The pact burned.

Just one drop of blood.

But I felt it coil through me like molten iron—spinning threads through bone and memory.

By dawn, the pain had dulled.

But the whispers hadn’t.

Burn the weak.

Shatter the blade.

Feed me.

I gritted my teeth and pressed my palms against the stone floor.

The crown didn’t sleep.

And now… neither did I.

The priest arrived just as the torches reignited themselves.

“It’s time.”

He led me out—back through a corridor I didn’t recognize. The air was heavier here. Warm. Not with heat… but magic.

Ancient magic.

A circular chamber waited at the end.

Empty. Quiet.

Except for the sword.

It floated.

No strings. No stand. Just hovering above a carved emblem in the floor. I recognized it—the mark from the crown’s inner rim.

The priest didn’t step inside.

“Touch it,” he said. “Only if you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To see what the crown remembers.”

I stepped in.

The instant my foot crossed the circle, the room shifted.

Not physically.

But reality twisted like someone exhaled through time.

I blinked—

And saw another world.

Flames rising from spires.

Mountains shattered in the sky.

A throne made of bone.

And a boy who looked like me… but wasn’t.

“Who—” I choked.

The crown pulsed on my head.

The boy raised his hand.

So did I.

The sword dropped into my palm.

White-hot pain lanced up my arm.

Not your blade yet, the voice snarled.

My knees buckled.

The room spun.

The sword vanished—like it had rejected me.

When I opened my eyes again, I was on the floor.

The priest stood over me, silent.

“What was that?” I gasped.

“A memory,” he said. “From a time before kings. From the crown itself.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“No,” he said darkly. “But it could be.”

I looked down at my hand. Still shaking.

“How do I stop it?”

The priest turned to leave.

“You don’t,” he said.

“You endure it.”