They told me never to go near the old chapel.

"Rotten stone," they said.

"Bad spirits."

"Leftover magic."

But servants say a lot of things when they’re trying to scare a boy who sleeps on floorboards and steals scraps from the royal kitchen.

So of course… I went.

It was two weeks before the king died.

I remember because I still had a name back then.

Not Kael. Not “Your Highness.”

Just Tavren. A name not even the rats cared about.

The door had no lock.

No guards.

No reason to be guarded… unless someone had something to hide.

The chapel reeked of dust and burnt wax.

Most of the candles had melted into the floor.

Cobwebs hung like curtains.

But it was the air that changed first.

Cold.

Still.

Too still.

That’s when I saw it—

A small iron gate near the altar.

Most wouldn’t notice it behind the old statue.

But I wasn’t “most.”

I was the boy who cleaned the dust the nobles walked over.

I hesitated.

Every part of me said to turn back.

But something deeper pulled me forward.

Not a voice.

Not a sound.

Just… pressure.

Like something ancient was awake.

And waiting.

I opened the gate.

Stone steps spiraled downward, swallowed by darkness.

I grabbed a half-melted candle and followed the chill.

Step after step, the shadows thickened.

It didn’t smell like dust down here.

It smelled like iron, and age, and something I can only call wrong.

The staircase ended in a single chamber.

Empty walls.

One pedestal.

And a crown.

Black. Twisted. Gold-veined.

It looked nothing like the polished relics the priests waved on festival days.

This wasn’t a symbol of rule.

It was a warning.

But I couldn’t stop looking at it.

I didn’t reach out.

I didn’t touch it.

I just looked.

And it moved.

The crown lifted from the pedestal—slowly, like it had waited centuries for this exact moment.

I remember taking a step back.

Then another.

Then the pain hit me.

Fire.

Pure, white-hot agony ripping through my skull.

I screamed.

Louder than I thought my lungs could manage.

But no one heard me.

No one ever did.

Images burst through my mind—Swords. Fire. Screaming faces.

A throne surrounded by bodies.

A woman with silver eyes whispering a name I didn’t know—Kael.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the throne room.

Standing.

Breathing.

Burning.

The crown was still on my head.

And I was no longer just a boy.

The crown had chosen me.

And it didn’t ask permission.