The remnants of dawn painted the city in a haunting crimson hue, as if the heavens mourned the throne's destruction. Lucian marched through the palace gates with Seraphis beside him, his boots crunching over broken banners and cracked sigils once bearing the House of Caelvaris' emblem.
The crowd outside was growing—word of the fall had spread, and with it, a volatile mix of hope and fear. Some came seeking justice. Others came simply to survive. Most came because they no longer knew who ruled them.
But something else was stirring. Something older.
The earth beneath the palace vibrated faintly. Lucian paused, then knelt down, palm pressed to the ground. He could feel it—the same pulse that once flowed through the Whispering Flame, but now... deeper, colder.
"What is it?" Seraphis asked.
He narrowed his eyes. "There's something buried here. Under the foundation."
They made their way into the lower levels of the keep—the catacombs where past kings were entombed. Dust choked the air, and ancient statues of forgotten gods lined the path, watching with hollow eyes.
Halfway down, they encountered an old figure in robes the color of dead leaves. He stood motionless at the edge of a collapsed stairwell. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
"You burned the throne," he rasped. "But the roots run deeper than stone."
Lucian's hand flared, light from the Whispering Flame casting eerie shadows across the chamber. "Who are you?"
"I am the Watcher," the man said. "I guard what lies beneath—what even kings feared to name."
Lucian took a step forward. "A curse?"
"A truth," the Watcher replied, eyes glinting unnaturally. "Before the throne, before the empire, there was a pact. Blood for fire. Flesh for power. The flame remembers, even if men forget."
Seraphis frowned. "What's he talking about?"
The Watcher turned, lifting a crumbling scroll from a pedestal. "The First Heir... was not born of royal blood, but forged. A vessel. And the pact still binds those who carry the mark."
Lucian's breath caught. "You're saying… I was made for this?"
"Not made," the Watcher corrected. "Chosen. By the flame itself. You were never meant to sit the throne. You were meant to break it—and awaken the Seed."
Behind them, the walls pulsed. Slowly. Rhythmically. Like a heartbeat buried deep beneath stone.
Lucian took the scroll, opening it carefully. Symbols flared in response to his touch. They were alive—mimicking the runes burned into Eltan's hand.
Seraphis stepped back. "Lucian, this isn't just about power anymore. This… this is something ancient. Elemental."
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes were locked on the final passage of the scroll:
"Only when the heir rejects the crown shall the flame take root in the earth, and the Seed awaken beneath the blood of kings."
Lucian looked up. "This city is not just a capital. It's a chrysalis."
The Watcher smiled. "And you, child of ash… are its catalyst."
Far above, thunder cracked the sky. But in the silence below, something else cracked—an ancient seal beneath the tombs, releasing heat not of fire, but of rebirth.
Lucian turned toward Seraphis, his voice unwavering.
"Then it's time to stop ruling, and start remaking."
And as the seal broke wide open, the earth trembled—not in destruction, but in anticipation.