The world bent as he walked.
Ash peeled away from his path like a supplicant.
Dead winds whispered in languages too old for men to remember.
And Vaelen Cross moved through it all — naked, sovereign, inevitable.
Above him, the sky bled out in long, shuddering waves.
Below him, the bones of forgotten cities crumbled under his heel.
He was not born of light, nor shaped by the hand of some benevolent god.
He was forged from ruin.
And ruin welcomed him home.
The gates of the Last City loomed ahead, half-swallowed by the collapse of ages.
Their spires broken, their flags rotted to dust.
At the threshold, she waited.
A woman, or what was left of one.
Wings torn.
Chains wrapped tight around her slender throat.
Hair like spilled moonlight, dirtied by the rot of a dying world.
When she lifted her gaze to him, Vaelen saw no hope there.
No pride.
Only resignation.
And something sweeter:
Recognition.
She knelt — body trembling — and pressed her lips to the blackened ground before him.
"Master," she whispered, the word a blade plunged into her own heart.
Vaelen said nothing.
He did not need to.
He extended his hand — an offer, a command, a decree.
She obeyed.
Her palm met his, and the chains binding her to despair shattered into dust.
A pulse of power tore through the air — violent, alive.
Her wings, broken and bloodied, twitched once.
Then again.
And from the rents in her flesh, black feathers bloomed — lush, dark, beautiful.
A Fallen Angel.
No… a risen one.
Risen under him.
She bowed her head again, her voice shaking:
"I am Seris. I am yours."
Vaelen smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Simply because the world was moving as it should — in his orbit, by his hand.
He walked forward, his new servant following on silent steps.
The Throne was waiting.
Black stone.
Polished bone.
Stitched together by the broken prayers of a thousand kings who had failed to keep it.
It did not shine.
It hungered.
It had waited an eternity for its true master.
Vaelen climbed the steps.
Each one cracked beneath his weight, recognizing something greater than itself at last.
At the summit, he turned.
Below him sprawled the ruins of a world that had believed itself beyond death.
No longer.
He sat.
The Throne shuddered, groaned — and then yielded.
Power surged into him — raw, searing, divine.
Visions slammed into his mind:
Cities burning in his name.
Armies kneeling at the shadow of his hand.
Goddesses weeping in devotion.
Worlds folding under his dominion.
He embraced it all.
He claimed it.
The Black Crown ignited above his head — not of gold or jewels, but a corona of endless shadow, haloed in blood-red flame.
Across the dying lands, those who still drew breath felt the shift.
Felt him.
And for the first time since the old gods died, the world trembled.
At the foot of the Throne, Seris knelt once more.
Her wings, fully healed now, arched proudly behind her.
A creature of perfect submission.
A queen-in-waiting.
Vaelen rose from his seat.
In a blur of motion, he stood before her, hand beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.
"You are the first," he said, voice low, the world holding its breath around each word.
"The first of my court. The first of my queens."
Her breath caught — not in fear, but in awe.
She pressed herself closer to him, desperate, reverent, trembling.
"And you," he whispered, his smile a slow sunrise of inevitable conquest,
"will not be the last."