The descent felt endless.
Step after step, the stone spiral narrowed, carved not by tools, but by time and power. The torches lining the walls were long dead, their holders rusted to dust. Only the pale glow of Elaine's lantern lit the way, casting long shadows that danced across glyphs carved in tongues neither of them could read.
Kaelen said nothing. His breath came slower now, not from fatigue, but from the strange pressure in the air. The deeper they went, the more it felt like the world above was being left behind—not just in distance, but in meaning. Down here, things obeyed different rules. Older ones.
"What is this place?" Elaine whispered again, her voice barely carrying. "It's like it's… watching us."
Kaelen's answer came only in a glance. He wasn't certain, but something in his blood knew. His footsteps grew steadier. Something within these walls recognized him—and that frightened him more than anything else.
At last, the stairs ended in a circular chamber, vast and cathedral-like. Pillars reached into blackness above. The ground was paved in cracked stone tiles, forming a pattern that shifted when looked at directly. In the center stood the throne.
Not a royal seat, nor one of splendor. It was jagged, forged from a single block of obsidian, veins of deep crimson pulsing faintly like blood beneath skin. It looked more like a sacrificial altar than a place of rulership.
Kaelen froze.
The moment he saw it, his heart twisted. There was no crown atop this throne—only the impression of weight. Of presence. Of judgment.
Elaine stepped beside him, eyes wide. "There were three thrones… weren't there?"
Kaelen didn't reply. He stepped forward.
As he approached, ancient runes flared to life across the walls in red, gold, and black. The chamber trembled, like the earth itself remembered something it wanted to forget. The crownless boy placed a hand on the cold stone.
And the past flooded in.
Flashes of fire. Screams. Chains.
Three kings, once bound by oath. One broke it.
And this throne—the third—had been sealed away. Not out of mercy. Not out of fear. But because its occupant had never died.
A voice, low and fractured by time, echoed through the chamber:
"You walk the path of the Oathbreaker."
Kaelen staggered back, the vision overwhelming. He clutched his head, memories not his own clawing through his mind: blood spilled across golden floors, a voice singing in ruin, a hand offering power where none should be.
Elaine caught him, steadying him. "Kaelen… what did you see?"
He turned to her slowly, the lines of his face drawn tighter than before.
"This throne," he said, "was not meant to be sat upon. Not by man. Not by king. It was built to contain something—someone. A force older than the crown itself."
Her expression paled. "You mean…"
He nodded. "The first betrayal. The first fall. This is where it began."
The symbols on the walls pulsed faster now, resonating with Kaelen's blood. The air grew heavy, dense with forgotten magic.
And then… a whisper.
"The seal is thinning."
Kaelen stepped back from the throne, heart pounding.
Elaine looked around, panic rising. "We need to get out. Now."
But Kaelen didn't move. He looked back at the throne, the obsidian surface beginning to fracture ever so slightly. Beneath it, something stirred—neither dead nor alive.
He turned to Elaine, voice low.
"We woke it."
She grabbed his hand. "Then we run."
And they did—back through the corridor, past the crumbling glyphs and groaning stone. Behind them, the chamber pulsed once more. And then:
A voice, ancient and furious, screamed into the dark:
"THE BLOOD RETURNS."