The throne room was quiet.
Not with peace. With fear.
Even the air didn't dare move.
Eryndor Veyne, crowned Lord of the Hollow Seat, sat atop a spire of carved bone and molten steel. The throne itself was alive—sighing, shifting, occasionally weeping blood. His crown burned with a low flame that never died, wreathed in black smoke that twisted around his shoulders like a familiar.
Before him, a kneeling warlord sobbed.
"My Lord… I-I brought you the heads you asked for. The village resisted. We—"
"You brought me heads," Eryndor said softly, voice smooth as glass.
The warlord looked up, hope flickering.
"But not his."
The room went still.
Eryndor leaned forward. His pale eyes—once warm—were now like polished stone. Cold. Reflective. Empty.
"You said Kael was dead," he whispered. "A broken oath. A final breath. That was your promise."
"I—I swear he was! No one could survive the Severing