Crownless King: The Heir of the Forgotten Throne
Chapter 12 – A Name That Still Bleeds
The city of Rhaemir had been engulfed in flames and destruction for a relentless span of three days, an inferno that cast a haunting glow against the backdrop of a once-vibrant metropolis.
These flames were not ignited by the claws of war, as one might expect, but rather burned fiercely from something far more insidious: fear.
The moment the Twelve, the ruling council of arcane power, revealed to the world that the Crownless—those who had been thought of as mere whispers of the past—had returned to claim their place, a tumultuous chaos erupted in the outer skylands. Cities that had been characterized by their solemnity and unyielding loyalty to the Twelve were suddenly infused with frantic energy, echoing with a cacophony of questions and uncertainty.
Some inhabitants clamored desperately for protection, seeking safety in a world that suddenly felt far more treacherous. Others, driven by anger and a thirst for vengeance, yearned for blood, fixated on the thought that the only way to restore order was to strike back. And amidst this turmoil… there were those who lingered in the shadows, biding their time for orders, waiting to see which way the winds of fate would blow.
As darkness gave way to dusk, Kael, Seris, and Tarin made their way through the ashen remnants of Rhaemir's eastern district. The air was thick with acrid smoke, and an eerie mist of drifting leyflame formed an unsettling atmosphere above them.
"This was executed with precision—a surgical strike," Seris remarked, surveying the devastation that stretched before them. Her keen eyes took in every detail, noting the absence of widespread destruction. "There's been no civilian fire, and the structures here still stand, mostly untouched. This was designed to send a specific message, nothing more."
Kael felt the chill of her words seep into his bones. The name Valian echoed in his mind—the first of the Hollow Marchers, a figure of both reverence and dread. It served as a reminder of the power they wielded, a lingering ache of fear that tightened his grip upon the folds of his cloak.
"What message?" he finally managed to inquire, his voice laced with trepidation.
With an unsettling calmness, Tarin responded, his tone devoid of any semblance of hope. "You're next."
By the time they reached the remnants of the cathedral, darkness had fallen, shrouding the area in a heavy cloak of shadows.
Tarin came to an abrupt halt, his eyes scanning the wreckage with an intent focus. "This is the place," he stated simply, gesturing toward the ruins. "Beneath the altar lies an underground chamber. It used to be a ley-echo temple—one of the resistance nests for the Crownless during the days of Seyra."
Kael's fingers brushed against the cracked surface of a stone wall, feeling the weight of history pulse beneath his touch. "Do you think this place remembers?"
A chuckle escaped Tarin's lips, albeit a mirthless one. "Everything remembers, Kael. The true question is whether it still cares about those memories."
Suddenly, a voice echoed eerily from the depths of the shadows that surrounded them, breaking the fragile silence that had settled.
"It does. But memory isn't loyalty," the voice intoned, smooth yet unsettling.
Kael and Seris spun around to confront the source, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons, only to find a figure emerging from the dense smoke.
He was slender and silent, draped in tattered red-gray robes etched with faded, intricate glyphs that hinted at long-lost power.
He bore no mask or armor.
Just a face—a young boy.
His features appeared almost innocent; he couldn't be more than Kael's age—seventeen at most. Yet his eyes held a profound depth, brimming with knowledge and sorrow, hauntingly hollow as if they had seen the world's darkest secrets.
He bore no weapon.
Rather, he embodied the essence of the weapon itself.
"My name is Ardyn, son of Nareth," he declared, his voice steady, yet tinged with an unnerving weight. "Crowned at birth and stripped of my will, forever marked by what I was born into. I am the Marcher who remembers my name."
Cold fear rippled through Kael as the implications of Ardyn's words settled heavily within him—a Marcher who possessed the capacity to speak, one who had not succumbed fully to the hollowness that defined their cursed kind.
Seris stepped protectively in front of Kael, her blades drawn in readiness. "He's not like Valian, that much is clear."
"No," Tarin murmured, the gravity of his words wrapping around them like a shroud. "He's worse."
As Ardyn took a single, deliberate step forward, the air seemed to shift, thickening with tension.
"I am not here to kill you," he asserted, as if sensing their unease.
Kael blinked, disbelief coloring his response. "You're… not?"
"No," Ardyn replied, a flicker of warmth in his gaze. "I was sent here to end you. Yet I made the choice to defy that command."
"Why?" Kael pressed, the question tumbling from his lips amidst the chaos swirling within him.
"Because I wished to see you with my own eyes. To ask a question before my demise."
Kael's heart raced, a mix of uncertainty and curiosity flooding his senses. "…What question?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.
