Chapter Seven: Broken Thrones
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Ashes floated on the wind.
Kael stumbled through the fractured ruins of the battlefield, every breath a struggle. The portal had delivered them far from Verech's Pass, but not far enough to erase the echo of their failure. His cloak dragged behind him, torn and frayed. The Hollow Crown flickered above his head, dimmer now—not from damage, but doubt.
Beside him, Nihrex walked as though nothing had happened. Unscarred. Unbothered. Every step he took left a trail of faint black mist, the kind that unnerved even Kael's wraiths.
The two stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Wailing Mire, a cursed land once swallowed by divine fire in the old wars. Here, even the stars refused to shine.
Kael collapsed to one knee. Blood ran down his jaw.
"I thought you'd kill him," he spat.
Nihrex didn't look at him. "You thought wrong."
Kael bared his teeth. "You were supposed to level the field. You barely slowed him down."
"Because I did not come to kill him."
Kael turned sharply. "Then why are you here?"
Nihrex's mask shifted slightly, the eyes narrowing. "To see. To judge. You're still not worthy."
A moment of silence. Then, Kael laughed. It started low but rose into something bitter and ugly. "Worthy? Worthy of what? Of your approval? I've bled for this throne! Died for it!"
Nihrex didn't respond. He only looked up at the sky, as though listening to something beyond the veil of the world.
"Silas has grown," he said finally. "He's more than he was. His power borders the divine now. Even I didn't anticipate that."
Kael stood, wobbling. "Then what do we do?"
Nihrex turned to him, slowly. "You get stronger. Or you die."
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Far away, at the heart of the capital, Emperor Calrix sat in his private war chamber, flanked by his high priests and arcane scribes. The silvery orb in the center of the chamber flickered, its surface showing fragmented images of the battle at Verech's Pass.
The scene distorted, showing Kael and Nihrex vanishing into the portal, and Silas standing alone.
Calrix exhaled. "So... he returns too."
The chamber fell silent. One of the priests dared to speak. "Do we alert the others?"
Calrix's eyes narrowed. "Not yet. Let Silas play his game. If Kael dies, good. If he survives, he weakens Silas. Either way... the real plan continues."
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Back at the Mire, Kael sat by a dead tree, nursing his wounds. Nihrex stood at the edge of the cliff, arms folded.
"I need power," Kael finally said.
Nihrex nodded slowly. "Then you must awaken the Deep Crown."
Kael looked up, confused. "There is no deeper crown."
"There is always something deeper."
Nihrex gestured toward the black sky. "The Hollow Crown you wear is but a shard—a sliver of what once ruled the Hollow Realm. There is an older power. Buried beneath the first war. Beneath the Forgotten Catacombs."
Kael's fingers tightened around his staff. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because you would've been torn apart. Now? You might survive it."
Kael stood, straightening his posture. The wind tugged at his ruined cloak. "Then take me there."
Nihrex didn't move. "No. You go alone. If you fail, you die. If you succeed... the throne will rise again."
A silence passed between them.
"Then I'll return with it," Kael said.
Nihrex turned, vanishing in a blink.
Kael looked out toward the distant mountains where the Catacombs slept.
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In the capital, Silas stood atop the highest tower of the Royal Spire, his cloak fluttering in the wind. Lyra approached from behind, wrapped in bandages, her movements careful.
"He escaped," she said.
Silas nodded. "Barely."
"And the masked one?"
"Nihrex."
Lyra froze. "That's not possible."
Silas looked at her sideways. "Apparently it is."
She stepped beside him. "What now?"
Silas smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Now we prepare."
Lyra frowned. "For what?"
He looked out over the city, where the banners of the Empire fluttered.
"For war."
---
Kael moved alone through the Forsaken Valley, the ground cracking beneath his boots. Memories surfaced as he walked—his execution, the betrayal, the moment the Hollow Realm called him back.
He saw flickers of faces he once trusted. Calrix. The prince. Silas.
Each step, his resolve deepened.
He reached a monolith.
It was ancient, half-buried in the earth, inscribed with a language not even he could read. Shadows twisted around it. The entrance to the Catacombs waited behind it—a mouth of pure black.
Kael stepped forward.
And descended.
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Far below the earth, deeper than the gods ever walked, the Catacombs pulsed with unholy life. The walls bled shadows. The bones of forgotten kings lined the halls.
Kael lit no torch. He didn't need to. The Hollow Crown burned faintly.
Voices whispered to him. Some familiar. Some not.
He kept walking.
Time lost meaning.
He fought twisted remnants of broken monarchs, hollow beasts made from regret and failed legacy. Each fight left him weaker—yet something within grew hungrier.
Deeper he went.
Until he reached it.
A throne.
But not like the one he wore.
This one was massive, made of countless blades and bones, rising into the ceiling of the cavern.
It pulsed.
Alive.
Kael approached, and the Hollow Crown on his head began to crack.
He knelt.
The throne whispered.
"Will you rule... or be ruled?"
Kael smiled.
"Both."
And the Deep Crown opened its eye.
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To be continued...