The Throne's Grip
Elara gasps, lurching upright, the vision’s afterimage burned into her mind like a brand. Her breath stutters, sharp and uneven, scraping against her throat. The air is thick—damp stone, old parchment, something acrid that curls at the back of her tongue. Shadows writhe along the cavernous throne room walls, flickering in time with the dying braziers set in rusted sconces. The weight of the vision lingers, pressing against her skull like unseen fingers, cold and insistent.
Then—Selene.
Elara’s gaze snaps to her. The seer stands rigid before the throne, unnaturally still, fingers twitching as if caught in an unseen current. Her skin, once moonlit-pale, has turned ashen. Dark veins spiral up her throat, pulsing with an eerie, ink-like corruption. Her eyes——are voids, pupils devoured by black nothingness. They reflect no light, no life.
A slow, creeping dread knots in Elara’s stomach.
"Selene…” Her voice fractures, barely more than a breath, laced with something raw, something breaking. “Let go.”
Elara’s fingers tremble as she presses them to Selene’s forehead, whispering the incantation again. Nothing. The corruption writhes beneath her skin, slithering deeper with every second. Panic claws at Elara’s ribs. The throne looms before them, its unseen presence pressing against the air—dense, suffocating.
“Damn it,” she hisses, yanking her hand back. “Selene, stay with me.”
No response.
A chittering noise skitters through the chamber. Metal legs clatter against stone. Elara whirls as Tibbins stumbles in, his satchel slamming against his side.
“Elara,” he barks, already digging through his bag. His hands emerge gripping a palm-sized sphere—mechanical, crawling with tiny brass legs. Clockwork spiders.
He hurls two at Selene. They land, limbs whirring, needle-thin appendages snapping forward—only to recoil violently, repelled midair. The throne pulses. The air distorts, twisting like heat rising from stone.
Then Elara feels it.
Her boots slide forward, her balance teetering. A pull. Subtle at first, then stronger. Not just gravity. Something deeper.
Tibbins curses under his breath. “The throne. It's wakin', now,” he mutters. "It wants her, now. And bad."
Garik doesn’t hesitate. He strides forward, boots grinding against stone as the unseen force tugs at him. His expression is set, grim—he knows the risk. He always does.
From his back, he wrenches free a hammer unlike any other—a hulking thing of black iron and shimmering runes, its haft crackling with deep violet energy. The Nullbreaker.
“Elara, move,” he grunts, hefting it high.
The throne pulses again, its hunger sharpening. Selene jerks, her body wrenched forward as if by invisible hands. Her feet scrape against the stone, resisting, but she is losing.
Garik swings.
The hammer slams into the ground with a deafening crack. A wave of force erupts outward, rippling through the chamber like a shockwave, bending the very air. The pull vanishes—just for a moment. Selene crumples.
Then—the throne laughs.
A low, guttural sound. Ancient. Knowing.
The force surges back, tenfold. Garik stumbles, then yanks off his feet
The silence after the throne’s laughter is worse than the sound itself. It lingers, stretching through the chamber like a held breath, heavy with unseen weight.
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Elara forces herself to move. Her limbs feel sluggish, leaden—not from the throne’s pull, but from something deeper. Dread.
The Nullbreaker
But it doesn’t strike. It waits.
Elara swallows hard.
The air hums, thick with static. The walls, once lifeless stone, seem to shift at the edges of her vision, their carvings writhing, twisting—as if something beneath the surface stirs.
She takes a step back, her pulse hammering in her throat. Was it just a warning? Or an invitation?
Elara presses trembling fingers to Selene’s forehead, her skin unnaturally cold, like marble left in moonlight. Her magic unfurls in response—warmth blooming from her palms, golden threads of light sinking into bruised flesh. The air hums with quiet energy, thick with the scent of singed dust and old stone.
Selene’s breath stutters, then steadies. Color returns to her lips, faint but present. Relief flutters through Elara’s chest—brief, fragile. The wrongness in the throne room remains, a presence unseen but undeniable.
She exhales sharply, forcing herself to focus. The wounds are closing, her magic doing its work, but the tension in the chamber refuses to fade. The throne looms, silent yet oppressive. The walls feel closer now, their ancient carvings shifting just beyond the edge of her vision, as if they see
Then, the words slip from her lips, unbidden and absolute.
"Is it over?"
The question lingers, heavier than any spell. A truth she wants to feel rather than know.
Garik’s breath comes sharp, uneven. His fingers tighten around the handle of his fallen hammer, knuckles white. "What did you just say?"
Elara meets his gaze. "Is it over?"
The words feel heavier now, as if spoken by something greater than herself.
A hush falls over the chamber. The flickering torchlight casts restless shadows along the crumbling walls. The air, thick with dust and something older, seems to hum
Tibbins shifts, ears twitching. "You—you saw something, didn’t you?""Something... you weren’t supposed to?"
Elara doesn't blink. She only nods.
Garik exhales through his nose, his gaze flicking to the throne—its towering frame etched with sigils long faded, yet still pulsing at the edges of sight. Watching. Waiting.
"Then we need to leave,"
Garik straightens, his grip firm on the hammer as if anchoring himself. His voice cuts through the thick silence. "We’re leaving. Now."
No argument. No hesitation. Just raw command.
Elara watches the others react.
Tibbins stiffens, adjusting his goggles. Selene, still pale, lies motionless, her breathing shallow. Before anyone can speak, Roaka moves. The Fell Ork scoops her up like she weighs nothing, her tusked face set in a scowl. “She’s burning up,”
Ula takes position at the rear, shield raised, her keen hobgoblin eyes scanning the shadows. Rin melts into those very shadows, feline form low, twin daggers glinting in the dim light. Nia nocks an arrow, taking point, ears twitching at every distant creak and groan of the ruined chamber.
Even the torch flames seem to waver, uncertain.
The throne looms behind them, its dark stone humming—breathing. The sigils, once dormant, now pulse like a slow, waiting heartbeat.
"Elara.""Move."
She doesn’t argue. But as she turns, a shiver skates down her spine. Something watches. Something lingers.
They retreat, boots crunching over fractured tile, hurried steps echoing in the vast emptiness.
Then—a whisper.
Soft. Nearly lost in the cavernous room.
Elara stops.
The others don’t hear it.
She does.
Her breath catches. The weight of unseen eyes presses against her skin. The hair on her arms rises.
"Grandfather?"
Nia notices her hesitation. “Elara?”
But Elara doesn’t respond.
Because the voice wasn’t a threat.
It was a warning.
The expedition is over.
But whatever waits in the dark—watching—knows.
It is only just beginning.