The first arrow sliced through the mist, missing Elian's shoulder by a hair. A second followed, embedding itself in the stone at his feet. From the ruined archways surrounding the courtyard, dark figures began to pour in — hundreds, maybe thousands.
The Forsworn.
The Black Vultures.
The Council's elite assassins.
All converging on a single target: Elian.
But he didn't flinch.
The mirror behind him pulsed once and then went still, its duty complete. The ruins themselves seemed to hum under his feet — ancient magic stirring from centuries of slumber.
Maren dropped into a fighting stance beside him, her blade already stained from earlier skirmishes. Talren was chanting under his breath, summoning runes of protection with trembling fingers.
They were outnumbered. Outgunned. Surrounded.
But Elian only smiled.
"This is where it starts," he said softly.
Maren flashed him a grin. "Or where it ends."
Elian turned toward her, his eyes no longer just human — flecks of gold danced in them, remnants of the Old Blood awakening inside him.
"It's only the beginning."
---
The enemy charged.
Like a wave of darkness, they descended on the trio.
Maren was the first to meet them, moving with the grace of a hunting cat. Her sword was a blur, slicing through leather and bone, her battle cries echoing through the crumbling ruins.
Talren's magic flared to life, shields of shimmering light materializing around them. Fireballs erupted from his fingertips, sending Forsworn soldiers tumbling backward in burning agony.
And Elian — Elian moved like something out of legend.
He didn't fight like a man.
He fought like a force of nature.
Where he passed, enemies fell screaming, clutching at wounds that shimmered with golden fire. His blade — now fully awakened — sang with every strike, trailing arcs of molten light through the air.
But the enemy was endless.
No matter how many they cut down, more came.
Archers took position on the surrounding walls. Siege towers rumbled closer. War horns sounded, summoning reinforcements from every corner of the wastelands.
It was a battle they could not win by sheer force.
They needed something more.
In the midst of the chaos, a figure emerged from the smoke — a woman clad in silver armor, her face hidden behind a hawk-shaped helmet.
Maren stiffened. "That's Commander Lys."
Talren swore under his breath. "She's the Council's blade. The best killer alive."
Lys approached alone, her hands empty, her posture relaxed.
A gesture of parley.
Elian narrowed his eyes but lowered his sword slightly. "Speak."
Lys removed her helmet.
Shock rippled through Elian's body.
It wasn't Lys.
It was Nyra.
The healer from the village. The woman who had nursed him back to health when he first escaped the Council's prisons. The woman he had trusted.
"Nyra," Elian breathed. "You—?"
Her eyes gleamed coldly. "You were never supposed to survive, Elian. You were supposed to die before you became a threat."
Pain stabbed through him sharper than any blade.
She had been a spy from the beginning.
Working for the Council.
"You cared for me," he said, voice raw.
She laughed — not cruelly, but with something like sorrow. "I cared for what you represented. Hope. Change. But hope is dangerous. Change is deadly. I serve the Order. I serve stability."
Without warning, she thrust a small object into the air — a black crystal, pulsing with dark energy.
The earth trembled.
The runes on the ruins began to unravel.
Talren gasped. "She's collapsing the wards! She's going to bury us alive!"
---
Before the magic could complete, Elian acted.
He threw his blade — not at Nyra, but at the black crystal.
The sword struck true, shattering the crystal into a thousand pieces.
A shockwave ripped through the ruins, throwing everyone off their feet. Dust and stone rained from the ceiling as the ground split open, revealing a hidden chamber below — an ancient throne room, untouched by time.
In the center of the chamber sat a massive throne of black stone and gold, vines crawling up its sides. Symbols of the Old Kings were etched into every inch of it.
The Forgotten Throne.
Elian understood in a flash.
This was what the Council feared.
Not the man.
Not the bloodline.
The Throne itself.
Whoever sat upon it would not just claim the right to rule — they would command the power of the ancient world.
The very laws of reality would bend to their will.
And the Council had tried to keep it hidden at all costs.
Nyra's scream of fury pierced the chaos. "No! He must not claim it!"
Elian didn't hesitate.
He leaped.
Through crumbling stone, through smoke and ash and betrayal, he landed before the throne.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then he sat.
---
The world exploded into light.
Elian's body was wreathed in gold and crimson, ancient glyphs burning into his skin. His mind expanded outward — he felt the pulse of the earth beneath him, the whisper of the winds, the fire sleeping in the heart of mountains.
He was no longer merely a man.
He was Heir of the First Line.
He was Sovereign of the Forgotten World.
He was the living embodiment of Arelion's will.
The Council's armies faltered, sensing the shift.
Some dropped their weapons.
Others fled in terror.
Nyra knelt, her face twisted in agony, clutching at her head.
"You were supposed to be a pawn!" she sobbed. "Not a king!"
Elian rose from the throne, golden fire blazing from his eyes.
"No," he said. "I was never your pawn."
He raised a hand.
The ruins answered his call — walls of stone rising, ancient guardians awakening, the very bones of the earth itself turning against those who had tried to suppress the Old Blood.
Maren stepped forward, awe and pride shining in her eyes.
"What now?" she asked.
Elian turned to her, his voice ringing with a power that shook the heavens.
"Now," he said, "we take the fight to them."
---