A Crown of Shattered Thrones

Smoke choked the tunnels beneath Blackspire Keep, its acrid sting clawing at Alaric's throat as he stumbled after Fira. The walls shuddered around them, cracks spiderwebbing through stone as the Eldersong's roar echoed from the Heart. Behind them, the clatter of armored boots and the wet, guttural rasps of the awakened soldiers grew louder.

Fira vaulted over a fallen beam, her dagger slick with lumen ink and blood—Syndicate guards who'd tried to corner them. "Left!" she barked, yanking Alaric into a narrow passage slick with condensation. The air here reeked of sulfur and old rot, the walls narrowing until they scraped his shoulders.

"Where does this lead?" Alaric gasped, clutching Lyrra's page like a talisman.

"Away," Fira snapped. But as the tunnel opened into a circular chamber, even she froze.

The room was a reliquary, its shelves crammed with Dynast artifacts: cracked helms, rusted swords, and shards of shadowglass etched with glyphs that pulsed faintly in the dark. At its center stood a statue of Lyrra, her stone face worn smooth by time, one hand outstretched as though offering a blade. In her palm lay a dagger—real, not stone—its hilt wrapped in fraying leather.

Alaric approached, his limp forgotten. The blade was pristine, its edge glowing faintly violet. "This… this shouldn't exist. The Syndicate burned all her relics."

"They missed one." Fira's voice was taut. "Take it. Quickly."

As his fingers brushed the hilt, the chamber trembled. Glyphs flared across the walls, painting the air with fragmented visions: Lyrra standing in a field of corpses, her hands raised to a storm-riddled sky; a child with Dynast eyes buried beneath Blackspire's foundations; Malvar, his skin peeling away to reveal writhing shadowglass veins.

Then, a whisper, cold as glacier wind: "Break the chains."

The dagger seared his palm, and he dropped it with a cry. Fira caught it mid-fall, her breath hitching as the blade's glow spread up her arm. "It's warm," she murmured. "Like a heartbeat."

A crash echoed from the tunnel. The soldiers were close.

The desert spire loomed, its shadowglass surface rippling like liquid under the dawn sun. Veyra pressed her marked palm to it, the Hollow sigil burning black. The spire's song had quieted to a low hum, but Eryk's corpse lay at its base, twitching as though tugged by invisible strings.

Ser Joron eyed the structure, his sword drawn. "This is folly, my lady. Let the Syndicate and their cursed song devour each other."

"Folly is letting power slip through your fingers," Veyra said, stepping into the spire's entrance. The air inside was cold, the walls alive with shifting light. Symbols danced across the glass—Old Tongue glyphs, older than the Fracture.

"Claim it," the song crooned.

She descended, her boots echoing on steps worn smooth by time. The lower chamber was a mausoleum. Dozens of lead coffins lined the walls, their lids pried open. Empty. At the far end, a vault door stood ajar, its surface carved with Lyrra's sigil. Beyond it, darkness pooled, thick and hungry.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Not a Blooded. Not a corpse.

A child, no older than ten, with eyes like smoldering coal and hair white as ash. She wore Dynast robes, their gold thread frayed, and smiled with too-sharp teeth.

"You're late," the girl said, her voice layered with a hundred whispers.

Veyra's Silvertongue surged, but the power recoiled, lashing her veins like a whip. She staggered, blood trickling from her nose. "What are you?"

The girl tilted her head. "A memory. A warning. The song's first verse." She gestured to the vault. "They're waiting for you. The ones who sang the world into ruin. Will you join them? Or will you end it?"

Behind Veyra, Eryk's corpse shambled into the chamber, his throat wound glowing violet.

The dagger's glow pulsed in Fira's grip, its light staining the reliquary walls the color of a fresh bruise. Alaric stared at the weapon, Lyrra's page trembling in his hand. "We need to move," he urged, but Fira stood transfixed, her eyes reflecting the blade's violet shimmer.

