TO RUIN A KING

The light didn't burn—it remembered.

As it spilled through the chamber, illuminating stone-carved histories long hidden beneath the world, Magdalene stood frozen in place, staring into the face of her own bloodline. The woman before her—an apparition? a guardian? a ghost?—was not flesh, not fully. She shimmered with the warmth of moonlight and memory, her outline pulsing softly like a dying star.

"Who are you?" Magdalene asked.

The woman's voice carried no echo, yet filled the vastness. "I was called Seravelle. Queen of the River's Gate. Last Daughter of the Pact."

Maddox stiffened beside her. "The River's Gate? That name hasn't been spoken in centuries."

"Because those who spoke it," Seravelle said, "were hunted. Silenced. Betrayed."

Magdalene stepped closer. "You look like me."

"Not coincidence." Seravelle tilted her head, studying her. "You bear the same fire. The same wound."

Magdalene's throat tightened. "What do you mean?"

"You were never born for peace. You were born to unmake the lie." Her gaze swept to Maddox. "And you… you were never meant to wear that crown."

Maddox flinched. "It's not mine by choice."

"No," Seravelle murmured. "But it is yours by ruin."

The chamber pulsed again, and a ring of fire lit beneath their feet—soft, contained, ancient. Not meant to burn, but to bind. Glyphs spiraled around them like petals, glowing gold and ivory. Cassian stirred where he leaned against a broken pillar, groaning faintly as if the very energy in the room stirred him awake.

"This is sacred ground," Maddox whispered, staring around them. "A king's crypt. A binding site."

"No," Seravelle corrected gently. "It is a throne room."

Magdalene blinked. "Where's the throne?"

Seravelle raised her arm and pointed behind her.

The chamber shifted—walls peeled back without movement, and the space unfolded like a breath being exhaled. At the very center stood a throne of bone-white stone veined with gold, etched with markings that shimmered like rivers in moonlight. Around it were five pedestals—each broken but still standing.

"I don't understand," Magdalene said. "What is this?"

"A memory of power," Seravelle said. "Once ruled by five houses—wolf and daughter alike. When the pact fractured, they turned on each other. Only two bloodlines survived. Yours... and his."

Magdalene glanced at Maddox.

He was already staring at her.

"You mean—" she began.

Seravelle nodded. "Your ancestors did not fall in love. They fell in war. They bled and burned, and still, they chose each other. But their bond cursed the land. Because power… was not meant to be shared."

Maddox took a slow step forward. "Is that what we are? A curse?"

"No," Seravelle said softly. "You are the reckoning."

The silence that followed was heavy. Not cruel—but absolute.

"You mean to say," Magdalene said carefully, "that everything we've fought for—every death, every betrayal—has all been leading here?"

"Yes."

"And we are meant to… fix it?"

Seravelle's smile was bittersweet. "No, child. You are meant to choose."

The glyphs at their feet sparked. The chamber darkened.

"The Echo Throne recognizes only balance," Seravelle said. "And only one of you may sit upon it."

Magdalene's heart dropped. "What?"

"To restore the land," Seravelle continued, her voice hardening, "the throne demands a soul. One bound by love, the other by sacrifice."

Maddox understood before she could speak.

"It's her or me," he said, eyes locked on Seravelle.

The ancient queen said nothing. She didn't have to.

Cassian stirred behind them. "Don't," he rasped.

Magdalene turned. "Don't what?"

"Don't let her split you apart," he coughed. "This throne. This chamber. It feeds on division. It wants to fracture you."

Seravelle's image began to fade. Her final words were almost a whisper:

"The ruin… must choose the king. Or destroy him."

And she vanished.

Leaving only the throne, the glyphs, and silence.

Maddox looked at Magdalene—and she hated the softness in his eyes. The resignation. As if he'd already decided he wouldn't survive this.

"Don't you dare," she warned.

He smiled. "You forget, Mags. I was born to die for a crown."

"No."

He stepped forward.

"No."

He turned back. "You heard her. Balance. Sacrifice. If this is the end of the curse—"

"It's not the end," she snapped. "It's the beginning. You think sitting on that throne will save the kingdom? It'll just leave me with ashes."

"You'll live."

"I'd rather burn."

The silence between them cracked like thunder.

And then, from the corridor they'd come—noise.

Boots. Growling. Torches.

The enemy had found them.

Cassian tried to rise. "They followed the collapse. We have seconds."

Maddox's hand brushed Magdalene's cheek. "You trust me?"

She hated how much she did. "Yes."

"Then let me do this."

"No," she breathed. "We fight. We find another way."

But he was already turning.

Already walking to the throne.

Magdalene lunged—but too late.

He sat.

The glyphs exploded.

A wave of gold light surged through the chamber, tossing her back, flinging Cassian across the floor. The stone walls screamed with magic. And Maddox—Maddox arched in pain, his mouth open in a silent roar as the throne lit beneath him, branding his skin with ancient fire.

Magdalene screamed his name.

The throne pulsed once.

Twice.

And then stilled.

And Maddox... remained upright.

But his eyes—

They were no longer golden.

They were white fire.

And something old had awakened in him.

Something neither king nor beast.

Something that had once ruled a world before men remembered gods.