Chapter 20: Shadows of the Throne
The storm of battle had passed, but the wounds it left behind festered in silence.
Smoke coiled lazily into the sky above the cliffs, drifting from hastily built pyres where the bodies of the fallen burned. The snow, once pristine and white, had turned to muddy slush, stained crimson and black. The survivors moved like ghosts through the wreckage—tending to the wounded, salvaging what supplies they could, and burying friends and comrades beneath shallow cairns.
Kieran stood alone at the cliff's edge, his tattered cloak billowing in the wind. The blood of Archbishop Caleor still stained his blade. It pulsed faintly, reacting to the divine essence that lingered in the steel. But Kieran's thoughts were far away, fixated not on the battle they had just survived, but on the war still to come.
"You should rest," Iris said softly behind him, her boots crunching over the frost.
Kieran didn't turn. "I can't."
Iris stepped beside him, her silver eyes scanning the ruins below. "We held the pass. We won."
"We delayed the inevitable." Kieran's voice was hard, cold. "Caleor was just one head of the hydra. The Cathedral will not let this defeat stand. They'll send more. Stronger. Smarter. And next time, they won't underestimate us."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, "What will you do?"
Kieran turned to face her, eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood.
"We move south. Into the heart of the Empire."
---
That night, the war council gathered again, though this time, the fire at the center of the chamber burned lower, and the air carried a tension none could shake.
Selene sat with her arms crossed, armor dented and streaked with blood. Veyra leaned against the wall, still clad in her battle garb, her arms wrapped in fresh bandages. Aleron and Aria sat side by side, both silent, contemplative. Iris stood at Kieran's right, her presence calm but watchful.
Kieran paced slowly before them, hands clasped behind his back.
"We've won a battle, but the war has only begun. Our position here is compromised. The Cathedral knows where we are. They'll return, and next time, they'll bring more than soldiers. They'll bring saints. Wyrmkin. Seraphim."
Veyra scowled. "Let them come. I'll cut them down like the rest."
"No," Kieran said, firm. "We can't afford another direct confrontation—not yet. We must strike first."
Aleron leaned forward. "You mean… take the fight to them?"
Kieran nodded. "There's a gathering in Helianth. A summit of high lords, clergy, and noble families. A strategic meeting to plan the final purge of the cursed bloodlines."
Selene narrowed her eyes. "You want to attack Helianth? That's suicide."
"Not an attack," Kieran corrected. "A message."
He unfurled a map onto the table. A red mark circled the central city of Helianth—capital of the Empire, stronghold of the Cathedral.
"We infiltrate. I make an appearance. And I show the world that the Cursed Sovereign is not hiding in the shadows."
Aria looked up. "You'll paint a target on your back."
"There already is one," Kieran replied. "But this time, I'll choose where it lands."
---
Preparations began immediately.
The sanctuary was dismantled. Survivors were sent to hidden safehouses throughout the kingdom. Selene and her scouts vanished into the forests, tasked with spreading false rumors and sabotaging Cathedral caravans. Veyra took charge of training the remaining warriors, sharpening them into a guerrilla unit ready to strike from the dark.
Aleron and Aria began gathering intelligence on Helianth—its defenses, its patrols, its noble attendees. And Iris worked alongside Kieran, forging new enchantments and strengthening his control over the shadows.
On the eve of their departure, Kieran visited the pyres one last time.
Hundreds had died to buy them this chance.
He would not waste it.
---
Helianth was a jewel of golden towers and sprawling plazas, ringed by obsidian walls and guarded by flying constructs. Spires etched with holy runes pierced the clouds, and massive statues of angelic warriors stood sentinel over the gates. The streets bustled with life—merchants, nobles, priests, and masked inquisitors—all oblivious to the storm creeping closer.
Kieran and his companions entered the city in disguise.
Iris wore the guise of a traveling noblewoman, veiled and elegant. Aleron and Aria played the role of her attendants. Kieran, cloaked in a glamor woven from Iris's magic, appeared as a scribe—faceless, unremarkable, invisible among the city's elite.
They moved through Helianth like phantoms, gathering intel, marking escape routes, identifying pressure points.
And then, the night of the summit arrived.
The Grand Cathedral blazed with light. Nobles and clergy from across the continent gathered beneath its jeweled dome, their laughter and toasts echoing through the marble halls. They feasted on honeyed meats and wine aged for centuries. They spoke of war like it was a game.
Kieran watched them from the balcony above the main hall, silent.
His mask dissolved.
No more hiding.
He leapt.
---
He landed in the center of the banquet hall with a crash, scattering dishes and goblets. The music stopped. Screams followed. In an instant, guards drew swords, mages prepared spells—but Kieran raised a single hand, and darkness erupted from beneath their feet.
The shadows swallowed the light, choking the flames in the chandeliers, warping the walls into shapes that whispered of death.
"I am the shadow you cast," Kieran said, his voice booming through the cathedral. "The price of your sins."
One of the high priests tried to speak, but a flick of Kieran's hand silenced him forever—his body reduced to ash.
"I am the Sovereign of the Cursed," he continued, walking slowly through the paralyzed crowd. "You called us monsters. Abominations. You murdered our kin, burned our homes, erased our names."
He stopped before the dais where the Archduke of the western provinces sat frozen in horror.
"You built your empire on our bones."
Kieran placed a single black feather on the table before the noble.
"And now, it crumbles."
The shadow surged, and then he was gone—vanished into the dark.
---
Panic consumed the city.
The nobles fled. The summit was abandoned. Priests demanded mass purifications. The Cathedral launched an inquisition against its own ranks, suspecting betrayal and infiltration. Paranoia festered.
And across the Empire, whispers spread like wildfire.
The Cursed Sovereign had walked into the heart of the Empire.
And left untouched.
---
In the hidden chamber beneath a ruined chapel far from Helianth, Kieran removed his cloak and dropped into a seat by the fire. Iris sat across from him, her expression unreadable.
"That was reckless," she said.
"It was necessary."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Then what comes next?"
Kieran looked into the flames.
"We fan the fire."
---
In the weeks that followed, rebellion sparked across the land.
Outcast villages raised black banners. Former knights abandoned their orders. Witches once hunted now offered sanctuary. The Cathedral's grip began to slip, one province at a time.
Kieran moved like a ghost through the rebellion—appearing where morale faltered, vanishing before traps could be sprung. Each time he struck, he left behind a symbol: a single black feather on scorched stone.
It became a mark of hope.
Of defiance.
Of revenge.
But with each victory, a part of him grew darker—more distant. The power within him whispered louder. Hungrier. And he knew that sooner or later, he would have to answer it.
---
One evening, Aria confronted him.
"You're changing," she said bluntly, sword across her back, eyes sharp.
"We're all changing," Kieran replied.
"No," she stepped closer. "You're letting the darkness lead."
Kieran turned away. "What choice do I have?"
"You're still human," she insisted. "Don't lose that. Don't become what they claimed you were."
Kieran looked at her—really looked—and for a brief moment, the mask cracked.
"I don't know if I'm human anymore."
Aria touched his hand.
"Then let us remind you."
---