Crownless King: The Heir of the Forgotten Throne
Chapter 9 – The Throne That Remembered
The Vault wasn't just a room. It was an agonizing wound in the fabric of the city itself.
Nestled quietly beneath Vel'Therin's towering central spire, this enigmatic place pulsed rhythmically with ley-radiance, a soft, eerie glow that seemed to emanate from the very essence of time itself. More than a mere physical structure, it was a fracture in the continuum of history—an immense chasm where the weight of forgotten pasts had been locked away, deliberately neglected, and fiercely denied.
Tarin, a mage of considerable skill yet considerable scars, conjured an incantation that opened the outer gates of The Vault, but the action was not taken without dire sacrifices. His left hand shook uncontrollably, remnants of the excruciating ley-burns marking his skin like a cruel reminder of his reckless magic. The intricate runes etched along his forearm glimmered faintly, bleeding silver as if infused with some ancient power.
"You've got ten minutes," he urged, his voice hoarse and filled with pain, each word spat through gritted teeth. "After that, the containment protocol will reactivate—and I can't hold it back again."
Kael, resolute and determined, stepped forward into the tension-filled air, feeling the weight of fate pressing upon his shoulders. Seris, steadfast as ever, reached out to touch his shoulder with firm encouragement, a silent promise that he would not face this alone. He nodded in acknowledgment, drawing strength from her presence.
Then Kael descended into the heart of uncertainty.
The stairway disappeared after what felt like a mere twenty steps, extinguishing itself in the depths of darkness.
And suddenly—
He found himself standing in a wide, circular chamber, utterly devoid of doors, windows, or ceiling. The sheer absence of boundaries was unsettling, as if he had stepped into a void crafted from stillness and piercing light, where time seemed irrelevant.
Suspended in the center of this otherworldly space, encircled by jagged remnants of fractured stone and slowly rotating constellations, there lay a throne.
It was not adorned in gold nor embellished with exquisite artwork—it was instead a sculptural testament to the chaos of battle, built from broken swords and twisted relics that all spoke of ancient wars long past. This throne pulsed with the weight of memory, resonating with an energy that felt both inviting and foreboding.
Kael approached cautiously.
With each step he took, the echoes of his footfalls reverberated not just through the chamber but deep within his very soul. Visions flared to life at the periphery of his consciousness like flickering stars:
A battlefield strewn with shards of glass that glinted cruelly in the light.
A woman's anguished scream as cities crumbled around her like fragile toys.
A child, innocent and wide-eyed, grasping at a crown far too large and heavy for his small head.
A hand, his hand—yet aged, weary, wrinkled—reaching hopelessly toward a sky that had turned its back on him.
The throne, ancient and wise, spoke without uttering a single word.
"Who are you?"
Kael drew a shaky breath. "Kael Ardyn."
"Who do you serve?"
The question hung heavily in the air, and he hesitated, grappling with the truth of his existence. "No one."
"Then why are you here?"
Kael clenched his jaw, his resolve hardening. "I didn't come here to kneel," he affirmed, voice steadying. "I came to understand the truths that have been lost."
The air shifted around him, electric and alive.
And in an instant—
The world before him tore apart at the seams.
He was abruptly transported to an ancient battlefield, the wind howling around him with a chilling intensity.
But this was no mere illusion crafted by the mind; it was an indelible memory preserved within the essence of that throne, a vivid recollection of chaos and despair. All around him, soldiers clad in shattered armor cried out in terror as crimson lightning ripped through the heavens, striking down indiscriminately.
In the center of the maelstrom, a man stood—tall, weary, and drenched in blood.
A man wearing his face—yet older, more embittered, and infinitely sadder.
The original Crownless.
He turned to meet Kael's gaze, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light reminiscent of dying stars.
"So. You came to claim what was mine."
Kael's heart raced, his breaths shallow. "No… I came to find out why it was ever yours."
The Crownless stepped down from the chaos of the battlefield, walking purposefully toward him as the cries of the dying echoed ominously.
"They called me mad. Traitor. Godkiller."
"I shattered the skies because they dared tell me I couldn't."
With a sweeping gesture, he pointed toward the burning heavens.
"You share my blood, but that is not the reason for your presence here. You're here because the world is once again spiraling toward destruction—and someone must be willing to jump into the abyss."
Kael's throat tightened, the weight of dread settling in his chest.
"I'm not ready for this," he admitted, fear lacing his voice.
"Neither was I," the Crownless responded, a note of somber understanding in his tone.
"But you chose to step forward. That's the only difference between a king and a corpse."
As the memory around them trembled and quaked, the sky above them split open, revealing a brightness so intense it threatened to consume everything in its light.
The Crownless stepped forward, placing a broad hand upon Kael's chest.
"Then listen closely. Because this is the painful truth they will never share with you."
A profound silence fell between them.
"There was never a throne."
> "Only the ashes left behind by those brave enough to carry it."
In a blinding flash, the illusion shattered, and Kael was back in the chamber—the throne now pulsating erratically.
It thrummed once, resonating with something deeper, before falling ominously silent.
The runes on his forearm ignited in brilliant gold and silver, their glow illuminating the darkness around him.
From the air, a crown unfurled itself, defying gravity, as it hovered momentarily before settling softly onto his back.
Not as a burdensome weight but as a mantle, accepting its rightful place upon him.
"Tarin's voice echoed up from above, cutting through the heavy air. "NOW, Kael!"
With adrenaline surging through his veins, Kael sprinted without hesitation.
He leapt into the collapsing stairwell, his hand reaching out instinctively to grasp Seris's outstretched hand. He hit the ground hard, just as the imposing vault door slammed shut behind them with an earth-shaking thud.
Breathless, exhausted, and irrevocably changed, Kael turned to Seris. Her gaze locked onto him, wide with astonishment.
"You're glowing," she whispered, awed by the inexplicable luminescence surrounding him.
Kael looked down, nearly gasping as he realized it was true.
But it wasn't mere light.
It was memory—echoes of the past entwined with an ancient fire that seemed to breathe within him.
And in that moment, for the very first time since this tumultuous journey began—
He didn't feel like he was burdened under the weight of a crown.
He felt as though it had become a part of his very flesh.
Far above, behind the intricately designed stained-glass facade of the Twelve's high chamber, a voice hissed ominously:
"The Vault has accepted him."
"Then we're out of time."
The stakes had never felt higher. The battle was only just beginning.
To be continued...