## CHAPTER 86: _"The Throne That Bleeds"_
The stars had sung a new beginning. But beginnings never come without blood.
From the ashes of the god, the world wept—and the weeping took form. Storms that danced like serpents across the heavens. Oceans that hissed against the land like an animal scorned. Magic was alive again—but it had no master.
Arien stood before the ruins of Elira's capital, once a glittering city of silver towers and alabaster streets. Now, it was a skeleton of dreams, shattered glass, and fire-stained stones. He could hear the cries of survivors echoing through broken walls.
Lysia, beside him, trembled. Not from fear. But from memory.
"This is where I died," she said.
He turned to her slowly. "What?"
"In another life. Before we ever met. Before the curse, before the prophecy—this is where I was born. And this is where I was buried."
The revelation wasn't spoken with bitterness. Just truth. And that truth opened something old and terrible.
From beneath the capital, a tremor shook the world. A voice older than time itself whispered through the dust:
**"The blood has not been paid."**
Suddenly, they were surrounded by the remnants of the past—ghosts of kings and queens, generals and traitors. Each wore the sigil of the Cursed House. Each bore the wound of betrayal.
One ghost stepped forward. His face was young, his eyes ancient.
"You sit on a throne built by sacrifice," he said to Arien. "Do you think the gods will let you keep it without blood?"
Arien clenched his fists. "I never wanted the throne."
"But you took the crown," the ghost replied.
Lysia stepped between them. "He took it for the people. To break the curse."
The ghost nodded. "Then break it fully. Give the throne away."
"To who?" Arien demanded.
"To the one not yet born."
The ghost vanished. And in his place appeared a child—no more than seven, with silver eyes and a crown of shadows.
"Who are you?" Lysia asked.
The child smiled. "I am what comes after love. I am the cost of peace."
The child touched the throne—and it bled.
Not metaphor. Not symbol. The obsidian throne cracked and began to leak molten gold, pooling around Arien's feet.
"You must walk through it," the child whispered. "Both of you. Together."
"Will we survive it?" Arien asked.
"No. But you will become more."
They held hands.
And they stepped into the throne's blood.
—
It was fire. It was agony. It was memory rewritten and futures erased.
Lysia screamed. Arien roared.
They burned alive—but did not die.
They rose—changed.
Their skin bore new sigils, written in starblood. Their eyes now saw past, present, and potential. They were no longer mortal. No longer royal.
They were Balance.
And with a voice that shook every mountain in Elira, they declared:
"The throne belongs to no one. And to everyone."
The magic of the world bent.
The curses were undone.
The gods, watching from the Garden of Dying Stars, wept golden tears.
And far in the East, something stirred in response. Not a god. Not a curse.
A rival.
Something born not of love or hate—but of envy.