The Iron Throne hadn't been touched in a week. In Aurelion, that was enough to send whispers through every street and alley. Kings die, sure but an empty throne? That's trouble screaming in silence.
Rain lashed the capital, streaking down the black spires like the sky itself was crying. Bells tolled not in celebration, but in mourning. King Aldric IV was dead, and no one dared sit in his place. Nobles whispered in curtained rooms, soldiers polished swords with nervous hands, and priests muttered prayers thick with smoke.
Far beyond the city walls, in a border town that time had mostly forgotten, Kael Draven listened to the same rain hammering the roof.
He sat alone by a dying fire, his gloves beside him, a sword wrapped in black cloth across his lap. The blade hummed faintly the ancient runes beneath the wrapping thrummed whenever war crept close.
"They're calling you back," said a croaky voice from the corner.
Kael didn't look up. "No one calls a ghost."
The man, Master Edrin, coughed and chuckled at the same time. "Kings die. Thrones remain empty. And forgotten princes… well, they tend to become dangerous again."
Kael's fingers clenched the wrapped sword. He had been many things over the years: soldier, mercenary, assassin. But prince? That was a word he refused to touch.
"They executed my mother in the palace square," he said quietly. "Erased me from the bloodline. Whatever throne's left now… it's built on her screams."
Edrin's eyes, pale and faded with age, studied him. "And yet… the Iron Throne remembers."
A sudden crack of thunder shook the town, and for a moment, the fire flared bright enough to illuminate the blade beneath the wrapping. Kael rose, scarred in ways no crown could heal. He picked up a sealed letter from the table black wax, broken sigil, no return address.
Inside, three words:
They know you live.
Kael exhaled slowly. The game had begun.
He left the town at dawn, cloaked and hooded, slipping through forests that whispered with secrets. By midday, he'd crossed paths with bandits, narrowly escaping by drawing the blade for the first time in years. Its runes flared like fire, and the attackers scattered in terror.
By the time he reached the outer walls of the capital, the city seemed almost alive with suspicion. Smoke curled from rooftops; children peeked from windows; soldiers patrolled with eyes too sharp to be ordinary. And somewhere in the shadows, he knew, someone had already spotted him.
At the gates, a messenger ran, chest heaving. "Prince Kael… someone has… been trying to claim the throne before you returned. Lords are dying in the night."
Kael didn't flinch. The first few names were familiar: House Valcor. House Merrowyn. House Thane. Each had once hunted him, each had blood on their hands. And now, someone was playing a dangerous game with the crown while he was away.
Inside the city, rumors churned like storm clouds. A masked assassin fell in the palace courtyard; a noble vanished from his chambers; a secret alliance between two enemy houses had been formed overnight. Kael moved like a shadow, watching, listening, calculating. Every whisper was a weapon. Every glance could be betrayal.
At dusk, he finally reached the palace gates. Guards drew their spears, eyes wide. Kael raised a hand not in greeting, but in warning. He didn't need to speak. They knew him, and they feared what had survived the exile.
As he stepped inside the ancient walls, a figure appeared in the highest tower window. A woman in black, hooded, her eyes glinting like steel. She nodded once, just enough to signal: The throne is already in motion. And so is the danger.
Kael swallowed. He had expected enemies. He had expected traps. But he hadn't expected how many were waiting… and that some of them were already inside the palace, wearing faces he thought he could trust.
He tightened his grip on the blade, feeling the hum of the runes as if they sensed the coming storm. Loyalty was a lie. Truth was a weapon. And war was no longer something that waited it was here.
Somewhere deep in the palace, the Iron Throne awaited. Silent. Patient. And hungry.
Kael Draven had survived exile. But surviving the throne? That would be another matter entirely.
And someone was already plotting his death tonight.