The Monarch’s Ashes

Cassian stood at the threshold of destiny.

The grand doors before him, carved from obsidian and bound in iron, loomed impossibly tall, their surface etched with symbols older than the empire itself. They pulsed with faint energy, whispering promises of power and damnation. The air was thick with age and something else—something ancient watching him, waiting for him to step forward and accept his fate.

He could feel the weight of history pressing down upon his shoulders, the weight of the kings who had come before him, who had sat upon the Hollow Throne and been consumed by it. The embers beneath his skin flared in response, the fire inside him resisting the oppressive force. Was it defiance? Or was it the throne's hunger, recognizing a new vessel?

Cassian exhaled and pushed forward.

The doors groaned open, revealing the stairway beneath the throne.

The descent was steep, the walls narrowing as Cassian moved deeper into the Hollow. The stone beneath his boots was slick with age, worn smooth by the passage of those who had come before him. The air grew heavy with the scent of charred wood and something far older—something buried beneath centuries of secrecy. The deeper he walked, the more suffocating the silence became, as though the Hollow itself resented his intrusion.

Torches burned along the edges of the stone passageway, their light flickering against murals that told a story long forgotten. The flames did little to dispel the chill pressing in from all sides, nor did they lessen the weight of unseen eyes watching from the darkness beyond.

He stopped to study the murals.

The first mural depicted a man, crowned in gold, standing before a gathered people. They knelt before him, hands raised in reverence. Beneath him, something darker coiled—a shadow, almost imperceptible, creeping at his feet. It was subtle, but Cassian could see how the lines of power flowed, not from the man to his people, but from the people to the thing beneath him. Power was not granted—it was taken.

The second mural showed the crowned man seated upon a throne, his face twisted in agony. The shadow had risen, wrapping around him like chains, sinking into his skin. His people no longer knelt. They stood, distant and afraid, their faces carved in expressions of sorrow and betrayal. The throne was no longer a seat—it was a cage, a living prison.

Cassian moved further, his fingers tracing the worn stone of the third mural. The crowned man was gone, replaced by an empty throne. The shadow had grown larger, taking form—something monstrous, with hollow eyes and jagged edges where a mouth should be. The throne sat at its center, no longer a symbol of power, but of surrender.

Beneath it, the words were carved deep into the stone, written in the language of the old empire.

The throne does not rule. It devours.

A chill ran down Cassian's spine, despite the fire burning within him.

The deeper he went, the more the air thickened. The walls trembled, as if the very foundation of the empire resented his presence. The Hollow was not meant for the living.

A faint noise drifted through the corridors. A whisper, barely audible, like wind slipping through the cracks in reality.

Turn back.

Cassian ignored it.

The stairway seemed endless, winding downward in a slow spiral. The walls dripped with moisture, and strange veins of blackened stone pulsed beneath the surface, as if alive. Every few steps, another whisper, another fleeting shadow at the edges of his vision. The deeper he descended, the more he could hear it—not a whisper now, but a steady, rhythmic beat.

A heartbeat.

His own? Or something else?

Finally, the stairway ended, opening into a vast chamber.

At the center stood the Hollow Throne.

It was massive, carved from the bones of rulers long past, their remains fused together in grotesque artistry. Veins of black stone ran through its structure, pulsing faintly as though it breathed. The air around it was suffocating, heavy with something unseen. Power. Hunger.

Cassian stepped forward, his breath slow and measured. The embers in his veins flared brighter, responding to the throne's call. The choice loomed before him, heavier than ever.

Take the throne. Rule. Become part of the cycle.

Or destroy it.

He could feel it now—the entity beneath the throne, stirring. Waiting.

The Hollow Throne did not grant power.

It fed on it.

The shadows around the throne moved.

Cassian froze, his grip tightening on his sword. The air rippled, and from the darkness emerged a figure—not entirely solid, not entirely real. Its body was cloaked in writhing smoke, but its face was his own.

The specter stepped forward, mirroring Cassian's movements. "You are too late," it whispered.

Cassian's jaw clenched. "I decide what is too late."

The figure's expression did not change. "You think yourself different? So did I. So did all of us. We thought we could wield it, thought we could hold it back. But the throne is patient. The throne is hungry."

Cassian took another step forward. "Then I'll starve it."

The specter smiled—a cruel, knowing thing. "You think you have a choice? The moment you stepped into this place, it chose you. You are already part of the cycle. You have always been."

Cassian's embers surged in defiance, his power crackling along his skin. "Then I'll break the cycle."

The figure laughed, its voice splitting into a thousand echoes. "Try."

The shadows lashed forward.

Cassian barely had time to react before the force of them slammed into him, driving him backward. He hit the ground hard, his vision flashing white with impact. The darkness poured over him, dragging him down, deeper, suffocating—

No. Not again.

His fire flared, pushing against the void. The Hollow shuddered, the walls groaning in protest as Cassian forced himself back to his feet. The specter—his reflection—watched, its hollow eyes gleaming.

"You still don't understand," it said. "The throne does not care for will. It does not care for strength. It only cares for the one who feeds it best."

Cassian's breathing was ragged. The shadows coiled around the throne, whispering. Offering. He could take it now—sit upon it, bend the empire to his will. He had more fire within him than any ruler before. He could reign, reshape the world in his image.

But at what cost?

Cassian exhaled, tightening his grip on his blade. "I am not here to take power. I am here to end it."

The specter tilted its head. "Then let us see if you are strong enough to do what no other king has done."

The Hollow screamed. The walls fractured. The throne pulsed, its hunger reaching out. The air turned black, the very light in the chamber swallowed by the entity beneath the stone. A deafening sound, neither voice nor growl, but something worse—

And in that moment, Cassian understood—

The god beneath the throne was not sleeping.

It was waiting.

And now, it knew his name.