The throne did not sit in any room.
It existed between moments—between memory and ash, between what was and what should never have been.
It called to me in dreams first.
Softly.
Then louder.
Until waking felt like sleep, and sleep like falling into someone else's life.
The sky above Kadven never cleared after Azraleth.
A permanent veil of twilight lingered, turning even the brightest day to grey. Shadows stretched in ways they shouldn't. Mirrors became unreliable. Time twisted in odd places—hallways longer than they had any right to be, towers taller than the last time you passed them.
Kadven was changing.
Because I had changed.
It began with fire.
Three students vanished from the East Wing. No blood. No signs of struggle. Just scorch marks along the stone—etched into patterns only I could read.
Not flames.
Remembrance.
The forgotten was bleeding through.
And it was hunting its pieces.
I followed the trail to the Weeping Crypts, an abandoned sanctuary below the ruined chapel. Few dared speak of it. Fewer still walked its stairs.
But I did.
The entrance was carved with runes too old to be known by name, only feeling—grief, longing, loss. I traced them with my fingers. They pulsed faintly in return.
Welcoming me home.
Inside, the walls wept water. Or perhaps tears.
The air hung thick with forgotten prayers. I walked slowly, blade of silence in hand. Shadows clung to the ceiling like cobwebs of memory. I heard echoes—of my own voice, but twisted, like I was arguing with versions of myself.
Then I found it.
At the heart of the crypt.
The throne.
It was made of bones.
But not dead ones.
Each piece shimmered faintly, like starlight trapped in a cage. Bones of memory. Of every Gatebearer before me. Of the Circle's sins.
It pulsed with knowing.
And above it floated a crown.
No gold. No jewels.
Just a ring of thorns, flickering with black fire.
It waited.
A voice spoke.
But not aloud.
Not in my mind.
In my blood.
"You have returned."
It was not Azraleth.
It was older.
Deeper.
The voice of the first one who ever remembered.
The air thickened. The crypt darkened. And from the shadows stepped the others.
Not students.
Not ghosts.
But fragments.
Pieces of me. From other timelines, other lives. One bore my face as a child. One as a warrior. One as a monster.
They encircled the throne.
Watching.
Waiting.
I understood then.
This was the final gate.
Not of power.
But of choice.
"Sit," they whispered in unison.
But sitting meant acceptance.
Of who I was.
What I had become.
Of the Fourteenth.
Of the world's most ancient wound.
I hesitated.
Then stepped forward.
Each pace burned more memory into my skin—names, faces, screams, laughter.
Not all mine.
But all within me.
When I reached the throne, I turned.
Faced them all.
Past. Present. Broken. Whole.
And I said:
"I am not just the key."
"I am the door."
Then I sat.
The world shattered.
But only for a breath.
The crypt exploded in white light, swallowing my body, my soul, and everything I carried.
I saw across centuries.
I saw the first tear in the veil.
I saw the truth of magic—not a gift, but a scar made to be beautiful.
And I saw what waited beyond Azraleth.
The Chorus of the Unseen.
When the light faded, the crypt was gone.
So was the throne.
Only ash remained.
Ash, and me.
Still breathing.
Still whole.
But crowned.
Not by fire.
By remembrance.
Every piece that had been taken from me… was now mine again.
The Fourteenth Seat was no longer empty.
And now, I remembered everything.
I returned to Kadven in silence.
The other seats bowed as I passed, even though they didn't know why.
My siblings waited at the gate.
They did not ask where I'd been.
They only looked at me like I was new.
And I was.
I was no longer a boy in borrowed blood.
I was the throne reborn.
And the world would feel what it had forgotten.