"It's… singing," she whispered.

The sound was faint at first—a low, resonant hum that vibrated in their bones. Then the glyphs on the walls flared brighter, and the awakened soldiers staggered into the chamber, their armor clattering like broken bells. Their eyes, voids of fractured light, locked onto the dagger.

"Give it to me," Alaric said, reaching for the blade.

Fira recoiled, her voice sharp. "No. It's mine." Her northern accent thickened, syllables curling like smoke. "Mine."

The soldiers lunged.

Fira moved first. The dagger sliced through the air, cleaving a soldier's helm as though it were parchment. Where the blade struck, shadowglass veins erupted from the wound, spreading across the corpse until it crumbled to ash. The other soldiers hesitated, their hollow gazes flickering with something like fear.

Alaric froze. It's not just a weapon. It's a key.

"Run!" Fira snarled, shoving him toward the tunnel. She followed, cutting down any soldier who neared, each kill feeding the dagger's glow. Behind them, the reliquary collapsed, Lyrra's statue shattering as the walls caved in.

When they burst into the open air, dawn was breaking over Blackspire Keep—or what remained of it. The central tower had folded inward, its stones melting into a jagged maw of shadowglass. From the ruins, figures emerged: Syndicate guards, merchants, servants, all stumbling with the same hollow eyes and glowing veins.

Fira gripped the dagger tighter. "The song is spreading."

Alaric's mind raced. Lyrra's page mentioned a "first verse." A beginning. An end. "We need to find the source. Before it consumes everything."

Fira's laugh was brittle. "You still think this can be stopped?"

He met her gaze. "I think that dagger is the only thing keeping you sane right now. So let's use it."

In the desert spire, the child's smile widened as Eryk's corpse lurched forward, its movements jerky, unnatural. Veyra backed toward the vault door, her Silvertongue power coiling uselessly in her chest.

"You're afraid," the girl said, tilting her head. "Good. Fear is the first note."

Veyra's marked palm burned. "What do you want?"

"To finish the song." The child gestured to the vault. "Your blood holds a shard of the old melody. A gift from Lyrra's betrayal. Open the door, and you'll claim your throne. Refuse…" She nodded to Eryk, whose hands twisted into claws. "...and you'll be a verse in someone else's hymn."

Ser Joron charged into the chamber, sword raised. "Get away from her, witch!"

The child sighed. "Boring."

Eryk's corpse moved faster than thought. One moment, Ser Joron stood defiant; the next, his sword clattered to the floor, his throat torn open. Veyra didn't scream. She'd seen death before. But this—this was theatrical.

"Decide," the child said.

Veyra stepped toward the vault. The door's sigil mirrored the mark on her palm, its edges sharp enough to draw blood. She pressed her hand to it.

The world dissolved.

She stood in a field of glass, a storm of razors shredding the sky. Above her loomed the spire, now a grotesque fusion of shadow and flesh. At its peak sat a throne, and on it—herself, clad in Lyrra's armor, a crown of serrated light cutting into her brow.

"Power demands harmony," her twin hissed. "Sing, or be sung."

Veyra woke on the chamber floor, the vault door sealed, the child gone. Eryk's corpse lay motionless, his throat wound extinguished.

But the mark on her palm now glowed violet.

In Blackspire's ruins, Malvar crawled through the rubble, his lumen ink–stained hands clawing at the shadowglass shards embedded in his flesh. The soldiers had spared him—not out of mercy, but indifference. He was already dead.

As his vision faded, he glimpsed the dagger in Fira's grip—Lyrra's dagger—and laughed, blood bubbling on his lips. "You fools… She's not the hero. She's the…"

The shadowglass veins burst from his chest, silencing him.

Far to the south, the desert spire shuddered, its shadowglass surface cracking to reveal a core of molten gold. The first note of the Eldersong's chorus echoed across the sands, and in the Syndicate's remaining strongholds, a hundred throats began to hum in unison.