The Monarch’s Ashes

The forgotten kings watched Cassian with hollow eyes.

Their forms flickered like candle flames caught in the wind, robes tattered, crowns broken. They were not truly alive, nor were they dead. They were something in between, something trapped. Prisoners of the Hollow Throne.

Cassian clenched his fists, feeling the embers stir beneath his skin. He would not let them shake him. He had walked through fire, defied death itself. He had not come this far to bow before the ghosts of those who had failed before him.

"You call me the last mistake of the throne," he said, his voice steady despite the weight pressing against him. "Then tell me why."

The figure at the center of the gathering—the one who had spoken before—stepped forward. Unlike the others, his presence was stronger, more defined, as though time had not yet stripped him completely from existence.

"The throne is not a gift," the figure said. "It is a sentence. A burden that no one has ever escaped."

Cassian narrowed his eyes. "Then why does it still exist? If all it does is devour, why has no one destroyed it?"

A whisper passed through the gathered kings, a ripple of something close to amusement.

"Because it is not just a throne," the figure said. "It is a seal."

Cassian stiffened. "A seal? For what?"

The figure's hollow eyes seemed to bore into him, and the air grew heavier. "For the first king. The one who became something more. Something… wrong."

The temperature in the great hall seemed to plummet. Cassian's breath misted in the air, the embers beneath his skin flaring in response to the cold that seeped from the very walls.

"The first king," Cassian repeated, his mind racing. "You mean the god beneath the throne."

A silence followed, thick and suffocating. The figure nodded slowly. "The god was not always a god. He was once mortal, like you. A ruler who sought to wield a power beyond understanding. And in doing so, he became the very thing he wished to command."

Cassian exhaled sharply, trying to process the weight of the revelation. "And the throne keeps him contained."

"For now."

The words sent a chill down his spine.

Cassian had believed that the Hollow Throne was a seat of power, a tool of dominion over the empire. But if it was truly a prison, if every ruler who had taken the throne had only been feeding whatever lingered beneath it—

Then the empire was not ruled by kings. It was ruled by a cage.

A choice settled upon his shoulders like iron chains.

He could continue forward, claim the throne as his own, bind himself to its power as so many before him had done. Or—

He could end it.

But what would that mean for the empire? For the people who lived under its rule? If he destroyed the throne, would he also be releasing the very thing it was meant to contain?

The gathered kings watched him, waiting.

"If I destroy it," Cassian said slowly, "what happens to the god?"

The figure did not answer right away. When he did, his voice was softer, almost reverent.

"Then he wakes."

A silence stretched between them, heavy and final.

Cassian closed his eyes briefly, feeling the fire within him swirl and shift. There was no simple answer, no path without sacrifice. He had sworn vengeance, sworn to reclaim the empire. But now, he saw the truth—

The Hollow Throne was never meant to be sat upon. It was meant to be buried.

And he was the only one left who could decide its fate.

Cassian took a step forward, and the ancient floor groaned beneath his weight. The ghosts of the forgotten rulers did not move, did not breathe, but he felt their presence pressing against him. It was an expectation, a silent plea wrapped in the weight of countless generations.

One of the kings stepped forward—this one taller than the rest, his features half-obscured by time. His crown was jagged, broken at the edges, as though it had once been struck by something meant to shatter it entirely.

"If you seek to destroy the throne, you must understand this," the king said, his voice heavy with something Cassian could not name. "Its destruction will not be simple. You do not merely shatter stone. You break the very foundation upon which this empire stands."

Cassian's jaw tightened. "Then tell me how."

The gathered kings exchanged glances, the flickering shadows playing across their ruined faces. It was the first time they had looked at one another, rather than at him.

The first king—the one who had spoken first—finally nodded. "There is a way. But it was buried, just as we were. It lies in the tomb of the first emperor, beneath the throne itself."

Cassian frowned. "A tomb?"

The king's expression did not change. "The throne was built atop his grave. The first emperor's remains are entwined with the throne itself. His bones are the key."

Cassian exhaled slowly. "And if I reach the tomb?"

The whispers around him grew louder. The air trembled.

"Then you must make a choice," the king said. "Take the throne, and bind the god for another age. Or… burn it all."

Cassian clenched his fists. The weight of his decision settled fully upon him now. He had thought this war would be one of fire and steel, a simple battle to reclaim what had been stolen. But this—

This was something far greater.

His entire life, he had believed in power. In taking what was necessary. But now, he understood: some thrones are not meant to be taken.

The other kings began to fade, their forms unraveling like mist. Only the first king remained, his gaze locked onto Cassian's.

"Whatever you choose, Burned King," he said, "do not hesitate. The throne is waiting. And so is he."

Cassian did not move as the last of the ghosts vanished, leaving him alone in the ruined hall. The embers beneath his skin flared, their warmth a stark contrast to the icy weight of what lay ahead.

He turned toward the grand doors at the far end of the hall.

The path was clear now.

He would go to the throne.

And he would decide the fate of the empire himself.