Chapter 32. Ashes of a Throne
1356 Words
The chamber smelled of smoke and steel, though no fire burned in its hearth. Shadows lay deep across the stone floor, pooling like old blood beneath carved wolf sigils. At the far end, beneath banners ragged from centuries of war, the throne rose—a jagged monument in black iron, built for power, not comfort.
On it sat the king.
He was not old, though the world wished he was. Time had carved no weakness into his bones, only deeper lines of rage. His eyes—gold dimmed to embers—fixed on the man standing at the edge of the wolf-marked rug.
The detective shifted his weight, a mortal who’d seen too much to flinch at monsters and too little to understand them. His coat dripped with rain, darkening the threads like ink bleeding across parchment. He clutched his hat in one hand, his report in the other, as if paper could shield him from judgment older than his bloodline.
“You’ve come empty-handed,” the king said at last, his voice a growl dragged over gravel.
The detective swallowed. “We’ve traced every lead, Your Majesty. Every archive, every whisper on the wind. Your daughter…” He hesitated, words curdling in his throat. “She’s gone.”
The king’s fingers tightened on the throne’s arm, iron screeching beneath his grip. For a heartbeat, silence prowled the room like a starving beast.
“Gone,” he repeated, the syllable smoking with venom. “Men vanish. Dogs stray. Daughters do not vanish.”
The detective flinched but held his ground. “There was blood. Enough to call it death. I brought what proof I could.” He extended the folder with a hand that barely shook. “But… if I may—” His voice dipped, cautious as a blade near a jugular. “The world is wide, Your Majesty. Blood runs deep. If she bore children—”
The king rose.
The motion was a storm loosed from chains. His cloak spilled like a tide of shadow across the dais as he stepped down, boots thundering against stone. The detective took a step back, instinct shrieking flight, but pride locked his knees.
“You think I haven’t bled the world for that answer?” the king said, standing close enough for the mortal to smell smoke that wasn’t there. “You think I haven’t hunted every name, every womb touched by my bloodline?” His teeth flashed, not human at all. “I do not need your suggestions, man. I need results.”
The detective’s pulse thrashed at his throat, but he forced the words out. “Then give me orders beyond ghosts.”
The king stared at him for a long, strangled beat. Then, slow as a verdict, he spoke.
“Find them,” he said. “Every bastard thread, every hidden vein. Drag the blood into the light. And when you do—” His mouth curved, humorless and hard. “Test them.”
The detective blinked. “How?”
The king’s eyes burned, catching some phantom fire. “With flame,” he said. “The old way. No wound, no scar—then they are mine.”
A silence uncoiled, hissing like something venomous. The detective nodded, throat dry. “And if they… fail?”
The king’s gaze went cold enough to crack stone. “Then they are nothing. And nothing burns.”
The words hung like a noose in the air.
The detective bowed, shallow and stiff. “It will be done.”
“Go,” the king said, his voice snapping like a spine. “Before I decide your bones would make a better offering.”
Boots scuffed stone. The door boomed shut. Silence bled back into the hall, thick and heavy, pressing against the ribs of the throne room like a storm behind glass.
The king stood there a long while, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His breath sawed through the quiet, ragged as a blade grinding bone. He had buried wars without blinking, burned cities without remorse—but this… this was rot in his marrow.
His daughter. Gone. His heir reduced to whispers and ash. And now… now the crown trembled on a fault line of blood.
A growl crawled up his throat, low and brutal. He slammed his fist into the stone column beside him. Dust rained down, the crack blooming like a wound. He dragged a hand over his face, fingers digging into his skin as if he could claw the weakness out.
“Bastards,” he spat to the silence. “Every one of them waiting to drink what’s mine.”
The shadows shifted.
A door at the far end whispered open—not loud, just enough for the draft to lick through. Footsteps padded soft across the wolf-stamped rug. Controlled. Patient. Like a predator with all the time in the world.
The king didn’t turn. “You’re late.”
“I’m inevitable,” came the reply, silk strung over steel.
The king’s jaw clenched. “Bernard.”
“Yes, Sire.” The voice was closer now. The man who bore it stopped two paces back, head bowed, posture honed to obedience like a blade on stone. His scent carried iron and old promises.
“I want eyes in every den,” the king said without looking. “Every border. Every bed where secrets breed. If my blood hides in a crib, in a coffin, under a w***e’s skirts—I will know.”
“It will be done,” Bernard said, voice flat as winter steel.
The king turned then, slow, his shadow yawning like a beast across the wall. His eyes pinned Bernard like a knife through silk. “And if you find one—if you find even a whisper—”
“I’ll bring it in chains,” Bernard said. No hesitation. No tremor.
The king’s mouth curved—not into a smile, but something that bared teeth. “Good.”
He sank back onto the throne, iron groaning beneath the weight of a man who carried centuries like scars. Bernard lingered in the hush, waiting for dismissal that didn’t come. Waiting in a silence thick with something darker than rage.
The king’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair until his knuckles blanched bone-white.
And then—
Another voice, smooth as poison poured in honey, slid into the room.
“My, my,” it purred, wrapping around the stone like smoke. “What is it that gnaws the heart of a king tonight?”
Bernard stiffened.
The king’s head snapped up, fury flaring in ember eyes as the shadows by the pillar peeled themselves into shape. Tall. Impeccable. A smile curved like a blade and twice as cruel.
Clyde.
He strolled forward, slow and serpentine, a predator dressed in civility so fine it reeked of sin. His coat trailed whispers of darkness; his boots kissed the stone like secrets best left buried. The firelight licked his smile, painting it gold and wicked.
“My friend,” Clyde said, voice a velvet mockery of comfort. “You look… troubled.”
The king’s lip curled, a snarl caged behind civility. “Careful, Clyde. I’ve no leash for your games tonight.”
“Games?” Clyde’s brows arched, the picture of innocence forged from lies. “Oh no, Sire. I came only to… lighten your burden.” His smile widened, slicing deep enough to bleed shadow. “Or at least… taste it.”
Bernard’s hand twitched toward the blade at his hip.
The king lifted one finger—small, sharp—a command forged in iron.
Bernard froze.
The hall exhaled, slow and lethal, as Clyde drifted closer, the air thickening with the stench of old pacts and older sins.
“What tugs your crown so heavy, old friend?” he murmured, eyes glinting like coins in a wishing well gone black. “Whose ghost keeps you awake?”
The king stared back, fury and exhaustion brimming like venom in his gaze.
Clyde’s smile only widened.
And the throne room sank into silence sharp enough to cut a throat.
- Writer
