The kingdom of Shyamalgarh had no king.
Only a throne.
It stood at the center of the ruined palace—tall, jagged, and pale as moonlight. From a distance it looked carved from ivory. But up close, everyone knew the truth. It was made of bones.
Not animal bones.
Human.
For two hundred years the throne had waited. Every ruler who claimed it died within a year—some by betrayal, some by madness, some by their own trembling hands. The people said the throne was cursed. The priests said it was divine judgment. The soldiers said nothing at all.
On the night the sky turned red, a seventeen-year-old girl walked through the palace gates.
Her name was Ira.
She was not royal. Not noble. Not chosen by prophecy. She was the daughter of a cremation worker, raised among ashes and silence. She had seen bones her entire life. They did not frighten her.
Power did.
The palace guards laughed when she demanded entry. They laughed until the earth shook.
From the northern hills came the war drums of the Krodh Empire. By dawn, Shyamalgarh would burn. The ministers had fled. The generals had hidden. There was no one left to claim leadership.
Except the girl who did not tremble.
Inside the throne room, the air was cold. The Throne of Bones rose like a skeleton giant, ribs arching outward to form its back, skulls fused into its armrests. The hollow eye sockets seemed to watch her.
"Sit," whispered something in the silence.
Ira stepped closer.
Each bone held a story. Warriors. Traitors. Kings. Rebels. The throne was not decoration—it was memory. A monument built from those who fought for the kingdom… and those who tried to destroy it.
She placed her hand on the armrest.
It was warm.
The drums outside grew louder.
"Sit," the whisper came again, sharper now. Not a command. A test.
Ira understood.
The throne did not kill rulers because it was cursed.
It killed the unworthy.
Slowly, she climbed the steps and sat.
Pain exploded through her body.
Visions flooded her mind—battlefields soaked in rain and blood, burning villages, broken promises, desperate prayers. She saw the first king who had ordered the throne built from the bones of invaders, swearing that Shyamalgarh would never kneel. She saw rulers who later used it for pride instead of protection.
The throne was never hungry for power.
It was hungry for sacrifice.
Ira did not scream.
She had carried the dead since childhood. She knew pain. She knew loss. She knew that ruling was not about sitting above others—it was about standing when no one else would.
"I will not use you for glory," she whispered. "Only for defense."
The pain stopped.
The bones shifted.
The skulls' hollow eyes ignited with faint blue fire.
Outside, the gates shattered as the Krodh army stormed in.
Ira rose from the throne.
The bones cracked and separated, flowing like a living storm around her. They formed armor across her shoulders, ribs across her chest, a crown of pale fragments above her head. The throne no longer stood behind her.
It stood with her.
When she stepped into the courtyard, the invading soldiers froze.
A girl walked toward them clad in the memory of a hundred warriors.
"Shyamalgarh does not kneel," she said.
The ground answered.
From beneath the soil rose the bones of those who had fallen defending the kingdom. Not as monsters. Not as mindless horror. But as guardians shaped of light and memory.
The battle did not last long.
By sunrise, the red sky faded. The invaders fled. The people emerged from hiding and saw their new ruler standing amid quiet dust, the bone armor dissolving gently back into the earth.
The throne had returned to the palace hall—whole again, waiting.
Ira did not sit immediately.
She rebuilt the walls first. Fed the hungry. Buried the dead with honor.
Only after the kingdom breathed again did she return to the throne room.
This time, when she sat, there was no pain.
Only silence.
And beneath that silence—
Approval.
The Throne of Bones had finally found not a ruler…
But a guardian.