"In the realm of the dead, kings do not vanish — they are erased.""Every throne in the Underworld has been soaked in blood, shadow, and betrayal. The stone remembers. The shadows never forget.""And when a ruler is gone, it is not the living who grieve… but the dead who grow restless."
The hall was empty.
The kind of empty that doesn't simply mean no one is there—it's the heavy, echoing emptiness that feels like the air itself is holding its breath.
The marble beneath my palms was cold, veined with black lines that looked too much like cracks. My fingers curled over the carved arms of the throne, the weight of it pressing into my spine.
And then I saw him.
The man in black armor.
He was standing at the foot of the dais, half-veiled in shadow, as though the darkness had shaped itself into his form. His armor was not polished steel but something darker, swallowing the light, its edges etched with runes I did not know but instinctively feared.
A sword hung at his side — not in a sheath, but suspended in the air, as if the shadows themselves cradled it.
I could not see his face beneath the black helm, but I knew — with the strange certainty that comes in dreams — that his eyes were on me.
I blinked.
And he was gone.
The space where he had stood seemed emptier now, somehow colder.
I leaned back against the throne, closing my eyes as if that would steady me.
It didn't.
Instead, the image sharpened — and suddenly I wasn't in this pristine hall anymore.
The throne beneath me was cracked, jagged, and warm under my palms, as if it had soaked in fire. Ash drifted in the air. The torches were not lit; the only light came from the sword in the black-armored man's hand, its blade bleeding shadows into the air around it.
"Stay behind me," he had said. His voice — deep, steady, dangerous — rolled through me like a memory I had almost lost.
Before I could step forward, the vision broke apart.
My eyes flew open. The hall was whole again. Silent. Untouched.
But my heartbeat hadn't slowed.
That's when I heard them.
Whispers.
Soft, sliding sounds — like silk dragged over stone — curling into words I could almost understand.
I sat up straighter, scanning the empty corners of the throne room.
The sound didn't come from a place. It came from everywhere.
One word rose and fell again and again, hissed in tones that carried suspicion, dread, and something like longing.
"Hades…"
I stood.
The shadows stirred as if waking, their edges curling around my ankles, trailing me as I stepped down from the dais. They moved like living smoke, spreading across the floor in my wake.
The heavy doors loomed ahead, carved with scenes of war, death, and something stranger — a man and woman seated together, both crowned, both draped in shadow. The woman's face had been worn away.
I pushed the doors open.
The corridor beyond was colder, lined with towering black columns that stretched high into darkness. Torches burned in deep brackets along the walls, their flames the color of dying embers — not red, but blue and violet.
Figures moved along the hall — robed attendants, armored guards, and pale-skinned courtiers who kept their heads bowed as they passed.
None looked at me directly.
But the whispers followed.
"…gone…""…never thought it possible…""…the Queen sits, but the King is missing…""…perhaps she—"
The last voice cut off sharply when I stopped walking.
My shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the feet of the two courtiers who had been speaking.
They froze.
Slowly, they lowered their heads further, pale lips pressed tight, before retreating into a side passage.
I watched them go. My shadow receded reluctantly, curling back toward me like a pet denied its hunt.
The robed man from earlier — my so-called advisor — was waiting near the base of a great staircase carved directly into the black stone.
His robe was deep crimson, trimmed with gold thread that caught the blue torchlight. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked over me before he bowed low.
"Your Majesty," he said smoothly. "The council chambers have been… lively in your absence."
"That's one word for it," I said. "They're whispering about Hades."
His expression didn't shift, but his gaze briefly slid to the shadows coiling at my feet. "They always do. Whispers are the heartbeat of this court. But like a heartbeat, when it quickens… it can mean danger."
I stepped closer. "Then tell me. Where is he?"
The robed man began walking up the stairs without answering. I followed. The climb was slow, each step echoing like a drumbeat.
Finally, he said, "Hades is… gone. Not dead. Not defeated. Simply absent. The manner of his departure is known to very few."
"And you are one of those few?" I pressed.
His mouth tightened. "I was… present when it happened. But the truth is not yet for your ears, Majesty. Not until you are prepared to—"
"To what?" I demanded.
He stopped halfway up the stairs, turning to face me fully.
"Not until you are prepared to decide whether you wish to bring him back… or keep the throne for yourself."
The air thickened.
For a heartbeat, I thought I felt something warm and steady at my back — like the weight of a hand resting on the throne again, like the man in black armor was there, silent but watching.
I swallowed the instinct to turn around.
Before I could speak, a breathless messenger appeared at the top of the stairs. His robe was torn, his hair damp with sweat. He dropped into a bow so deep his forehead nearly touched the stone.
"Majesty," he panted. "There has been… an incident. At the Gates."
The robed man's tone sharpened. "Which Gates?"
"The Ashen Gates, my lord. The Watcher reports movement… from the other side."
The robed man looked at me, his expression unreadable.
"Majesty," he said quietly, "it seems your reign will not begin quietly."
The shadows at my feet shifted — not with fear, but with anticipation, like predators scenting prey.
And deep inside me, in that hollow place where my memories should have been, something answered.
I didn't know who I was.
I didn't know if I wanted the King back.
But I knew one thing — if I wanted this throne, I would have to fight for it.
And perhaps… someone was already fighting for me.