Chapter 34 – The Crown of Ash and Flame
The palace was silent.
Not the silence of peace, but the silence of ruin — the kind that follows after screams have burned themselves into ash.
Maniakes stood alone in the shattered throne room of Zuvendis. Smoke curled from broken beams, shadows of fire flickering along the marble walls. At his feet lay the ashes of Salera, his mother, her last act of defiance burned into the stone. Beyond that, upon the fractured steps of the throne, lay the broken body of King Arthelion. His father's blood was still wet, pooling beneath the cracked dais.
Maniakes' hands trembled as he held the crown that had fallen from Arthelion's lifeless head. It was bent, jagged, unfit to be worn — a relic of a kingdom broken by prophecy.
His heart thundered. Not from grief alone, but from the curse that had stalked him since birth. The gods had whispered his name in blood: tyrant… destroyer… doom of Zuvendis.
Now, as he stood in the ruin of his own lineage, Maniakes wondered if they had been right all along.
Yet, even as despair clawed at him, the air shifted. The shadows grew colder. The ruined throne room darkened further, though no torch had gone out. Maniakes turned slowly, his chest tightening.
A voice slithered through the silence.
"You mourn kings and mothers," it said, deep as thunder, venomous as a serpent. "But you forget, Maniakes — you were mine long before you were theirs."
The very stones shook as the jealous god, the one who had granted him his power, manifested in the flesh. The walls split. Fire gushed in. And through the cracks, armies of monsters poured — twisted creatures of bone and flame, clawing and howling, their eyes fixed on the warrior they had been sent to destroy.
The jealous god stepped forth, taller than the palace gates, its face masked in shadow, its voice shaking the night.
"You were born from prophecy," it growled. "I gave you strength. I gave you power. But you forgot your master. Now, you shall kneel."
Maniakes' grip tightened around his father's shattered crown. His other hand clenched the blade Salera had hidden for him, the steel now glowing faintly with the fire of her sacrifice. His heart screamed with rage — for his parents, for his stolen childhood, for the prophecy that had cursed his name before he had drawn his first breath.
"I kneel to no one," Maniakes said, his voice like steel grinding against stone. "Not to kings. Not to gods. And not to you."
The god roared, and the battle for Zuvendis began.
The city burned.
Monsters flooded the streets like rivers of shadow. Towers fell, crushing men and women beneath them. The last defenders of Zuvendis — scarred soldiers, trembling farmers, broken remnants of a once-proud army — gathered at the gates. They fought with spears splintered and blades dulled, driven not by hope but by sheer refusal to die quietly.
And at the heart of it, leading them into the abyss, was Maniakes.
He cut through beasts like a storm, his sword cleaving bone and flame. The fire of Salera's spirit blazed along its edge, each strike carrying her defiance. Shadows swirled around him, the remnants of the power the jealous god had once gifted him — now twisted, now his own. He was no mere man in that battle. He was vengeance incarnate.
But the god was no idle foe. From the heavens it hurled bolts of shadowfire, each one tearing through walls and bodies alike. It summoned titans of smoke and bone, monstrosities taller than watchtowers. With every step it took, the ground cracked, bleeding flame.
The battle raged until night bled into dawn. The streets of Zuvendis became rivers of blood. Still, Maniakes fought, his voice carrying above the clash.
"Stand!" he roared to his soldiers. "Stand, or you will never stand again!"
And they stood, not because they believed in survival, but because Maniakes himself was unyielding. His rage, his grief, his defiance — it bound them to him like chains of iron.
At last, upon the burning walls of Zuvendis, Maniakes faced the god alone.
The survivors had fallen back, too broken to rise again. Around them the city burned, its towers collapsing into ash. Maniakes stood, his armor torn, his body bleeding, his breath ragged. Yet his eyes burned like twin suns of wrath.
The god towered above him, laughter rolling like thunder.
"Look at you," it sneered. "A child cursed at birth, abandoned by his blood, raised by his enemy, armed with stolen fire. Did you truly believe you could outgrow prophecy? You are nothing but a tyrant waiting for a crown."
Maniakes spat blood onto the ground. His voice cracked the silence:
"Then let the tyrant face his maker."
He leapt.
The duel was apocalyptic. Blade met claw. Fire clashed with shadow. The earth shook as their blows carved scars into the land itself. The god struck Maniakes down a dozen times, but each time he rose again, fueled by fury, by grief, by defiance.
At last, Maniakes drove his blade — his mother's fire — deep into the god's chest. The jealous deity howled, shadows erupting, tearing the sky asunder.
"You cannot kill me," it roared. "I am eternal!"
Maniakes pressed the blade deeper, his face twisted with rage.
"Then know eternity in chains," he snarled.
With a final roar, Maniakes unleashed every shred of power within him — the god's own shadow, Salera's fire, Arthelion's blood. For one heartbeat, he was more than mortal, more than prophecy, more than god.
And in that heartbeat, the jealous deity was undone.
The god's body collapsed into ash. Its scream tore the heavens apart, then was silenced. The monsters it had birthed crumbled into dust. The sky cleared, though it was choked with smoke.
Maniakes fell to his knees, trembling, his sword buried in the corpse of divinity.
When silence returned, Zuvendis rose.
The surviving soldiers, scorched and bleeding, emerged from the ruins. They looked upon Maniakes — standing amidst ash, blood, and shattered gods — and in their eyes, fear and reverence became one.
They whispered his name. First softly. Then louder. Until the broken streets shook with it:
"Maniakes… Maniakes… Maniakes."
The prophecy had named him tyrant. The gods had named him cursed. His own father had named him doom. Yet here, amidst ruin and death, the people named him king.
He stood, lifting the bent crown of Arthelion. With bloodstained hands, he set it upon his brow. It was broken, jagged, unfit to shine — yet upon his head, it was the only crown Zuvendis would ever need.
Dark, scarred, unyielding — he became not the tyrant of prophecy, but the ruler forged from it.
And so, Maniakes, the child once cast aside, the warrior raised by enemies, the slayer of gods, reigned at last.
Not as servant.
Not as exile.
But as King of Zuvendis.
The throne of ash and flame was his.
THE END .... READ THE SILVER HEIR AND THE IRON FIST 👊.. THANKS VERY MUCH AND PLS COMMENT OF U NEED BOOK TWO .....