The boy locked eyes with Kael, his expression wavering as raw vulnerability spilled forth. "Does the crown still sing?" he inquired, each word heavy with implications.
Kael took a tentative step toward him, confusion swirling within. "I don't know what that means."
Ardyn lowered his head, the weight of his thoughts evident. "Then it hasn't awakened fully."
"Which means you still have time," he continued, though the urgency in his tone suggested a ticking clock against their backs.
"Use it," he urged, a tremor of desperation creeping into his words. "Because the next one they send… she won't remember mercy."
Seris, her defenses still up, tensed at the revelation. "You're helping us. Why?"
At that moment, Ardyn's expression shifted, and for a fleeting second, Kael could see a boy beneath the layers of the weapon he had become. "Because I wanted to believe that the fire within wasn't extinguished, that hope had not completely faded from this world."
But before they could exchange anything more, the fragile moment shattered like glass. A crackling pulse echoed in the air, and suddenly a chain of glowing runes ignited upon Ardyn's skin, burning brightly like a beacon against the darkness surrounding them.
"I can feel them," he screamed, agony laced in his voice. "They've found me!"
His body began to seize, and dark tendrils of magic unfurled around him like sinister roots, the unmistakable mark of the Twelve's manipulation tightening like a noose.
Kael reached out, desperation flooding his senses. "No—wait—!"
But it was too late.
Ardyn raised his shaking hand—but this time, he did not appear as himself.
"PROTOCOL: FELL KING. INITIATED," he intoned, his voice altered, echoing with the cold authority of something far more malignant.
His eyes turned a striking white, and a sigil mask engulfed his face, obscuring the boy beneath. Panic exploded in Kael's chest as he comprehended the truth of the transformation unraveling before them: Ardyn was no longer the emerging ally he had once seemed.
Kael screamed as the boy lunged toward him, but Ardyn halted mid-motion, caught in the throes of a fierce internal conflict.
The mask cracked under the strain of his battle, and Ardyn gasped for air, struggling against the overwhelming force that sought to control him.
And then, before anyone could react or make sense of it, he drove his own dagger into his chest.
He collapsed at Kael's feet, blood spilling from the fresh wound in a furious stream.
Not silver. Not cursed.
Just human.
Kael's heart sank as he knelt beside the fallen boy, his voice trembling with emotion. "Don't let them… rewrite me."
"Don't let them… take the song," Ardyn pleaded, his breath growing shallow.
Kael nodded, a lump forming in his throat, determination mixing with despair. "I won't," he promised, fresh resolve igniting within him.
Ardyn smiled, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes, "Then maybe… maybe you're him."
And then, just like that, he became still, the weight of his burden lifted as the wind around them ceased to move.
Seris turned away, her heart heavy with the loss, while Tarin stood mute, unable to comprehend the sacrifice they had just witnessed.
Kael rose, a steely determination coursing through his veins, hardening something deep within him.
This was not a fuel born of rage, nor was it sorrow that twisted his heart.
No, this was resolve.
"They don't get to take any more names from us," he declared to the skyline, a promise sealing the air around them.
"We will end this. One way or another."
A faint, almost ethereal voice drifted from behind one of the translucent glass masks that lined the shadowy chamber, its tone carrying an unsettling calmness that sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who might have heard it.
"The Crownless did not have a hand in the boy's demise," the voice intoned, cutting through the hushed tension that hung in the air like a dense fog.
Soon after, another voice joined the conversation, its undertone laced with a sinister edge. "Compassion is nothing but a crack in our fortress of resolve. We shall exploit it to our advantage," it suggested, revealing a chilling determination to manipulate any sign of weakness.
A third voice, low and undulating, chimed in next. "Let the next Marcher carry no title, no mark of distinction. Only death shall be their legacy." This proclamation hung heavily in the air, echoing the cold resolve of those who spoke.
Then, towering above the rest, from the tallest spire of the grim assembly—an imposing figure almost obscured by layers of shadow—a girl slowly opened her eyes. Her hair shimmered like frost twinkling under the first light of dawn, and her eyes shone with a reflective brilliance, reminiscent of polished mirrors that perfectly captured the essence of all they observed.
When she spoke, her voice resonated with a depth and ferocity that could awaken the fiercest of spirits, carrying an undeniable sense of authority and fire, as if she was ready to command armies.
"Activate Protocol: Seraphim Zero," she ordered firmly, her words slicing through the air with an iron conviction that brooked no dissent.
"Send me." With that, she offered herself willingly, ready to step into the fray, prepared to confront whatever darkness lay ahead. The air around her crackled with anticipation, as if the very fabric of reality pulsed with the enormity of her decision.
To be continued...