Beneath the sky veiled in turbulent crimson, the remnants of the old Heir’s Court smoldered. Winds howled like whispers of the damned. Standing alone amidst the wreckage, Lucian cast a long shadow across the scorched flagstones where judgment had once been decreed.

The silence was oppressive—not of peace, but of withheld fury.

He stared at the crumbled obsidian throne, now little more than fractured rubble. This had once been the seat of power for House Astralis. A symbol of divine authority. A throne built not just from stone but from generations of conquest, blood, and celestial favor.

Now it was dead.

But in that silence, Lucian did not grieve. He listened.

Behind him, a faint tremor in the air. Someone dared approach.

“You should not be here,” came the low voice. Familiar. Seraphis.

Lucian didn’t turn. “You followed.”

“You knew I would.”

Lucian closed his eyes, the metallic scent of ash and fire filling his lungs. “Do you remember the oath we took here? That we’d never allow the throne to fall into corruption again?”

Seraphis stepped forward slowly, boot heels grinding cinders. “I remember. But you also promised not to come back until you were ready to claim it.”

“I am ready,” Lucian said.

A long pause. “Then prove it.”

Lucian turned, his eyes now ablaze with the argent glow of his reborn power. “You still doubt me?”

“I doubt everything. You vanished for ten years, returned from death, and now claim rebirth. The Council wants your blood. The Crown Judges declared you a heretic. Even the sigil of Astralis no longer recognizes you.”

Lucian walked past Seraphis toward the throne’s remains. “Let them doubt. Let them fear. I don’t need validation—I need control.”

A whisper surged in the wind. It wasn’t natural.

Seraphis drew his blade, scanning the shifting shadows. “We’re not alone.”

Out of the swirling ash emerged a figure cloaked in glimmering dusk. A voice rang out, dissonant and distant, like it came from multiple mouths at once.

“The throne shall never be whole again. Not while he stands.”

Lucian narrowed his eyes. “You.”

The wraithlike figure laughed. “We are the Vox Nullum. Keepers of the broken pact. He who dares reclaim what was forsaken shall be judged.”

Seraphis lifted his sword. “Lucian, that’s one of the Forgotten Choir. We need to—”

But Lucian raised a hand. “No. I answer this.”

The ground trembled as Lucian stepped forward. From his palm, arcs of searing light unraveled into a sigil, ancient and defiant—the true crest of Astralis, now reborn.

“You seek to judge me,” Lucian said coldly. “But I’ve already walked through death and memory. You are echoes. I am the voice.”

The Vox Nullum screamed in tongues of fire, rushing at him. Seraphis braced for impact.

But Lucian didn’t move.

In a blink, the force collided with a barrier—a dome of radiant force that pulsed with celestial authority. The shadows recoiled, unraveling into smoke.

When the air cleared, Lucian stood tall. At his feet lay a fragment of the Vox’s essence, now trembling like a dying ember.

“I do not fear ghosts,” Lucian said. “I command legacies.”

Seraphis sheathed his blade, breathing hard. “The Forgotten Choir doesn’t just haunt ruins. They test bloodlines.”

Lucian stared at the remnants. “Then let them come. I’ll burn every test they send.”

He looked back at the broken throne.

“It doesn’t need to be rebuilt,” he said. “I am the throne now.”

And with that, the wind stilled. The silence remained—but it no longer felt empty. It felt like the calm before dominion.