"Ashfall"—"Days Later"
The capital sky had not yet cleared.
Days after the Queen's fall and the Dead King's destruction, the air still hung heavy with smoke and dust—as if the gods had not yet decided whether to mourn or celebrate. Once-golden spires now stood charred, their tips collapsed like burnt parchment.
But at the center of it all, the throne room still stood—cracked, scarred, but intact.
So did Thorian.
He wore no crown. His armor was dull, dented from a dozen battles, stained with old and new blood. Yet as he walked through the ruined hall, none dared challenge him. The guards—what remained of them—lowered their weapons. Servants bowed, not from fear, but from awe.
For he had faced the flames and survived.
For he had not claimed the throne.
Instead, he had buried it—along with Lavaria's remains—beneath the shattered dais, sealing it with stones and sigils so no one could sit upon it again.
Not while he still lived.
Aria's Chamber—Beneath the West Tower
She slept beneath white sheets, her breath shallow but steady. She had not spoken since her heart stopped. Since the flame within her flickered…and changed.
A priestess of the Veslin bloodline—one of the few survivors—watched over her, murmuring ancient hymns.
Thorian sat by her bedside every night.
On the sixth night, her fingers twitched.
"Aria?" He leaned forward, barely breathing.
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened.
Not entirely her own.
Golden light shimmered beneath her irises—the remnant of Althera, of the unborn child, of the flame after sacrifice.
She gazed at him for a long time.
"You remember me," she said. Her voice was hoarse, but clear.
He nodded. "I never forgot."
Tears welled, but she did not cry. "Did we win?"
"No," he said calmly. "We ended it."
The People's Voice
In the Lower City, rumors spread like wildflowers after fire:
The true heir had broken the Queen's curse.
A woman bled for the throne, only to rise again without it.
The royal line chose death—but the kingdom lived on.
And so they began to give them new names:
Flame-Bearer, for the one who did not ignite fires but burned away all lies;
Pale Phoenix, for the woman who died for love, reborn not as royalty, but as something older.
The Final Choice
Weeks later, on the first clear morning since the war, Thorian and Aria stood on a cliff overlooking the ruins of the Crown Temple.
Below them, the ashes of the old empire glinted in the sun.
Aria's hair whipped wildly around her face, silver strands threading through the black.
She turned to him. "They will ask you to rule."
"I will not."
"You could rebuild everything. In your way."
"No," he said. "We build something else. Something older than bloodlines and titles."
Aria stepped closer, taking his hand. "Then what shall we do?"
He smiled faintly.
"我们走吧. (We leave.) Let them decide for themselves. Just this once."
Somewhere Beyond the Kingdom
Weeks later, they were seen riding west. No banners, no guards. Just two figures in gray wool cloaks, a phoenix embroidered on their chests, heading toward lands unmarked on any map.
Some say they died quietly in the mountains, lovers finally at peace.
Others say they built something hidden: a lineage born not of crowns, but of fire and choice.
But their names were never spoken in the palace again.
For names hold power.
And their deeds had rewritten history.
End of Chapter Fourteen