The Monarch’s Ashes

The walls of the Black Archive pulsed with silence. Ancient tomes lined the shelves, their spines covered in dust and the weight of forgotten history. Cassian moved between the towering bookshelves, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of secrets woven into the air. He was an intruder here—an uninvited ghost treading upon a graveyard of knowledge the empire had long sought to bury.

The book in his hands was heavier than it should have been. The leather binding, worn from centuries of concealment, bore no title, only the sigil of the Hollow Throne etched into the cover. It pulsed with an unnatural heat beneath his fingertips, a heartbeat that was not his own.

You are not the first.

The whisper returned, curling around his thoughts like smoke. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. The past emperors, the ones erased from time, their voices slithered through the walls of this place. They knew him. They had waited.

The moment he opened the book, a rush of heat surged up his arm. The ink within was unlike any he had seen before—golden script glowing against black parchment, each word shifting and twisting as if alive. It was not written in the empire's tongue, but he understood it all the same.

"The throne does not serve. It devours."

His fingers clenched. Every tale of the Hollow Throne, every whispered legend had claimed it granted power beyond mortal understanding. But this text spoke the truth: the throne was not a gift—it was a prison. And those who sat upon it did not rule.

They were consumed.

Cassian turned the page, breath shallow. Images flickered within the ink—a procession of past emperors, their faces blurred, their names erased. The deeper he read, the stronger the heat beneath his skin grew. His reflection in the polished glass of a nearby cabinet wavered, distorting as though the book itself was reshaping him. His hands darkened at the edges, his veins glowing faintly with ember-like light.

A sharp sound broke the silence.

He snapped the book shut, tucking it beneath his arm as he pressed himself into the shadows. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Someone else was here.

Cassian's muscles coiled. He had been careful, but the Inquisition's reach was vast, and the Black Archive was sacred ground to them. He should have known better than to linger.

A shadow moved beyond the towering bookshelves, a silhouette barely visible through the dim glow of candlelight. Cassian barely breathed as the figure stepped into view.

A man clad in dark armor, the crimson insignia of the Inquisition emblazoned across his chestplate. His eyes gleamed beneath his hood, sharp and knowing.

"I thought the dead did not rise," the man murmured, his voice smooth as steel drawn across stone. "And yet, here you are."

Cassian recognized him instantly. High Inquisitor Malakai Draven. The empire's executioner.

Draven took another step forward, his gloved hands resting casually on the hilt of his sword. "You should not exist."

"And yet, I do." Cassian's voice was steady, but the heat beneath his skin flared, urging him to move, to strike.

Draven tilted his head, watching him with the same curiosity a man might have for a caged beast. "You were meant to burn, Cassian. The throne saw to that. What did it leave behind?"

Cassian remained silent. He would not give the Inquisitor the satisfaction of an answer.

Draven exhaled, almost amused. "It does not matter. The throne does not make mistakes, and neither do I." His fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade. "You have two choices: surrender, or be erased."

Cassian's grip on the book tightened. He had no intention of dying again.

The embers beneath his skin blazed as he lunged.

The clash of steel rang out through the archive. Cassian's blade met Draven's with a burst of sparks, the force of the collision sending vibrations up his arm. Draven was fast—unnaturally so—but Cassian was faster. The embers burning beneath his flesh fueled his movements, making him lighter, quicker, deadlier.

Draven's sword arced toward his throat, but Cassian twisted away, his own blade sweeping low in retaliation. Draven deflected the strike effortlessly, his expression unreadable.

"Impressive," the Inquisitor mused. "The fire has made you stronger. But strength is not enough."

Cassian gritted his teeth and pressed forward. Each step, each strike, was a test. Draven was measuring him, searching for weaknesses. He had to end this before the Inquisitor could learn too much.

The heat beneath Cassian's skin surged, and he reached for it, letting the embers guide his next strike. His blade ignited, glowing with the same eerie light that pulsed beneath his skin. He swung, and for the first time, Draven's eyes widened.

Their swords met again, but this time, the force of Cassian's strike sent Draven skidding backward. The Inquisitor recovered quickly, his grip on his weapon tightening. "Ah," he murmured. "So that's what the throne left you."

Cassian did not give him time to analyze further. He pressed the attack, driving Draven back step by step. The glow from his blade cast flickering shadows along the archive walls, the ancient tomes watching in silence.

Then, with a twist of his wrist, Draven parried and retaliated in one smooth motion. His free hand darted forward, fingers grazing Cassian's temple.

Pain exploded through Cassian's skull.

A thousand voices screamed at once, a chorus of agony and rage. Images flooded his mind—faces he did not know, voices whispering of betrayal, fire, and the endless hunger of the Hollow Throne.

Draven had not been testing him.

He had been searching for something.

Cassian staggered back, his vision swimming. The embers within him roared in defiance, pushing against whatever magic the Inquisitor had attempted to wield. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Draven straightened, tilting his head. "Curious," he murmured. "The throne did not claim you entirely. Something else fights back."

Cassian wiped the blood from his mouth and steadied himself. "You're right about one thing, Draven. The throne doesn't make mistakes."

His grip tightened on his weapon, and the embers beneath his skin flared brighter than ever.

"But it will soon regret letting me live."

Draven smiled, dark amusement flickering in his gaze. "Then show me, Burned King. Show me what you have become."

Cassian did not hesitate. The fire erupted around him, and he struck.