Chapter 3 - The Broken Crown and the Black Army

The news of the Devourer King's return spread faster than wildfire across the land, burning through the cities and villages like a storm no one could stop. The sky above the kingdom was thick with smoke from burning fires, and the air smelled like fear mixed with ash. In every town, people closed their windows and locked their doors, whispering the name Ceyr Draven in fear and confusion. How could a boy with no Crest rise and swallow a beast and a saint? It was madness, and yet the proof was everywhere—the cracked arena, the black throne that rose in the center of the cursed city, and the shadows that followed the boy like dark wolves. Far away, in the capital built of cold stone and twisted iron, the royal court was a whirlwind of panic. The queen had recently died under strange circumstances, poisoned by a poison no healer could cure. The throne was empty, and her daughter, Princess Lyria, sat cold and silent in the king's place. Her crown was black as night, cracked and leaking shadows that seemed alive, crawling like snakes around her head. She had been born under a curse, one that made her different from other nobles. The court whispered she was touched by dark magic, and her eyes never truly smiled. When the news came of the Devourer King, her lips curved into a smile—not one of joy, but of a hunter who smells the scent of her prey and prepares to strike. The princess was not a fool. She understood the danger that a power older than the gods could bring to her kingdom. She called her generals and spoke cold words that echoed through the halls like steel clashing against stone. She ordered the army to march, to hunt down the boy who defied fate. But the kingdom was no longer the mighty force it once was. The army was a mess of corrupted men and women, some soldiers hungry for power, others too scared to stand. Whispers of secret weapons hidden beneath the capital grew louder, but none were ready for what was coming. As the army prepared, the land itself began to change. The forests darkened, their trees twisting and writhing like living creatures. The beasts that once were loyal companions became wild and dangerous, eyes glowing red in the night. The sky cracked again and again, spilling strange light that did not come from the sun or moon. Somewhere, deep in the forgotten mountains far from the kingdom's reach, a great beast stirred. It was ancient, older than memory, and it felt the heartbeat of the Devourer Crest. It called out not in words, but in hunger and longing, a sound that echoed in the deepest parts of Ceyr's soul. The boy who was now more than boy felt the pull and knew his journey was only beginning. Meanwhile, Ceyr walked through the ruins of his city alone. His body still burned with the power of the Devourer Crest, black flames licking his skin, chains floating like armor around his body. The cursed ones who once mocked him bowed their heads in fear and respect. They whispered stories of the boy who swallowed a beast and an assassin and lived. But Ceyr did not seek their praise or hatred. His mind was focused on the throne inside him and the voice that promised destruction and rebirth. He knew the gods and priests feared him. The nobles wanted him dead. The world wanted him gone. But Ceyr was hungry. Hungry for power, hungry for justice, hungry to destroy the system that made him Empty. He could feel the ancient power growing inside, whispering secrets of creation and destruction, of fate and freedom. The throne behind him pulsed with dark light, and the chains around him tightened like a living thing. He was no longer a boy. He was a god in the making. And the first true test came sooner than he expected. News reached him that the princess had sent her deadliest weapon to find and kill him—a divine assassin known as the Heaven's Chain. This assassin was no ordinary killer. He was a living weapon forged in the highest towers of the divine court, trained to erase threats before they could grow. His body moved faster than thought, his sword sang a song of death, and his chains could bind even gods. Ceyr knew he could not face the princess's armies or the saints all at once. He needed to grow stronger, to master the power inside him, and to claim the throne that was waiting. But fate was no longer a thread to follow—it was a fire to burn.