The wind that swept through the ruined temple grounds felt older than the stones beneath Seren's boots. It carried the scent of charred lilies and something colder—like steel wet with memory. The remnants of her ancestors' sanctuary loomed in silence. Thorned vines coiled tightly around cracked stone, pulsing faintly with the same reddish glow as the Hollow Flame in her chest. They hadn't come here since the Pattern shattered.
Now, it felt like it had been waiting for her.
Kael ran his gloved hand along one of the blackened walls. "Still breathing," he muttered. "Barely."
Seren paused at the entrance to the inner chamber, where the sacred rites of coronation were once performed. This was where fire had once spoken with tongues of fate—where generations had been bound to thrones not of their choosing. It had once been the most sacred place in Nareth.
And it was here that she had ended everything.
Behind her, Virea and Laziel approached slowly. Virea's twin daggers rested at her hips, but she walked like a ghost. Laziel had brought a satchel filled with scrolls and quills, his curiosity outweighing his fear.
"No one's stepped in since the fire," Laziel whispered, voice hushed with reverence or dread. "It's like… the place remembers."
Seren's voice came like falling ash. "Because it does."
They entered together. The air shifted as if the temple exhaled, welcoming or warning—it was hard to tell.
The grand chamber, once filled with golden flame and roaring chants, now sat in eerie silence. The massive archways were fractured. Light filtered through stained glass that no longer bore holy symbols but had twisted into abstract patterns—shards of prophecy broken by her hand. The throne that once dominated the dais was gone. Burned to cinders. She had made sure of that.
But there was one part of the temple still untouched.
A sealed door made of obsidian stood at the far end, hidden behind a curtain of withered ivy. Its surface shimmered like still water under moonlight. Carvings curled across it in the forgotten tongue of the First Flame.
Only one line remained readable: Only the crownless may enter. Only the flame that does not burn may see.
Seren stepped forward. Her fingers hovered above the surface. As her palm touched it, the Hollow Flame within her pulsed—not fiercely, but softly, like a quiet breath.
The obsidian shifted beneath her hand. Not cracking. Not crumbling. But melting. It sank into itself, dissolving like wax.
Beyond it was a chamber none of them had known existed.
It was circular. Carved from stone that shimmered faintly with memory-light. In its center stood seven stone thrones arranged in a circle. Six were shattered. One remained untouched.
And above the intact seat, carved in gold-veined rock, was a name: Vaerlyn.
Seren took a step back. Her vision swam.
Kael said her name softly. "That was you… before."
Seren closed her eyes. Vaerlyn. The name she had before the Pattern chose her. Before she was trained. Before the fire took everything.
The thrones were not just symbols. They were remnants of the old power—a power that refused to fade. The chamber held their last breath. And it was not done speaking.
Light shimmered on the walls. Visions danced without invitation.
Seren saw herself as a child, running through meadows that no longer existed. She saw her mother smile at her just once—before the woman vanished beneath a cloak of royal duty. She saw the Crown—the Thorned one—lowered onto her head.
Then she saw the night she burned it.
Then… Arlya.
Not as the infant she had saved. Not as the strange girl who spoke with ancient voices. But as a queen—older, wiser, her eyes burning with stars. She stood tall, firewoven robes flowing behind her, and on her head sat a new crown.
Glass and starlight. Thorns no longer dripping blood, but light.
"You left it behind," the vision Arlya said. "So I picked it up."
Seren staggered. The vision shattered like a mirror struck by silence.
Laziel was already scribbling in his book. "These aren't just memories. They're timelines. Or futures. Possibilities splintered and shown."
"Prophecies?" Kael asked.
"Maybe," Laziel replied. "Maybe warnings."
Seren stepped closer to the last throne. Her fingers brushed its armrest. Cold as winter steel. She didn't sit.
She merely touched it.
And it cracked.
Stone split in three places.
A sharp sound echoed like the snapping of fate.
"The last line is broken," she said softly. "There will be no more thrones."
Virea stepped forward. "Then what happens now?"
Seren turned toward them. "Then we decide what happens. Together."
A gust of wind rose through the chamber—not from above or outside, but from beneath.
Beneath the temple.
Far below their feet, something ancient stirred.
The wind that kissed their faces wasn't real wind.
It was breath.
They all felt it.
Seren said nothing. But the Hollow Flame in her chest shuddered.
That night, she stood alone atop the ruins, staring at the moonless sky. The stars refused to align. And in the distance, she heard the faint hum of the Hollow Tree calling her back.
She wasn't alone for long. Kael joined her, silence in his steps.
"You burned the last throne," he said, as if tasting the words.
"I had to."
"I know. I just wonder what rises in its place."
Seren looked toward the north, where Arlya slept in a tower warded with songs and sorrow.
"She will never sit on a throne. I won't let her."
Kael said nothing for a long time. Then:
"But she might choose to."
Seren didn't argue.
The next morning, they left the ruins behind. And as they rode, the vines that had once pulsed along the temple's gates began to wither.
The past, it seemed, had been released.
But as they vanished over the ridge, deep beneath the broken earth, a voice whispered:
> "When one crown is broken, another must be born."
And something shifted in the dark.
Something watching.
Something waiting.