The winds of the Hollow Expanse whispered with voices long dead.
Kael trudged through the desolate wasteland, the remains of once-majestic spires jutting from the ash-covered ground like broken teeth. His cloak, tattered from his battle beneath Skyfall, fluttered behind him as he pressed forward, guided only by the faint pull of the Abyss Crown sealed within his core. He hadn't slept in days—rest eluded him ever since the Eclipse of the First Light. Visions plagued him now: bloodied thrones, dying gods, a girl with silver eyes calling his name through dimensions he had never known.
But today was different.
He stood before what remained of the Court of the Crownless—a forbidden conclave of ancient kings who had betrayed the celestial order and paid with their souls. Their tombs were no longer stone—they were cages of voidsteel, humming with cursed runes, buried beneath layers of forgotten faith.
Kael dropped to his knees. The ground trembled beneath him, responding to his presence.
"You wear no crown," a voice echoed from nowhere."And yet you reek of dominion."
From the shadows of broken archways, spectral figures emerged. Ten of them—tall, regal, shrouded in ruined majesty. Their eyes burned with hatred, not for Kael, but for what he might become.
"State your claim, Abyss-Blooded," rasped one, his voice like a blade dragging through gravel.
Kael rose, slowly, his gaze steady. "I do not seek to rule," he said. "I seek to awaken what your betrayal buried."
A pause. A ripple in the air.
One of the Crownless surged forward, stopping inches from Kael. His face, if it could be called that, was a chasm of writhing dark. "Then you are a fool. The Abyss does not awaken—it consumes."
"I've already been consumed," Kael answered. "And I emerged still breathing."
The court murmured in voices that shattered stone.
"Then prove it," the wraith-king growled. "Prove you are more than the boy who crawled from the abyss."
Suddenly, the runes on the ground ignited, forming a perfect circle around Kael. Trial by Void. No weapons. No allies. No second chances.
From the void above, a beast descended—Skaveth, the Soul-Eater of Epochs, bound to this plane by chains of oath and sorrow. Its body was a mess of flickering eyes and jagged wings, stitched together with centuries of broken promises. It let out a shriek that made time stutter.
Kael's hands trembled, not with fear—but hunger. The Abyss within him stirred. Not to flee. But to devour.
As Skaveth lunged, Kael stood his ground. His eyes bled black.
"Let's see if a king needs a crown."
He stepped into the storm.
The battle was not fair, nor beautiful. It was savage. Pure instinct versus ancient fury. Kael was thrown, crushed, torn—yet he rose every time, his flesh knitting back with black tendrils of abyssal power. And then he understood:
He wasn't fighting to survive.
He was being judged.
Skaveth roared, lunging with finality. Kael caught its jaw with one hand and drove his abyss-forged fist into its heart. Not to kill. But to consume.
The beast shrieked one last time and crumbled into dust—dust that was drawn into Kael's core.
Silence fell.
The Crownless stared.
One by one, they knelt.
"You do not wear a crown," their leader whispered, "but the Abyss kneels to you. The Court of the Crownless serves once more."
Kael did not smile.
There was nothing to smile for yet.