The fire had died hours ago.
Yet the sanctum still breathed heat.
It clung to the shattered stone like a lingering curse, seeping into Kael's skin, into his lungs, into his thoughts. Ash drifted endlessly through the broken chamber, turning the air gray and heavy, each falling fragment a reminder that something ancient had been disturbed—and could never be put back to sleep.
Kael stood alone at the center of the ruin.
Once, this place had been sacred. Kings had knelt here. Oaths had been sworn beneath vaulted ceilings etched with runes of binding and unity. Now the pillars lay fractured, their carvings scorched into meaningless scars. The altar was split in two, its surface blackened as if struck by lightning drawn from the earth itself.
Kael's hands trembled.
I didn't mean to…
The thought repeated uselessly in his mind, offering no comfort. Intent did not matter. The sanctum had burned all the same.
A pulse surged through his chest.
Kael gasped, staggering backward as the mark beneath his tunic flared to life. Heat ripped through him—not like flame, but like memory. Ancient, furious, demanding to be remembered.
He fell to one knee, breath ragged, fingers clawing into ash and stone.
Visions struck him without warning.
A vast hall filled with kneeling figures. A crown hovering above them—wrong in shape, forged not of gold but of shadow and living fire. A king stood alone beneath it, head bowed, hands shaking as the crown descended.
When it touched his brow, the world screamed.
Kael cried out, the vision tearing itself apart as suddenly as it had come. He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the mark burn beneath his skin like a brand freshly carved.
"No more," he whispered into the ruin. "Please."
The sanctum answered with silence.
Then—footsteps.
Kael's head snapped up. His hand flew to the dagger at his belt, instincts screaming as a figure emerged from the haze at the edge of the chamber. Cloaked in ash-gray cloth, the stranger moved with slow deliberation, leaning heavily on a staff etched with symbols Kael did not recognize—but felt.
They pulsed faintly, as though responding to him.
"You hear it now, don't you?" the stranger said.
His voice was low, worn thin by years and regret.
"Show yourself," Kael demanded, forcing himself to stand despite the pain coursing through him.
The figure stepped into the fractured light spilling through the broken ceiling. The hood fell back, revealing a face carved by time. One eye was clouded white and blind. The other burned sharp and watchful, unsettling in its clarity.
"The echo beneath the ash," the man continued softly. "The voice that refuses to stay buried."
Kael swallowed. The mark pulsed again at the words, as if recognizing something it had long forgotten.
"Who are you?" Kael asked.
The old man studied him in silence, gaze lingering on Kael's chest as though he could see straight through cloth and flesh alike.
"Someone who failed," he said at last. "And someone who cannot afford to fail again."
He planted his staff against the stone. The symbols carved into it flared to life, casting a pale blue glow across the ruins. Shadows recoiled, stretching unnaturally along the broken walls.
"This place," the man said, gesturing around them, "was not destroyed tonight."
Kael let out a bitter laugh. "It looks destroyed to me."
The old man's expression did not change. "It was awakened."
The word struck deeper than Kael expected.
"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," Kael said quietly. "I didn't even know what this place truly was."
"No," the stranger agreed. "But the Crown does not wait for permission."
Kael stiffened.
"There is no crown," he said. "Not anymore. The First Crown burned centuries ago. Everyone knows that."
The old man smiled, thin and joyless. "Histories are written by survivors. Truth is written by the dead."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The First Crown was not destroyed. It was broken—scattered, bound to blood and oath alike."
Kael's breath caught.
"You're saying…" His voice faltered. "You're saying it's still out there."
"I am saying," the man corrected gently, "that it remembers."
Kael felt suddenly exposed. The mark on his chest throbbed, heat radiating outward as if trying to claw its way free.
"You carry its echo," the old man continued. "Not the Crown itself—but the call it leaves behind. The same call that once summoned kings and shattered empires."
Kael shook his head, denial rising sharp and desperate. "I'm no king. I don't want power. I just—"
"—want to survive?" the man finished.
Kael met his gaze. "Yes."
The old man sighed. "Then you are already in danger."
A distant horn sounded beyond the shattered walls.
Kael froze.
Another horn answered it, closer this time.
"The Ashwardens," the stranger said. "They will not ignore a burning sanctum. Nor will the High Houses ignore rumors of awakening power."
Panic surged through Kael's chest. "Then I have to leave. Now."
He turned—but the old man stepped into his path, staff blocking the way.
"You can run," the man said calmly. "Or you can descend."
Kael stared at him. "Descend where?"
The staff struck the ground.
The stone beneath their feet trembled. Ash slid aside as ancient seams revealed themselves, glowing faintly blue. With a grinding roar, the floor split open, revealing a spiral stairway plunging into darkness.
Cold air rushed upward, carrying the scent of iron and long-dead smoke.
"The echo comes from below," the old man said. "From where the First King fell—and where the Crown was silenced."
Kael peered into the void. The darkness felt alive, familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.
Another horn sounded. Very close now.
"If this is a trap—" Kael began.
"It is," the man interrupted evenly. "But not mine."
Kael hesitated only a moment longer.
Then he stepped forward.
The stairway swallowed them whole. Stone ground shut above their heads with a thunderous finality, sealing away the world of ash and flame. Darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by the faint glow of the staff—and the growing fire beneath Kael's skin.
As they descended, the air grew heavier, colder. Whispers brushed against Kael's thoughts, not words but intent. Regret. Fury. Hunger.
"This place is older than the kingdom," the old man said quietly. "Older than the Crown itself. It is where the oath was made."
"What oath?" Kael asked.
The man stopped.
"The oath that no single soul should ever bear the Crown again."
Pain exploded through Kael's chest.
He collapsed, screaming as the mark flared violently, visions tearing through him like claws.
Kings screaming. Cities burning. A crown splitting apart as hands—human and not—reached for it.
And beneath it all, a voice, ancient and unyielding.
You are not the first…
The darkness answered, pressing close.
…but you may be the last.
Kael screamed as the echo rose to meet him.