The silence in the vault wasn’t just still—it was ancient. Heavy. Alive.
Ivy stood before the final image etched in the prophecy, her breath caught between disbelief and dread.
Three thrones.
One of fire—burning and wild, carved from molten rock.
One of shadow—dark and cold, wrapped in obsidian vines.
And one made of gold and bone—beautiful, terrible, empty.
Kael stepped closer, voice low. “You’re meant to rule?”
“No,” Ivy whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m meant to decide.”
Ember studied the page, lips tight. “It’s more than prophecy. This is a warning. The balance between the bloodlines is broken. And if it breaks completely…”
“The world burns,” Kael said grimly. “Or worse.”
Suddenly, the vault rumbled. The ancient magic reacted to Ivy’s presence, sensing her awakening power.
