The dreams had grown colder.
Eleanor no longer saw blood-soaked visions of the Queen's wrath or thrones split by fire. Now, she saw a throne made of nothing. A black vacancy in the heart of an endless hall. No ruler. No crown.
Only her name, whispered over and over again.
And laughter—always behind her, but never near.
Days Later – The Blistering Flats
The sand cracked beneath Eleanor's boots like scorched bone.
Ashryn walked ahead, hood drawn against the sun, his sword glinting at his hip. The wind here didn't howl; it sang, low and haunting. The road behind them had vanished hours ago, swallowed by dunes.
They were heading toward the dead city of Oshareth—a place once ruled by one of Aeryth's sisters. According to scattered scrolls and a fevered priest, the False Heir had passed through there only weeks ago, leaving madness and blood in his wake.
"They say it was never built by men," Ashryn muttered, squinting toward the horizon.
"It wasn't," Eleanor replied. "It was grown."
Ashryn glanced at her.
She didn't explain. She didn't know how she knew that.
But she did.
The City of Oshareth
It rose out of the desert like a monument to forgetting. Not stone, not bone—something in between. Towers leaned at impossible angles. Walls pulsed faintly, like skin remembering its heartbeat.
No birds. No guards. No life.
But something watched.
Inside the city, the air felt old and tight, like the lungs of a buried god. Murals along the inner walls depicted not war—but silence. Women seated on lotus-shaped thrones, their faces hidden by veils. A central figure held a single black rose to her chest. Her name had been scratched out.
Ashryn pointed at the ground.
Dozens of footprints led inward—fresh, deep, and dragging.
"We're not alone," he said.
Eleanor stepped forward, hand on the hilt of her blade.
She wasn't afraid.
She was curious.
The Temple at the Core
It stood at the city's heart like a wound that refused to close.
The doors were split, their carvings melted by heat. Inside, the scent of iron and incense clashed in the stale air. Broken candles formed a path to an altar where blood still dripped fresh onto a basin.
And beside it knelt a child.
She looked up slowly.
Her eyes were solid black.
"He walks," the girl whispered. "He wears no crown, but they kneel. He drinks from the hollow and speaks in the Queen's stolen tongue."
Eleanor stepped closer.
"Who are you?"
"I was her vessel once," the girl said. "But he shattered me. Took the pieces he liked. Left the rest for dust."
Ashryn drew his sword, unsettled.
Eleanor knelt beside the child. "Tell me about him."
The girl placed a cold hand against Eleanor's chest.
"You'll see."
The Memory That Wasn't Hers
The world blurred.
Eleanor stood not in Oshareth, but in a different place—beneath it.
A grand hall of black glass, where a man sat on a throne made of shrieking bones. He wore no crown. His eyes were empty sockets, but still saw. At his feet knelt figures in masks—cultists, priests, even kings.
"I am the heir," he said softly. "Not by blood, but by claim. I do not inherit. I take."
They repeated his words in unison.
A woman stood chained at his side—her face a match to Eleanor's.
Not Aeryth. Not her.
Another.
"She bled for the world," the False Heir whispered. "I bleed for myself."
The vision ended with a sound—thousands of voices, screaming in worship, bound to one lie.
Back in the Temple
Eleanor gasped as she returned.
The child was gone.
Ashryn gripped her shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"No," she said, standing. "He's more than a pretender. He's using echoes—twisting pieces of the Queen's soul."
"And if he binds enough of them?"
"He won't need her crown. He'll become her."
That Night – Camp Outside the City
Ashryn kept watch, but Eleanor couldn't sleep.
She stared at the stars, remembering the hall, the chained twin, the void-eyed heir.
If Aeryth's soul had been scattered by her death, and the world was littered with fragments…
Then who else was carrying pieces?
Was that what the cults worshiped?
Was that what the visions meant?
She wasn't chosen. She was contaminated.
Elsewhere – The Hollow Heir Gathers
In the ruined cathedral of Vashmere, the False Heir stood before hundreds.
He wore a veil soaked in the blood of his followers. A child's heart still beat in his hand—plucked from a vessel who had dared resist.
"I have eaten the seed of the Queen," he intoned. "And I shall bloom."
His followers fell to their knees.
"The Hollow Throne awaits. And I shall sit."
He raised the heart high.
In the shadows behind him, something massive stirred—an ancient beast with no name, awakened only by blood and memory.
It was bound to him now.
Eleanor's Decision
She knew what had to be done.
They would head north, to Marrowfall, where the archives of the Crownless Kings were kept. The records there predated the Queen's rise—rumors said they spoke of the true source of her power.
But not all knowledge should be unearthed.
Ashryn protested. "If you chase this further, you won't return."
"I don't plan to," she said.
He stared at her.
"Then I'm going with you."
Final Scene – A Warning in the Wind
As they left Oshareth, a storm formed behind them.
Black clouds, not made of rain, but of wings—thousands of them.
Crows. Ravens. Carrion birds.
Each one carried a whisper in its throat.
The throne must be filled.
The throne must be filled.
The throne must be filled.
Eleanor didn't look back.
She just walked faster.