The robed figure stepped into the center of the chamber with unsettling calm. His staff, black as night and veined with blood-red runes, tapped softly against the marble floor with each step. The air thickened. The fire in the torches flickered, dimmed, then hissed out altogether.
Even the golden glow of the Covenant blade seemed to struggle against the sudden chill.
Marcus stepped forward, lifting the sword. "I don't need a name to know what you are. You stink of Crowborn rot."
The figure tilted his head. "Then you should know what comes next."
With a whispered word, he thrust the staff into the ground.
Dark tendrils erupted from the marble like cracks in reality, snaking toward the council members. Several of them screamed and backed away, while others stood motionless—eyes blank, puppets of some unseen spell.
Marcus lunged forward with the Covenant blade, its light cutting through the tendrils like flame through dry silk. Erin moved beside him, hurling a dagger into the robed figure's shoulder. It barely slowed him.
"Council!" Marcus shouted. "You're under siege. Wake up!"
But only a few reacted—one old woman in a blue gown clutched her chest, eyes wide with horror. Lord Merrin, one of the oldest nobles, reached for his sword too slowly and was instantly snared by the tendrils, frozen in place.
"They've been enchanted," Erin hissed. "He's been here longer than we thought."
The doors slammed shut behind them, sealing the chamber. The robed figure smiled, blood trickling down from the dagger in his shoulder.
"Elric invited us," he said coolly. "You think you're reclaiming a kingdom, boy? You're walking into its funeral."
"You think this kingdom will kneel to you?" Marcus growled. "Ravelle was born of fire. It won't die in shadow."
He charged.
The Covenant blade met the staff in a crack of light and dark, sparks flying in every direction. Marcus felt the resistance—not just physical, but magical. The staff tried to repel him, pushing back with waves of cold, but the blade burned brighter with every heartbeat, every memory, every refusal to surrender.
Erin darted in behind the figure, slashing across the back of his legs. He snarled and lashed out with raw shadow magic, but she rolled out of range and hurled another blade.
The council chamber was chaos now—half the nobles under spells, the rest cowering. Elric stood still on the throne dais, eyes sharp and calculating, as if weighing the odds of siding with Marcus or fleeing.
Marcus noticed.
"Elric!" he shouted between parries. "Is this your kingdom now? Ruled by fear? By puppets?"
His uncle sneered. "This kingdom needs control. Not sentiment. And certainly not a bastard prince waving relics."
"I'm not the bastard anymore," Marcus growled. "I'm the heir."
With a roar, he drove the Covenant blade straight into the staff.
A shockwave tore through the chamber.
The robed figure screamed as the staff shattered, its obsidian splinters dissolving into dust. The shadow tendrils evaporated. The blank-eyed nobles collapsed, gasping for air, the spell broken.
Erin caught Marcus as he staggered, the sword dimming slightly in his grasp.
The figure crumpled to the ground, cloak fluttering like a dying flame. "You… you ruined everything…"
"Good," Marcus said.
For a moment, all was still.
Then, slowly, council members began to rise. Some bowed their heads. Others simply stared in disbelief.
Marcus turned to Elric. "It's over."
But his uncle's face remained cold.
"No. It's only begun."
He reached into his cloak—
—but Erin was faster.
In a blink, she crossed the room, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. A dagger clattered to the floor. She held another to his throat.
"Try again," she said. "Please."
Elric paled, the smugness draining from his face.
Marcus addressed the council. "You've seen what lies your regent made deals with. The throne must be reclaimed—not with blood, but with truth. And I swear to rebuild what was broken. Not as the king your fathers feared—but as the heir this kingdom deserves."
Silence stretched—then, Lord Merrin dropped to one knee.
One by one, the others followed.
Even the guards saluted.
Erin lowered her dagger.
And Marcus—still breathing hard, sword in hand—finally stepped up to the Lion Throne.
He didn't sit.
Not yet.
Because war still lingered beyond the walls.
But for the first time in years, the light had returned to Silverholde.