The morning after the battle felt wrong.
Too quiet.
No war drums. No screams. No marching boots against stone. Only the soft sound of wind moving through broken gates.
Ira stood in the palace courtyard where ash still traced the outlines of fallen enemies. The bone armor that had once covered her body was gone. The Throne of Bones had returned to its place inside the great hall—silent, unmoving.
As if nothing had happened.
"Your Majesty."
She turned at the unfamiliar title. General Arven knelt before her, though unease flickered in his eyes.
"The council waits."
Ira nodded but did not move immediately. She looked at her hands.
They were steady.
That frightened her more than the battle had.
The throne room felt colder than before.
Light from the high windows struck the Throne of Bones, illuminating the skulls woven into its back. Empty eye sockets seemed darker in daylight.
The ministers stood in a half-circle.
"You saved us," one said quickly. "The people call you Guardian of the Bones."
"They want a coronation," another added. "A declaration. Stability."
Ira stepped forward slowly.
The throne did not whisper this time.
It listened.
"There will be no grand celebration," she said. "Rebuild the gates. Feed the families who lost their homes. Send word to the villages—we stand, but we mourn."
The ministers exchanged glances.
"And the throne?" one asked carefully.
Ira's gaze hardened.
"The throne is not a symbol of glory," she said. "It is a warning."
Silence followed.
When the council dismissed, only Arven remained.
"You do not trust it," he said quietly.
Ira approached the throne. She traced a finger along one of the rib-like spines that formed its back.
"It obeyed me," she replied. "That is what I fear."
That night, sleep did not come easily.
When it did, it brought dreams.
She stood in the throne room again—but older. Cracked walls. Fading banners. The throne loomed taller than before, bones twisting unnaturally, stretching like reaching hands.
"Sit," it whispered.
"I already have," she answered.
"Again."
This time, when she sat, the bones did not burn her.
They consumed her.
Her skin hardened to pale ivory. Her heartbeat slowed. Her voice echoed with a hundred others.
Below her, the kingdom knelt—not in loyalty.
In fear.
Ira woke with a sharp breath.
The room was dark.
But from somewhere deep in the palace—
Came a sound.
A single crack.
Torchlight flickered along the corridor as she moved toward the throne hall.
The doors stood slightly open.
Inside, the Throne of Bones was no longer perfectly still.
A fracture split one of the skulls along its armrest.
And from within that crack—
A faint blue glow pulsed.
Ira stepped closer.
"Why?" she whispered.
The glow brightened.
Not in anger.
In hunger.
Suddenly, images flooded her mind—distant mountains, foreign banners, armies gathering beyond Shyamalgarh's borders. The throne was not reacting to the past.
It was sensing the future.
War was coming again.
And this time, the enemy knew what she had done.
Knew what she could become.
The blue light faded.
The crack in the skull sealed itself.
The hall fell silent once more.
But Ira understood now.
The throne did not want peace.
It wanted purpose.
And purpose required conflict.
She stood alone in the vast chamber, her shadow stretching long across the stone floor.
"I will not be your weapon," she said softly.
The bones did not answer.
Yet as she turned to leave—
One skull tilted ever so slightly.
Watching.
Beyond the northern hills, far past the reach of Shyamalgarh's scouts, a rider carried urgent news to a distant court.
"The girl has awakened the throne," he said breathlessly.
On a balcony overlooking a frozen valley, a cloaked figure listened.
"Good," the figure murmured.
"Prepare the envoys."
The game for the Throne of Bones had only begun.