Her eyes—their silver depth—held the weight of a thousand years. She didn't rise from the sarcophagus like a woman returning from death. She rose like a force that had never slept, only waited.
The prince was frozen. His mouth opened as though to speak, but no words came.
Nytheria's gaze never left him.
"I see you've learned nothing, little king," she said softly, her voice dripping with ancient power. "A throne built on blood and lies… but no foundation. The gods laugh at your reign."
He swallowed, his posture stiffening, but I could see the tremor in his hands.
"You think yourself king because you wear a crown," she continued, her voice lilting like a lullaby, "but crowns are made to be broken. And blood is the price."
"W-we—" the prince started, but Nytheria silenced him with a raised hand.
"No more words. Only blood."
The room trembled.
The walls groaned as though they were waking too—pulled from centuries of slumber, hungry for what was about to come.
Her fingers, sharp like claws, slid over the edge of the sarcophagus. She reached for the prince—who, despite his bravado, took a step back.
"Come, my king," she beckoned, "and let me show you what you really are."
The prince's mouth tightened. "I am the heir of the Crimson Throne."
"You are a child playing with fire," Nytheria said, the words colder than frost. "You may wear the crown, but you will never wear the true mantle. Not until you drink from the cup of your ancestors."
The prince's eyes flashed. His hand went to his neck, where a blood-red pendant hung from a chain. He gripped it as though it might protect him.
"No one can claim my throne," he snapped.
"Do you believe that, little king?" Nytheria's lips curled into a smile. "Do you truly believe the throne is yours, or is it merely a cage you are willing to bleed for?"
I stepped forward then, my own heart pounding in my chest, the weight of the truth settling like a blade inside me.
"I see it now," I whispered.
The prince's gaze shifted to me, confused.
"She doesn't want to rule you," I said. "She wants to break you."
Nytheria's laugh echoed, deep and dark, as if the sound had no end.
"You think I want power, child?" she asked, her voice suddenly soft, almost tender. "I want freedom. The throne is not a crown to wear. It is a prison. A curse. One I'm going to destroy."
Her eyes flickered to the prince, then back to me.
"Together, we'll end it. The bloodline. The kingdom. This false reign."
I felt the pull of her words, like a drug. There was power in them. Dangerous, tempting power.
The prince's jaw tightened. He reached for the hilt of a dagger at his side.
"I am the king," he spat, voice laced with fury. "And I will not bow to anyone."
Nytheria's expression softened, almost pitying. She reached out and, with a single stroke, cut the air between us. The room fell silent.
The prince staggered back, a thin line of blood appearing on his cheek where she'd sliced him—not with a weapon, but with nothing but a gesture.
"You'll bleed for your crown," Nytheria said. "And when it's over, you'll understand."
The prince wiped the blood from his cheek, eyes burning with fury—but there was something else there, something darker than rage. It was fear. And he was trying to hide it.
I knew why.
Nytheria had cut deeper than just his skin. She'd sliced open the very foundations of his belief. His throne. His purpose.
"Do you feel it?" Nytheria's voice was a soft caress, but it carried an edge that could cut through bone. "The blood running through your veins is not just yours. It is ours. The blood of those who came before us, who shaped this kingdom with their power, their violence. The blood that is still alive."
Her words echoed in the chamber, vibrating against the walls. The prince staggered back, his breath quickening.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded. "You want to end the throne? The bloodline?" His hand gripped the dagger at his waist, but his posture was unsure, wavering.
Nytheria's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "No. We're not going to end it. We're going to remake it. The throne is the heart of this kingdom—our kingdom. And right now, it beats for nothing but lies. We will tear it apart, piece by piece, and we will make it ours."
I felt the weight of her words settle like a storm cloud in the room. Power, ancient and deadly, crackled between us. I could feel it pulling at the edges of my soul, tempting me to reach for it.
The prince's voice broke through my thoughts. "You think I'll let you destroy everything? My throne, my people?" His gaze shifted to me, then back to Nytheria, his hands clenched tight around the dagger. "I will kill you before I let you take it from me."
Nytheria's eyes darkened, the silver shifting into an eerie, predatory glow. "You'll try, little king. But the truth is, you're already lost. You're just too blinded by your own pride to see it."
She stepped closer to him, her movements graceful, deadly. He raised the dagger in defense, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold steel.
"You don't know the cost of this throne," Nytheria murmured. "You don't understand the price of blood."
With a swift, fluid motion, she turned the dagger in his hand, forcing it toward his own chest. But before he could react, she pulled back, laughing softly.
"You want to fight me, little king?" she asked, her voice almost affectionate. "You can. But you'll bleed out long before you're able to reach me."
The prince faltered. His hand dropped from the dagger, and he took a step back. His defiance cracked.
I stood there, watching the exchange, the pulse of the room thick with tension. Everything inside me screamed to run, to escape the pull of Nytheria's words, but there was no escaping now. The throne, the bloodline, the power—it was inescapable.
"This will end," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "But not the way you think."
Nytheria turned her gaze to me, her lips curving into a sly, knowing smile. "Oh, child. The ending is already written. The question is, will you choose to embrace it… or will you fight it?"
The prince lifted his head, his defiance returning with renewed strength. "I won't be controlled. Not by you, not by anyone." His eyes hardened. "If you think for one second that you can sway me with your games, then you're mistaken."
Nytheria's smile faded, her expression cold. "Then I will show you what happens when the game ends."
She turned sharply, her robes swirling around her as she made her way toward the heart of the chamber—an altar I hadn't noticed before. An altar made of bone and blood.
I could feel it. The pulse of power, stronger here, ancient and intoxicating.
Nytheria stood before it, her hands raised, her voice rising in a low chant. The words were foreign, but I felt them deep in my soul, like they were calling to something buried inside me.
"Do you feel it?" she whispered, her voice reverberating around us.
The prince didn't answer.
I didn't answer either.
But deep inside, I felt it. The blood. The power. The throne.
And something inside me, something long buried and forgotten, stirred.
The prince turned to me, his eyes wild with fury. "You—you—are part of this! You knew! You knew all along!"
But before I could respond, Nytheria's voice broke through the chaos.
"It's already begun, little king. Your blood is in our veins now. There's no turning back."
The altar began to glow, pulsing with the ancient power that filled the room.
And in that moment, I realized something—something that chilled me to the bone.
I wasn't just bound to this throne.
I was its heart.