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CHAPTER 6 — The Crown That Whispers
When Erevan woke, he wasn't sure if the light he saw was dawn… or fire.
The cathedral roof was half gone, the rain hissing as it struck embers. His vision blurred—then focused on the blade jutting from his shoulder. Elayne's sword. Saintsteel burned cold, not hot.
He pulled it free with a grunt. The wound closed slowly, not by magic, but by something deeper. Something wrong.
> "You're bleeding backward," a voice murmured.
He froze.
> "That's not possible," he said aloud.
> "Neither is coming back from the dead, yet here we are."
It wasn't a human voice. It came from inside him—behind the echo of his own thoughts. Smooth. Patient. Too calm for comfort.
> "Who are you?" he whispered.
> "You already know," it said. "You've worn me long enough to feel me breathing."
His hand moved to the Crown, the black metal still warm against his temple.
The pulse wasn't steady. It beat with his heart—then between it.
> "You're… the Crown."
> "Titles are tedious. But yes, I was made to be worn. Though not by you."
He stood slowly, staring at the cracked bell that hung above. "Then by whom?"
> "By anyone willing to be forgotten. I only choose those who are empty enough to fill."
The tone shifted—playful, almost amused.
> "You, however, are interesting. You remember pain like it's art."
He clenched his jaw. "Stay out of my mind."
> "I am your mind, princeling."
Erevan's knees buckled. For a second, the world tilted—and he saw flashes.
A battlefield.
A tower of glass.
A queen kneeling before a shadow.
And beneath it all, thirteen crowns, each singing in a different voice.
He gasped, gripping his head. "Stop—"
> "You asked who I am," it whispered. "I am remembrance. I am the echo of what gods fear to recall."
The ground trembled. The cracked bell above him gave a low, resonant hum—one only he could hear.
He staggered toward the exit, trying to drown the voice out, but it followed, calm as breath.
> "You should thank me, Erevan. Without me, you'd still be rotting in that pit. You'd still be waiting for a god who never comes."
He spat blood into the ash. "Then I'll find one."
> "You already did," it replied. "You just haven't looked in the mirror yet."
The rain outside had turned red—not from blood, but from reflection. The Crown's aura shimmered around him like a mirage.
From the distance, the cathedral bells tolled again.
Only this time, he didn't hear thirteen.
He heard fourteen.
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⚙️ Chapter End Teaser:
> There were never thirteen crowns.
There were fourteen.
And the fourteenth was never meant to exist.