--- The night the sky broke, Kael was not asleep. He was 17. An orphan. A blacksmith’s apprentice in Greyhaven. People called him “Ash Boy” because he could pull iron from the forge with bare hands and the fire never left a mark on him. At midnight, the ceiling cracked open. No sound. No thunder. Just light. A shard fell. Not a star. Not a meteor. It was glass. Black. Cold. Shaped like a broken crown. It hovered for 1 second, then dropped into Kael’s palm. The moment he touched it, his room disappeared. The walls melted into mist. The floor turned to white bone. He was standing in a forest where every tree was pale, leafless, and twisted like ribs. The air tasted like copper and old smoke. And he wasn’t alone. A girl stood 10 steps away. Armor made of white feathers. A bow in her hand. But the string was snapped. Her eyes were gold. Tired. She looked at him like she already buried him. “You took long,” she said. Kael blinked. “Who are you?” “Lyra. Last of the Feather Guard.” She lifted the broken bow. “And I’m supposed to kill you.” Kael laughed. It came out wrong. “For what?” “For the throne.” Lyra’s voice didn’t shake. “The prophecy is clear. When the black shard chooses, only one can sit on the Ashen Throne. If two live, Elyndor dies.” Before Kael could answer, the bone forest moved. Roots pushed up from the ground. From the mist stepped them. The Whispering. Tall. Faceless. Skin like wet ash. Each had a mouth carved into both palms. And they were all chanting. Not words. Just one sound. _“Choose. Choose. Choose.”_ Lyra stepped in front of Kael. “Run.” “I don’t even know where we are,” Kael said. “Elyndor,” Lyra whispered. “The dying realm. And you’re the reason it’s dying.” One of the Whispering lunged. Lyra fired. The arrow had no string, but it flew anyway and turned to light mid-air. It burned the creature to dust. Three more came. Kael felt the shard in his pocket burn. Hot. Then cold. The voice from his nightmares came back, soft in his ear: _“The throne is empty. Come claim it.”_ Lyra grabbed his arm. “We have to move. Now.” But the path behind them was gone. Only one way forward: a gate. Made entirely of bones. Stacked. Fused. Whispering. Carved into the top of the gate were 3 words: *THE ASHEN THRONE AWAITS* Lyra looked at Kael. “If you go through that gate, you become my enemy. The prophecy demands it.” Kael looked at the shard. It was pulsing now, in rhythm with his heart. “If I don’t go through, those things kill us both.” He made his choice. Kael pressed the black shard to the gate. The bones screamed. The gate split open with a sound like mountains breaking. White light poured out and swallowed everything. The last thing Kael saw before the world went white was Lyra’s face. Not angry. Not scared. Resigned. And the voice, louder now: _“Welcome home, King.”_ Then darkness. ---