I Was Sent To Kill The Cursed King

Chapter 6: Obsidian Throne

The gates of the city groaned as they fused into a singular mass of solid obsidian. The resonance of the heavy iron bell faded into a low, throbbing hum that vibrated through the soles of their boots. Lyra gripped her silver dagger, its edge catching the faint, rhythmic light pulsing from the quartz monoliths. She could feel the gaze of a thousand unseen sentinels pressing against her skin, their presence heavy with the weight of ancient judgment.

Malphas stepped forward, his body taut and ready. The silver scales beneath his skin shimmered, reacting to the architecture of the city. He looked toward the central tower, where the silhouette of the throne occupant remained motionless, a dark stain against the silver moonlight.

We are walking into a trap, Lyra said, her voice barely above a whisper. The city is a living engine designed to consume us.

Malphas turned to her, his features hardened by the exhaustion of their journey. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering for a heartbeat. This is not just a trap. It is a homecoming. My blood is the key that keeps these gates locked. Unless we confront the king in the tower, we will never leave these walls.

They moved through the plaza, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the shadows seemed to thicken into dense, formless masses. The buildings here were constructed with a brutal, imposing elegance. Every surface was carved with scenes of wolves turning against their kin. Malphas ignored the depictions of his ancestors. He focused entirely on the path ahead, his strides purposeful and measured.

As they neared the base of the central tower, the shadows in the alleys detached themselves. They were not the Hollow-Born from the forest. These were the Silent Sentinels, armored in plates of dull, unpolished iron, their faces hidden behind masks of blank porcelain. They did not attack; they formed a corridor, their movements synchronized and silent.

Stay close, Malphas commanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword. Do not engage unless they strike first. They are programmed to respect the hierarchy of the bloodline. If we show weakness, they will tear us apart.

Lyra kept her eyes forward, noting the way the sentinels bowed as Malphas passed. The authority he possessed, even in his diminished state, was undeniable. He was the king, and this city recognized its sovereign, even if it meant to kill him.

They entered the base of the tower. A grand staircase spiraled upward, carved from a single piece of dark stone. The air grew thinner and colder with every step, and the scent of ozone—the smell of trapped magic—became stifling. At the top of the stairs, a heavy door stood slightly ajar.

Malphas pushed the door open. The throne room was immense, its ceiling lost in the darkness above. In the center, a throne of jagged quartz dominated the space. A figure sat upon it, draped in robes that shifted like smoke. As they stepped inside, the figure stood. It was a man, lean and tall, with skin the color of polished bone. His eyes, void of pupils, glowed with a cold, blue luminescence.

He was the First King, the progenitor of the bloodline.

You have returned, the King said, his voice a hollow echo that filled the chamber. You carry the curse of the moon and the ambition of a human girl. Your journey ends here, at the heart of the silence you so desperately seek.

Malphas stepped forward, his voice steady despite the trembling in his limbs. I am the last king of the Obsidian Spire. My reign ends with the cessation of this cycle. I did not come here to seek your approval. I came to shatter the chains of the bloodline.

The King laughed, a dry, grating sound. You speak of breaking chains while you are already bound by the silver scales of our origin. You are the vessel for the curse. If I slay you, the power will return to the soil of this city, and another king will rise to fill the void.

Lyra moved to Malphas's side, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of a flaw in the King's defense. She noticed the way the quartz throne pulsated with every word the King spoke. The throne was not just a seat; it was a conduit. It was the source of the authority the King wielded over the Sentinels.

Malphas, she whispered, the throne is drawing power from the monoliths outside. If we cut the connection, he will lose his hold on the room.

The King heard her. He raised a hand, and a wave of force slammed into Lyra, throwing her against the wall. She collapsed, gasping for breath, the impact rattling her bones.

Do not attempt to subvert the design, the King hissed, turning his focus toward her. The girl is the variable that must be eliminated. She is the distraction that keeps you from embracing your true nature.

Malphas lunged. He moved with a speed that blurred the air, his blade aimed at the King’s throat. The King parried with a simple gesture, a shield of light forming around him. Malphas was thrown back, but he recovered instantly, his eyes burning with the gold of the beast. The silver scales on his arms flared, growing into sharp, jagged protrusions.

He fought with a fury that transcended human capability. He was a force of nature, a creature born of both man and monster. The King matched him blow for blow, his movements precise and relentless. Each clash of their weapons sent tremors through the tower, causing the stone to flake and shatter.

Lyra struggled to stand. She saw the King's attention was fully occupied by the combat. She realized she could not fight the King directly, but she could damage the conduit. She ran toward the base of the quartz throne. She drew her silver dagger and, ignoring the protective energy surrounding the seat, drove the blade into the base of the quartz.

The impact caused a high-pitched whine to fill the room. The King stumbled, his guard flickering.

Malphas seized the opportunity. He drove his sword through the King’s chest, the metal piercing the bone-like skin. The King gasped, his form beginning to dissolve into mist. He looked at Malphas, not with hate, but with a strange, dark satisfaction.

You have killed me, he whispered, as he faded. But you have also released the hunger. Without a ruler, the city will feast on your life force.

The King vanished, and the throne shattered into a thousand pieces. The tower began to groan, the structure failing.

Malphas collapsed to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp. The silver scales began to retreat, leaving him pale and shivering. Lyra ran to him, pulling him into her arms.

We did it, she said, her voice shaking with relief.

But the silence of the city did not return. Instead, a roar echoed from the depths of the tower—a sound of a thousands souls, hungry and unleashed. The city began to tilt, the bedrock foundation crumbling.

They had won the throne, but they had awakened something that had been waiting for the death of the king. Malphas looked at Lyra, his eyes clear for the first time in his life.

The curse is not gone, he said. It has simply been set free.

They turned toward the balcony as the floor beneath them began to disintegrate. Outside, the city was changing, the quartz monoliths turning to liquid shadow. They were not safe; they were at the center of a storm of their own making. Malphas held Lyra close, bracing for the fall, as the entire tower began to sink into the mountain.

The reign of the Silent King was over, but the era of the monster had begun.