The Cursed Throne

The Night the Sky Bled

Chapter One: The Night the Sky Bled

The first scream tore through the village long before dawn.

Lyra heard it as she hammered iron, sparks flaring around her like tiny suns. Her father had long gone to bed, but she couldn’t sleep—not with the restless energy crawling beneath her skin, whispering that something was about to break.

The sound came again, sharper this time, slicing through the quiet hum of the forge. Lyra froze, hammer mid-swing, sweat cooling on her brow. Outside, the air seemed to tremble. The horses whinnied, the dogs whined, and even the wind stilled.

Then came the bells—low, urgent, rolling through the valley.

War bells.

“No,” she breathed. “Not again.”

She threw aside the hammer and tore off her gloves, sprinting outside. The sky above Velmere was alive—red clouds twisting like wounds, lightning arcing between them without thunder. The air smelled of iron and smoke.

People stumbled into the muddy street, clutching lanterns, shouting questions no one could answer. “Raiders?” “Fire?” “The north watch—did they fall?”

Lyra pushed through the crowd toward the hill that overlooked the valley. From there, she could see the castle.

And she saw it bleeding light.

A crimson glow pulsed from the towers, spreading like ink through water. It was wrong—too deep, too alive. Magic, her mind whispered. Old magic. The kind that hadn’t been seen since the Age of the Sigils, when men and gods warred over who owned the stars.

Someone grabbed her arm.

“Lyra!”

It was Taren, her childhood friend, his face streaked with soot. “Get inside! The royal guards are rounding everyone up—they say something’s happened to the prince!”

She blinked. “The prince? What—”

He pulled her toward the forge, but she dug her heels in. “Taren, look at the sky. That’s not fire. That’s a summoning.”

His eyes widened. “Don’t say that out loud!”

But it was too late.

The world was already shifting.

A wave of power rippled through the air, and Lyra felt it slam into her chest like a heartbeat. The mark beneath her sleeve—her cursed birthmark—burned to life. The Sigil of Ruin. She clutched her arm, biting back a cry as dark light crawled beneath her skin.

“Lyra—what’s happening to you?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her mind filled with whispers—ancient voices calling her name in a language older than stone. The bloodline awakens, they murmured. The gate is breaking.

And then, through the red haze, she saw something move above the castle—a massive shadow unfurling wings that blotted out the stars.

The crowd screamed.

“Run!” Taren shouted, shoving her toward the forge.

But Lyra didn’t move.

She stared as the creature dove—black scales catching firelight, eyes burning gold. A dragon, larger than any she’d ever imagined. It struck the castle tower with a roar that shook the mountains.

The crimson glow shattered.

And from within the ruins, a beam of light burst upward, slamming into the clouds. The red sky split open, raining fire.

Lyra barely had time to gasp before the force knocked her off her feet. She tumbled down the hill, slamming into the mud. The heat seared her lungs. Somewhere, Taren was calling her name, but all she could hear was the roar—the dragon’s scream echoing inside her bones.

And beneath it, another sound.

A heartbeat.

Her own.

Pounding in time with the creature’s.

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When she woke, the sky was still burning.

Bodies lay scattered across the fields—villagers, guards, even the king’s banners torn and blackened. The air shimmered with the residue of magic. Lyra pushed herself up, coughing, and looked toward the castle. Half of it was gone, reduced to rubble and ash.

But something moved within the wreckage.

She squinted, crawling closer, until she saw him.

A man—no, a boy not much older than her—dragging himself from the debris. His clothes were royal silk, now torn and soaked in blood. A silver circlet gleamed dully on his brow.

The prince.

Lyra’s heart lurched. She’d only ever seen him from a distance during festivals—Prince Kael of Velmere, heir to the throne and wielder of the divine flame. The boy blessed by the Sun God himself.

Now he was crawling, wounded, toward the moat.

Lyra hesitated only a moment before running to him. “Your Highness!” she shouted, skidding to his side. His eyes—golden and fever-bright—snapped to her.

“Don’t—touch me,” he rasped. Blood trickled from his mouth.

“You’re hurt—”

He seized her wrist. “Listen.” His grip was like iron. “It’s awake. The curse—she’ll come for me. You have to—”

His words cut off in a gasp. His gaze fell to her arm, where her sleeve had torn. The Sigil of Ruin glowed faintly beneath the soot.

For a long, terrible heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Kael whispered, “You.”

Lyra tried to pull back, but he held fast, his eyes wide with a strange mix of fear and awe. “The mark—how—”

“Please,” she stammered. “I can explain—”

But the air around them darkened, the ground trembling as shadows crawled across the earth. Figures began to emerge—armored soldiers wreathed in black flame, their eyes hollow. The Wraithguard. The ancient protectors of the throne.

Only now they weren’t protecting anyone.

Kael struggled to his feet. “They’re not real. They’re memories—bound to the curse—” He stumbled, and Lyra caught him instinctively. Her mark flared again, burning against his skin where they touched.

The Wraithguard stopped.

Then turned.

Toward her.

Their hollow voices merged into a single whisper that chilled her soul:

“The bearer lives.”

Kael’s hand tightened on hers. “Run!”

They sprinted through the ruins, the ghostly soldiers pursuing them with inhuman speed. Lyra’s lungs burned, her legs screamed, but something inside her—some dark, ancient strength—kept her moving. Shadows lashed at her heels, blades of smoke slicing the air.

At the shattered gates, Kael stumbled again. Lyra hauled him upright. “We have to keep moving!”

“They’ll never stop,” he panted. “Not until you’re dead.”

“Then they’ll have to catch me first.”

She grabbed a fallen sword, its edge glowing faintly with leftover magic, and turned to face the oncoming wraiths. For a moment, fear froze her—but then she remembered her father’s voice, soft but steady: Steel bends, Lyra, but you don’t.

She raised the blade.

The first wraith lunged. She swung—metal met shadow—and for an instant, her mark blazed. The creature disintegrated with a shriek, scattering into ash.

Kael stared. “How did you—”

“I don’t know!”

But she didn’t stop. She struck again and again, each swing guided by instinct she didn’t understand. The world blurred around her. Magic poured from her veins, burning brighter with every heartbeat.

When the last wraith fell, she dropped the sword, shaking.

Kael looked at her as if seeing something divine—or monstrous. “You shouldn’t exist.”

She met his gaze. “And yet here I am.”

He almost smiled, before his knees buckled. She caught him again, lowering him to the ground. His pulse was weak, his skin pale. “You need a healer.”

He grabbed her wrist one last time. “If they find you… they’ll kill you.”

“Then you’d better stay alive and explain why.”

His eyes closed. “You don’t understand. The mark you bear—it’s not a curse. It’s a key.”

“A key to what?”

But he didn’t answer.

Above them, the red clouds began to fade, revealing a sky split by cracks of silver light. The world felt fragile, trembling at the edge of something vast.

Lyra stared at the ruined castle, the fallen prince, the mark burning on her arm.

And deep inside, a voice whispered again:

The gate is opening.

Then the ground beneath her feet shuddered—and from the heart of the castle ruins, a column of black flame erupted, spiraling toward the heavens.

A figure rose within it.

Tall. Cloaked in darkness. Eyes like dying stars.

When it spoke, every living thing in Velmere bowed in terror.

“The Heir of Ruin has returned.”

And Lyra realized, with bone-deep dread, that it was speaking to her.

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