They tried to offer her a seat.
So she built her own throne from the bones of their expectations.
The throne room of the Empire had not opened in centuries.
No footsteps had echoed here since the First Sealing, when the last mage queen had vanished into ash.
But Elariax wasn't invited.
She broke in.
The doors burst inward
not from force, but from recognition.
They knew her.
Because the spell that ran through these halls the very enchantments that once kept the world in check now answered to her voice.
Kairon entered first, blade at his hip, eyes burning.
The crowd of noble mages parted for him, unsure whether to bow or run.
Then came Eren. The knight who no longer needed armor. He moved like thunder waiting for permission to strike.
And then she came.
Elariax.
Robe like starlight tangled in midnight.
Hair braided with threadlight.
And at her side, the spell floated alive, flickering.
Sol's voice, etched into every glyph, humming in her breath.
The High Seat still waited at the top of the stairs.
Empty.
Cold.
And too small.
Because that throne was made for rule.
Not for reign.
And she would not sit on something that had once buried her kind.
Instead
She lifted her hand.
And from the air, her magic bloomed.
Thread by thread. Word by word.
A new seat formed behind her. Not crafted,
Woven.
A throne of ink and stars, carved from nothing but will.
At its center glowed the heart-glyph that pulsed in time with her soul.
The glyph Sol had written when he died.
𓂀
It whispered with power no one in the room could translate.
Because it wasn't meant for them.
Only she could sit there.
Only she could bear it.
And when she did
The magic in the walls bent toward her, not away.
The Empire surrendered.
"You're not of the bloodline," someone whispered.
"She's not a name we recognize."
Elariax smiled. The kind of smile that makes centuries weep.
"Good," she said. "Because I didn't come to rule their story."
"I came to end it."
And then she sat.
Not like a queen.
Like a verdict.