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Chapter 6 — Ashes Beneath the Throne
The blood hadn't dried on his gloves yet.
Erevan stood at the edge of the marble terrace, the wind howling through the broken teeth of what once was a noble tower. Below, the city burned. Crimson trails painted the stone streets—lines drawn by dying men, women, and something else. The night bore no moon, only the cruel shimmer of System Eyes watching from above.
"Report," Erevan said, voice sharp enough to flay skin.
A figure approached. Lean, limping, face hidden under a scorched hood. "The rebellion was snuffed, my lord. Survivors are… minimal."
"Minimal is still too many," he replied, eyes not leaving the firestorm below. "Clean it."
"Yes, Warden."
The title rang hollow in the air. Erevan hated it.
Ages ago, he'd fought to burn the System's shackles. Now he wore their crown—cold iron forged from betrayal and necessity. The memory of her face flashed again. The girl with starlight in her voice. The one who had trusted him until the end.
The same one he'd left bleeding in the snow.
He turned as another figure emerged—a child, no older than twelve, with eyes like ancient glass. She was quiet, barefoot, trembling.
Erevan knelt. "What's your name?"
The girl didn't answer.
"I asked you a question."
Still silence. But her gaze didn't waver. Not from him. Not from the crimson stars in his eyes.
Good.
He rose, gesturing to his men. "Give her food. Let her watch. Let her remember."
"Remember what?" one of the soldiers dared to ask.
Erevan's voice dropped to a whisper that froze the soul. "That mercy is a lie taught by corpses."
The soldier swallowed hard and nodded.
As the wind howled louder, Erevan walked back toward the Heart of the Tower, his steps echoing like thunder through the corridors of ruin. There was no solace in conquest, no joy in control. Only the long, bitter road to truth. The deeper reason he ascended.
They all thought he wanted power. But power was a stepping stone. A tool. What he truly sought lay buried beneath layers of system lies, of forgotten records sealed in golden code.
The hidden stat—Remembrance—still flickered at the edge of his vision, locked.
But it was waking.
He passed through the corridor of sigils, eyes brushing over each mark on the wall. Each was a name erased from existence. Gods, rebels, old friends. And her.
His fingers brushed over her sigil. Faint. Almost faded.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
Then, with a shake of his head, he kept walking. No time for ghosts. Not yet.
At the end of the hall stood a chamber sealed by sentient runes—The Mirror of Null. He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.
The Mirror shimmered.
It showed him not his reflection, but the version of himself that never took the deal. The one who chose to burn with the rebellion. His eyes were softer. His hands, clean.
"Coward," Erevan said to the image.
The other Erevan smiled sadly.
And then, the vision shattered.
He was alone again.
But something in the shards whispered.
Soon.
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