.
Arya, Althéra, the unborn child… all are intertwined.
And Torian—now fully Theron, but more—lifts her in his arms.
At his feet lies a crown of bone and flame.
But he turns away from it.
End of Chapter 13