Chapter 23: The Hollow Throne
Smoke still curled from the charred bones of Velcrest. Towers that once soared like spears into the heavens now slouched in ruin. The air hung thick with ash and the scent of singed flesh, while gusts of wind whispered through broken stained glass, scattering crimson and gold reflections over shattered cobblestones. The once-sacred heart of Ederlan's north pulsed with memory and blood.
Elias stepped through the crumbling archway of Ember Cathedral's western transept. Rubble crunched under his boots—part stone, part bone. His cloak clung damp to his back, the rain having come too late to cleanse the sins of the siege. Velena moved beside him, her eyes flicking from alcove to arch, alert for threats and ghosts alike.
No words passed between them at first. There was only the groan of the wounded, distant screams of survivors being pulled from wreckage, and the clang of soldiers dismantling broken siege engines outside the city gates.
High Arcanist Ralvarin paced within the main nave, boots silent against rune-carved tiles. He studied the massive, shattered throne at the dais—a relic of Velcrest's old ecclesiastical kings. The crimson banners that had once hung above it now lay in shreds, soaked with rain and blood.
"This was once a seat of miracles," he murmured. "Now it's a grave."
"Maybe it always was," said Seris Vandra, cleaning the blade of her obsidian dagger near a stained glass window that somehow survived the bombardment. Light filtered through the painted visage of a saint with her eyes torn out.
Cambric knelt near the altar, pressing fingers to the cold stone. "This wasn't just a siege. Something opened here. I feel it under my skin."
"It wasn't just a siege," Elias agreed. He knelt beside him and brushed dust from an embedded relic: a golden sun disc etched with forgotten runes. "They weren't after conquest. They were after revelation."
From above, an echoing shriek split the morning gloom. Winged shadows passed across the broken dome—remnants of the cult's summoned beasts. Seris stood. "We didn't kill them all."
"We'll need to, before night falls," Elias replied.
---
Later that day, the group met in what remained of the Cathedral's inner court—a wide circular chamber where moss now grew in cracks once sealed by divine wards. The walls bore murals half-consumed by flame, depicting gods both familiar and erased. Between columns stood a new figure: Aemros Velshade, a surviving noble of Velcrest, his armor scorched and his voice hard.
"You should not have come," he said, leveling a spear tipped with blood-hardened glass. "The warlords of the Crown will not forgive this rebellion."
Elias studied him, voice calm. "We came to stop a god's resurrection. Do you think the Crown will care more about your allegiance than their survival?"
Velshade narrowed his eyes. "You speak as if you've already taken the throne."
"I don't want it. But I'll stand in it if no one else can stop what's coming."
A silence followed, taut and bitter. Behind them, Velena rested a hand on her dagger hilt.
"I remember you," Aemros finally said. "You were the boy who disappeared from the Durell estate after the Great Fire."
Elias nodded. "And I remember you kneeling beside my father's corpse."
A flicker of shame passed through the man's eyes.
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That night, while the wounded slept and soldiers set up encampments in the shattered cloisters, Elias sat alone in the high pulpit. Velena approached, boots soft against the worn carpet. She carried wine, its scent rich with spices, and two goblets carved from bone.
"You're too quiet," she said.
"I saw the Bastion again," he whispered. "In the smoke. In the screams. He's not dead. Not really."
"Then we kill him twice." She handed him the goblet.
He drank. The wine burned with the warmth of memory. He looked at her, not as a mage or a fighter—but as the woman who'd stood beside him through each scar of this war. Her hair was unbound, and the moonlight caught on the curve of her neck.
"I almost lost you," he said.
"But you didn't." She stepped closer.
Their kiss was fierce this time—less yearning, more urgent. Clothes loosened with frantic fingers. Her breath hitched as he traced a scar along her thigh, memories mingling with desire. They fell together onto the silk-strewn seat of the throne, a place once reserved for kings and gods.
There, in the hollow heart of a ruined temple, they made love not as saviors or sinners, but as survivors—marking each other with need, with sorrow, and with the stubborn hope of dawn.
Outside, the city groaned with rebirth.
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At sunrise, Elias led a small group through the underground archives of the Ember Cathedral. Each corridor was lit by dim blue lanterns, revealing murals of long-forgotten pantheons—gods devoured by war, deities bound in chains beneath mountains, celestial beasts trapped in frozen lakes.
Seris halted. "These aren't myths. These are warnings."
Ralvarin stepped forward and activated an ancient mechanism in the wall. A door groaned open, revealing a vast subterranean chamber where thousands of relics hung suspended in glowing threads of ley-energy.
"This is where the gods were buried," he whispered.
Among the relics, a massive black mirror pulsed faintly. Elias stepped toward it, entranced. The mirror shimmered, and for a heartbeat, he saw himself—but older. Broken. Wearing a crown of thorns and wielding fire in both hands.
Velena pulled him back. "It's not just showing you. It's shaping you."
"I know," he breathed. "But if we don't learn how they rose, we'll never stop their return."
---
By midday, scouts reported sightings of The Ember Hand—a militant branch of the cult—regrouping in the southern hills. Elias sent Cambric and Seris to intercept. They left on horseback, their armor freshly repaired and eyes sharp with vengeance.
Back in Velcrest, the political fissures widened. Noble houses re-emerged from hiding. Priests argued over rites and rights. Refugees demanded food and sanctuary. In a tense council beneath the broken dome, Elias stood with Velena and Ralvarin against five bannered factions.
"You want a king?" Elias asked. "Then choose one. But know this—if you let your pride blind you again, it won't be just Velcrest that burns."
A tense silence. Then Aemros stepped forward and lowered his blade.
"I'll follow you. Not because I trust you, but because I trust what you've done."
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That night, while the city lay in uneasy peace, Elias dreamed. He walked across a field of bone and fire, and in the distance, a figure waited—robed in flame, crowned in gold, and eyes like twin suns.
"You stole what was mine," the figure said. "Now I'll take what's yours."
Elias awoke in sweat, hand clutching his blade.
And in the sky above Velcrest, a second moon had appeared—blood red, and watching.
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End of chapter 23