Far from the throne room's golden light, deep beneath the palace, someone felt the change.
Lord Sevrin Kael paused mid-step.
The torches lining the underground corridor flickered violently, their flames bending inward as if frightened. The air turned sharp, metallic—like lightning before a storm.
Sevrin slowly pressed a hand to his chest.
"…So," he murmured, voice calm and pleased, "you finally woke."
---
The chamber he stood in was old—older than the palace above it. Stone walls etched with forbidden runes pulsed faintly as he entered, reacting to his presence.
At the center stood a broken fragment of gold.
A shard of the throne.
It screamed.
Not in sound, but in pressure—rage, rejection, warning.
Sevrin smiled.
"So it's true," he said softly. "You chose again."
The shard burned beneath his fingers.
He did not flinch.
---
Above ground, the throne glowed.
Below, the fragment darkened.
Two forces, once whole, now violently aware of each other.
Sevrin's expression hardened just slightly—the only sign of irritation he allowed himself.
"Two rulers," he said thoughtfully. "After all this time."
He traced a finger along an ancient carving in the wall.
> When balance is chosen, the rejected shall rise.
He exhaled a quiet laugh.
"How poetic."
---
A shadow stirred behind him.
"Shall we proceed?" a voice asked.
Sevrin did not turn.
"Not yet."
He closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—resentment. Hunger. Memory.
"That throne," he said, voice low, "was never meant to judge me."
The shard pulsed again, violently this time.
Rejected.
Always rejected.
---
Sevrin opened his eyes.
"Find the girl," he ordered calmly. "Do not harm her."
A pause.
"And the prince?"
Sevrin smiled—slow and cold.
"If he stands in the way of what was taken from me…"
"…then the throne may keep its favorite."
---
Far above, unaware of the vow spoken beneath their feet, the throne pulsed warmly—protective.
And for the first time since the empire's founding, it had made an enemy.