The great hall of Valgard Spire shimmered in obsidian and silver. The stone, mined from the heart of the drowned cliffs, bore ancient carvings of kings long erased from history. Beneath the stained-glass dome—depicting the forging of the Ashen Crown—the air pulsed with power, heavy with incense and destiny.
Seven pyres burned high, their flames blue-black—one for each of the Hidden Factions. Together, they cast long shadows on the ancient stone walls, dancing like spirits eager for blood. This was no mere ceremony. This was the culmination of a thousand-year struggle. Tonight, the Ashen Crown would choose its sovereign.
Veyne Alaric stood beneath the dome. Tall, proud, and alone.
His ceremonial armor gleamed under the flickering pyrelight—blackened steel trimmed in crimson, etched with the sigils of old, ancient glyphs speaking of conquest and sacrifice. His cape, deep as dried blood, whispered against the ground with every step he took.
He was no longer just the heir to House Alaric.
He was the man who had brokered peace among the Seven—ending the blood-feuds, uniting the guilds, holding the chaos of Valgard together through sheer will and relentless vision.
And tonight, he would be king.
The hall filled with dignitaries, nobles, spies, and ghosts. The Seven Factions were all here—cloaked in formality, veiled in silence. Behind their ceremonial masks, alliances shifted like serpents. There were no allies here. Only opportunity.
Still, Veyne believed. Perhaps foolishly.
The High Seeress emerged from the shadows. She walked like wind through smoke—her translucent robes weaving mysticism into every step. Her face, hidden behind veils of silver thread, was turned toward Veyne as if she saw not the man, but the future itself.
"Before fire, before law, before blood," she intoned, her voice curling like mist, "this realm stood ash. And ash remembers only the worthy."
Veyne closed his eyes. He could feel the heat of the Crown pulsing ahead—suspended above the plinth by magic older than names. It called to him. Whispered to him. The voices of kings past, of tyrants and visionaries, murmured promises in its glow.
His fingers hovered inches from the Crown.
The hall held its breath.
His mind replayed it all. Daemon as a boy, learning sword forms under the setting sun. Elias running through the halls with a stolen cake, laughter ringing like bells. Kael guiding him through his first battlefield, telling him where mercy ended and necessity began. Seraya, wrapped in moonlight, whispering dreams of a world reborn in his arms.
He reached forward.
A sudden warmth bloomed in his side.
Pain.
Not from the Crown—but from flesh. Steel slid between his ribs, precise and merciless. It was not a strike of rage. It was practiced. Expected.
He gasped, stumbling a step.
Elias stood behind him. Eyes rimmed with tears. Face contorted between guilt and relief.
"I'm sorry," Elias whispered, almost tenderly. "You were becoming... too much."
Veyne staggered, eyes wide. Betrayal wasn't just in the blade—it was in the softness of the voice, in the familiarity of the hand that withdrew the knife.
He didn't scream. He didn't fall.
Not yet.
Another blade entered him—this time from the other side.
Daemon.
His brother.
Expressionless. Cold.
"You always believed love meant loyalty," Daemon murmured, stepping closer, hand still buried in the wound. "You were wrong."
Blood pooled at Veyne's boots.
Still the pyres burned. Still the Seeress watched. Still the Seven remained silent.
Then came Kael. The man who had taught him strength.
Kael knelt, one hand resting on Veyne's shoulder.
"You were the future," he said. "But your future did not belong to all. You demanded unity—where we demanded choice."
He leaned in. Kissed Veyne's brow.
"Forgive us."
The final blow came without warning.
Seraya.
She stepped through the crowd like a goddess descending. Her gown shimmered gold, catching the dying firelight like liquid sun. She knelt beside him, eyes glassy with sadness—or calculation.
She brushed hair from his face.
"If it's any comfort... I did love you."
Then the dagger found his heart. She twisted.
And the world twisted with her.
The pyres dimmed. The flames whispered. The Seeress lowered her head.
Veyne dropped.
His body crumpled beside the pedestal he was never meant to reach. The Crown flickered above him—silent, rejecting all.
And the last thing he saw was them.
Elias.
Daemon.
Kael.
Seraya.
All of them.
Smiling.
The Seeress's voice echoed faintly:
"And so, the flame is extinguished… until it chooses to rise again."
Yet in the silence beyond breath…
The flame did not die.
It waited.
In ash.
In memory.
In vengeance.