The scroll burned in Lucian's hand—not with heat, but with memory.
Each word carved into its crystalline surface was alive, whispering echoes from an age where empires bowed to bloodlines, and heirs were not chosen by birth, but by sacrifice.
Seraphis glanced at him as they rode through the molten wastes. "You've read it three times. Say it aloud."
Lucian nodded. "Only the one who unburns the throne may sit upon it. Only the heir who dies once may live forever."
"And do you know what it means?"
Lucian looked ahead, where the Crown of Ash lay beyond the Valley of Silent Kings. "I think it means I have to lose something more than a battle."
They reached the valley by dusk. No birds flew here. The sky was red, scorched by a storm that never moved. Beneath a shattered archway stood a lone figure—cloaked in obsidian, face hidden beneath a mask shaped like Lucian's own.
"The False Heir," Seraphis whispered. "He's here."
Lucian stepped forward, ignoring the dread that coiled around his ribs.
"You've had your illusions long enough," he called. "The throne you seek was never yours."
The masked figure tilted his head. "On the contrary. I was born the moment you died in flame. I am the version of you that embraced power—without shame, without mercy."
"You're a weapon without a soul."
The False Heir laughed. "And you're a soul without a kingdom. Let's fix that."
He raised a hand, and the dead kings of the valley rose—skeletons clad in black armor, their hollow sockets glowing with red hatred.
Lucian didn't flinch. "Seraphis. The Flame."
She nodded and tossed him a vial—liquid gold flickering inside.
He smashed it at his feet.
The Whispering Flame exploded outward, enveloping Lucian. It didn't burn him—it recognized him.
Memories poured into his mind: a boy training with broken blades, a mother dying for a secret she wouldn't speak, a prophecy etched into his spine with ink made from dragon bone.
The dead kings staggered back.
Lucian stepped forward, eyes glowing with the flame.
The False Heir snarled. "That power was locked away."
"And now it's returned to the rightful heir."
Lucian raised his hand—and the very ground obeyed.
Lightning carved through the sky as the two Lucians collided—sword against shadow, memory against madness.
Every strike was a choice. Every parry, a refusal to become what he might have been.
Finally, Lucian drove his blade into the mask.
The False Heir crumpled, black smoke pouring from his chest.
"I was you," he whispered. "The version that won."
Lucian leaned in. "Then I'm the version that survived."
The mask cracked in half.
Silence returned.
Seraphis stepped forward. "You've done it."
Lucian didn't answer. He was staring at the throne—built of volcanic glass, bleeding light, humming with old power.
But he didn't sit.
Not yet.
"I need to know what comes after," he said.
Seraphis placed a hand on his shoulder. "That's what the next chapter is for."