The crown still burned.
Not like fire, but like memory — slow, searing, echoing through Elias's bones even after silence fell over the ritual chamber.
He stood at the altar's edge, robes clinging to sweat-drenched skin, eyes unfocused. Lucien had withdrawn to the shadows, busy murmuring prayers or calculations to himself. Kael remained nearby, close but not touching, afraid that even a breath against Elias's skin might shatter him.
Elias flexed his hand.
The power didn't rush.
It waited.
Like a coiled beast behind his ribs, the crown's magic stirred only when commanded, not offered. A living force, bound but not tamed. A gift wrapped in thorns.
Kael finally spoke.
"You shouldn't be standing yet."
Elias let out a sharp breath. "If I sit, I won't rise again."
He stepped off the altar — barefoot, steady. Each rune beneath his foot dimmed as he passed, as though recognizing their new master.
The temple chamber was high-ceilinged and cavernous, carved from obsidian and black salt. At the far end, two massive doors loomed, flanked by ancient statues: faceless monarchs, their hands outstretched as if pleading or blessing.
"They expect a speech," Lucien said suddenly, not looking up from the scrolls he was adjusting. "The court. The priests. The commoners. Word of your crowning has already left the sanctum."
"I have nothing to say to them," Elias replied.
Lucien turned. "Then you better learn quickly. The crown does not wait for you to feel ready. Neither will the throne."
Kael stepped in then. "Give him space, Lucien. You've taken his blood. At least leave him his breath."
Elias looked at Kael, surprised. He didn't expect protection. Not here.
Lucien sighed, rolling the scroll tight with a snap. "Your loyalty to him is admirable. Dangerous, but admirable."
"And yours?" Kael asked.
Lucien met his gaze without flinching. "Mine lies with the empire. And the empire, for now, lies with Elias."
Elias finally interrupted. "Enough."
He stepped between them, both literally and metaphorically, and turned toward the sacred mirror near the far pillar. Its surface was dull, bronze and bone-bound, enchanted to show truth — not form.
Elias stared.
What stared back was not a boy.
Not a prince.
A creature crowned in red-gold flame. Eyes marked with runes. Power seated behind his posture like a coiled throne waiting to rise. He didn't look afraid — he looked emptied. Or perhaps full of something he didn't yet understand.
"Who was the last to wear this?" Elias asked.
Lucien didn't answer at first. Then: "His name was Ardyn. And he destroyed three kingdoms before his own priests buried him alive."
Kael tensed. "Why would you say that now?"
"Because Elias deserves to know what history expects from him."
"I'm not Ardyn," Elias said, quiet but firm.
Lucien gave a nod of agreement — or warning.
Kael turned toward Elias again. "When the court sees you, they'll kneel. But they'll also fear. You need to choose how you carry that."
"Like a weapon?" Elias asked.
Kael shook his head. "Like a burden. Or a promise."
Later, after they left the ritual chamber, Elias was led through the silent garden of ash. Moonlight filtered through the dome's glass ceiling, casting silver light over withered trees and pale flowers that bloomed only in death. It was said the AshGarden only bloomed during coronations and funerals. That night, it bloomed for both.
The gathered high priests bowed low. The courtiers did not. They knelt.
Elias walked slowly through them all, barefoot still, the crown burning faintly. His skin shimmered where the gold runes had fused to it. At the top of the dais, the ancient Book of Flame awaited, bound in dragonhide and set atop a pedestal carved from the rib of the empire's first emperor.
Lucien cleared his throat. "It is time."
Elias turned to the crowd. Hundreds of faces stared back. Fearful. Curious. Hungry.
He should say something. Tradition demanded it.
He closed his eyes, felt the crown hum, and let the words come.
> "You do not know me. But you will.
>
> I did not choose this crown — but I wear it.
>
> I do not ask for your loyalty. But I will earn your fear.
>
> The empire has slept long in the hands of liars. I woke it.
>
> If you kneel only to power, then know: power now wears my face."
A hush swept over the garden.
Elias reached forward and opened the Book of Flame. Inside was a knife — ceremonial, curved like a crescent moon.
Without flinching, Elias dragged it across his palm. Blood welled, dark and glittering. He pressed it against the page.
The paper ignited.
And the flame did not consume — it crowned the blood, forming the symbol of the AshOath.
He turned away from the flame and met Kael's eyes through the crowd.
"I will not be Ardyn," he whispered under his breath. "I will be worse — but only to those who deserve it."
Kael didn't smile. He only nodded once.
And in the dark, every kneeling priest whispered the same phrase:
> "Long live the flame. Long live the thorn."