**Chapter 16 – The Ash Crown**
The palace no longer whispered.
It *watched.*
The morning after the blood moon felt quieter than it should have. No bells rang. No children laughed. The city below stood still, as though it held its breath, waiting to see if the world had truly changed.
Amaris stood at the broken window of the throne hall, staring out over the shattered ruins of the Temple of the Offering. In the distance, smoke still curled from its fallen columns, drifting toward the pale sky like ghosts.
She hadn't slept.
Not because she couldn't.
Because she didn't *need* to.
Not anymore.
The ritual hadn't just awakened a god. It had awakened something in *her*.
Something old.
Something that now pulsed beneath her skin like fire waiting to be named.
---
Downstairs, the court gathered in silence.
Every noble, general, and advisor sat stiffly in the High Hall, their eyes fixed on the black obsidian dais.
The throne was empty.
They waited for the prince.
But when the great doors opened, it wasn't him who entered first.
It was *Amaris.*
Clad in crimson and black, a silver crown glinting with ash-dark stones on her brow, and a sword at her hip—one she hadn't asked permission to wear.
She didn't speak as she ascended the steps.
Didn't nod. Didn't bow.
She sat on the throne.
*Their* throne.
The high general stood, his voice tight. "My lady—"
"My name is Queen Amaris now," she said coolly, not looking at him. "And your voice trembles because you remember who you served before me."
The room went still.
Only the wind outside dared move.
"You stood behind a priestess who tried to kill me," Amaris continued, gaze shifting to the other councilors. "You chanted rituals written in blood. You watched monsters crawl through the veil. And now you sit here, pretending loyalty."
A courtier spoke up timidly. "The prince has not yet declared—"
"The prince nearly died defending me," she said sharply. "He has already declared."
As if on cue, the doors opened again, and the prince entered in armor still stained from the night before.
He walked past the nobles and took the lower step beneath Amaris's throne.
Not beside her.
Below.
He knelt.
The room inhaled as one.
"I stand beneath the crown of fire," he said, voice steady. "And I bend to the one who wore it and did not burn."
Amaris nodded once.
And with that, the kingdom belonged to her.
---
The next three days passed in warlike quiet.
She changed the guards. Banished the old court mage. Burned the high priestess's sacred texts in the square.
The people watched from their windows. The farmers paused in their fields.
No rebellions rose.
No protests were shouted.
Because the people had *seen* the god.
And they had seen the girl who stabbed it in the throat.
No army could match that.
---
But not everyone had surrendered.
Not truly.
At night, someone kept leaving marks on her door.
First a claw print, drawn in soot.
Then a strip of red cloth tied to her window.
On the third night, a message:
*The next god is awake. And it knows your name.*
She didn't tell the prince.
Instead, she went back to the ruins of the temple alone.
---
The broken altar was still warm.
Beneath the rubble, she found bones that did not belong to any creature of this world—long, twisted, fused with black stone.
And in the center of it all, something pulsed.
A small glass vial, no bigger than her thumb.
Inside, swirling silver smoke.
It burned cold in her hand.
When she picked it up, her vision *shifted.*
The temple vanished.
The world turned red.
She stood in a mirror version of her kingdom—every tree dead, every river still. And high above, the sky was full of eyes.
Not stars.
Eyes.
A voice whispered through the silence.
*Daughter of bone. Queen of fracture. Your throne is not yet yours. There is still one more crown to claim.*
Then the vision shattered.
Amaris gasped and staggered back into the real world.
The vial had vanished.
In its place was a mark—now burned into her palm.
A second crown.
---
She returned to the palace with fire behind her eyes.
The prince found her in her chambers, staring at her own reflection in the mirror.
"You've changed," he said gently.
She didn't look at him. "No. I've become."
He stepped closer. "What did you see?"
"A realm that mirrors ours. But dead. And hungry."
He frowned. "The Hollow Court."
"You've heard of it?"
"In myths," he said. "A place where broken gods gather. The realm beneath the world. It was sealed centuries ago."
"Not anymore."
She opened her hand and showed him the mark—a black crescent curling around a line of runes.
The prince stepped back as if burned.
"That symbol," he whispered. "It's older than the Eldergods. It belongs to the ones they *feared.*"
Amaris finally turned to him.
"Then let them fear again."
---
That night, as she walked the halls of her palace, a shadow stepped out from the column ahead.
A hooded figure.
She reached for her blade, but the figure held up a hand.
"No weapons," the voice rasped. "I come bearing truth."
"Then speak it quickly."
The figure removed their hood.
Amaris gasped.
It was her old maid.
The one who'd brought her poisoned tea.
But her face—half-burned now, eye missing, mouth trembling.
"I ran," she said. "After the ritual. After he found me."
"Who?"
The maid's voice broke.
"The one below. The god that *survived.*"
Amaris's blood chilled.
"That god is dead."
"No," the maid whispered. "He *split* when you stabbed him. One half died. The other... lives. Beneath the palace. He's calling your name."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because I dreamed of the Hollow Court too," she said, sobbing. "And in the dream… you *sat on its throne.*"
---
Amaris stood alone on the tower balcony long after the maid fled.
Her mark still burned.
Her throne still waited.
But now she knew—her war was not over.
And her crown was only the beginning.