Chapter 19

The throne was made of shadow.

It loomed like a crown of fangs in a chamber carved from black stone and quiet screams. Above, mirrors hung like broken stars, bound by rusted chains, their surfaces warped from old heat. The throne pulsed with a slow rhythm, drawing power from veins of soulglass in the floor.

Malakar sat at its center, unmoving.

To kneel in his presence was to feel time lose meaning.

A shuffling of feet disturbed the silence. An acolyte approached, masked and draped in decay-colored robes. It prostrated itself before the dais.

“My lord,” the voice croaked. “The Veil trembles. The stone has stirred.”

Malakar didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained closed, hands resting on the carved armrests, long fingers twitching as though counting distant pulses.

Another entered, this one armored in scorched iron and engraved bone, steaming with tethered demonic essence.

Malakar opened his eyes.

The acolyte began to weep.

“You still think this is about her?” Malakar asked, voice like rotting silk. “She is nothing. A vessel. A wick to the flame.”

He stood, and the throne unraveled behind him, folding back into the shadows.

He walked past the groveling acolyte, resting a hand gently on its bowed head.

“You were once a priest,” he said softly, almost kindly. “A man of conviction. Strength. Sacrifice.”

His fingers dug in slightly.

“Look how much more useful you are now—corrupted. Bent. Hollowed out.”

He pushed the acolyte back with a single gesture. The figure collapsed, twitching in rapture.

“To serve me is not to offer loyalty,” Malakar said, turning his eyes on the brute. “It is to offer ruin. That is where your usefulness begins.”

“The girl has touched something ancient,” the brute growled. “Let me burn the mountains. Let me destroy her before she awakens it fully.”

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The words hung for only a heartbeat.

Then the shadows screamed.

Malakar moved faster than thought. In a blur of black and violet flame, he crossed the chamber and lifted the brute into the air with one hand, claws of energy wrapped around its throat.

“You dare,” he hissed, “to speak of destroying my work?”

The brute gurgled, thrashing. The air around Malakar turned molten.

“That gem is older than your line,” Malakar growled, eyes burning twin pits of abyssal fire. “Older than kingdoms. Older than me. It is the seed of godhood. It was mine to wield—until that wretched beast buried it beneath its corpse.”

The brute’s armor cracked. His limbs convulsed.

Malakar released him with a flick of disgust. The brute collapsed, steaming, coughing sparks.

Malakar turned slowly back to the others, robes trailing smoke.

“I did not spend an age hunting Veynir’s legacy only to have it smashed by cattle.”

Silence reigned.

Then, calm once more: “No. The girl keeps it—for now. Let her think it is hers. Let it feed on her. When the time is right, it will return to its true master.”

The brute bowed.

He raised a hand.

The walls peeled away in curling strips of darkness, revealing a map—lines of glowing red forming continents, mountains, oceans. Near the eastern peaks, a violet ember flared to life.

Malakar approached the map. “The tomb opens,” he murmured.

A second gesture ignited the braziers. The flames turned green, and smoke spun into images—Marion kneeling beside a pool nestled between two high, curved stone faces like yawning jaws of some long-dead beast. Above the black water floated the gem, pulsing with light.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then the scene shifted—to a dragon of shadow and death writhing above a burning sky.

Veynir.

Malakar’s jaw tightened.

“I didn’t want that war,” he said, voice soft. “I reached out to him. Promised dominion. Boundless power.”

He stepped closer to the flame.

“He refused. Clung to old ideals. He would not bend. So, I broke him.”

The fire flared again—Veynir crashing to earth, wings torn, bones shattering, a scream that cracked the mountains.

Malakar turned away, bitter.

“Such waste,” he hissed. “He could have been magnificent. A herald of the Unmaking. But no. He chose death over becoming more.”

A moment of stillness.

“I almost pitied him.”

His hand rose once more. The map pulsed again.

“Now a new fool holds the stone. She kneels beside the grave of a god and thinks herself chosen.”

He looked toward his followers.

“Begin the rites along the southern rim. Let the Unveiled Flame spread, slowly. Silently. Let them believe they are still safe.”

The brute growled. “And the girl? Do we wait for her to grow stronger?”

“She believes she is free,” Malakar said. “That she can wield the stone. Let her. She will come to me in time—believing she has power.”

He turned toward the now-faded vision of Veynir’s death.

“And if the dragon returns?”

A pause. A breath.

Malakar smiled.

“Then I will break it again. Not with fury. Not with force. With understanding. I know its heart now. I know what it feared.”

His voice turned quiet—like silk stretched over blades.

“This time, I will offer nothing. No bargains. No mercy.”

He looked past the fire.

“I will take what remains... and hollow it.”

The flames guttered, leaving only silence in their wake.