Meanwhile... Sunspire Bastion City.
For a month, House Therion had been bleeding.
Not openly—no, Sunspire was far too civilized for that—but quietly, like a wounded beast surrounded by circling predators. Whispers crawled through marble halls. Courtiers smiled too much. Lesser houses, once deferential, suddenly grew bold, their banners raised a fraction higher, their voices a fraction louder.
The strongest house in Sunspire had no lord.
And when the apex falters, the ambitious sharpen their knives.
I welcomed it.
Let them scramble. Let them hope.
Hope is easiest to crush.
The mother—Lady Sera Therion was dead.
My brother—Lord Caelen Therion, the reigning Lord of House Therion—was dead.
And the heir, Young Lord Elrin Therion, had been executed for his crime.
Hah.
I almost laughed every time I thought of it.
Duke Emeritus Aldric Therion, my father, had held the house together in the aftermath. Not out of strength—no—but inertia. Tradition. The Supreme Magistrate of Sunspire had allowed it, of course. The city could not afford the collapse of House Therion, not when the dungeon still breathed beneath our feet.
But Duke Emeritus Aldric, my father, was only ever meant to be a bridge.
And bridges are meant to be crossed.
There was no successor.
No one left with a legitimate claim.
No one—
Except me.
The corridor stretched endlessly before me, carved from sun-white stone veined with gold Axiom channels. Magistrate guards flanked my steps, their armor etched with suppression sigils, their presence a statement more than protection.
I walked calmly.
Measured.
A lord does not rush toward power.
He allows power to arrive at his feet.
At the end of the corridor stood the ducal chamber. The doors opened at my approach, heavy and ceremonial, revealing the sigil of House Therion carved into the far wall—sun entwined with blade, authority forged through conquest and stewardship alike.
The ducal seat faced it.
Occupied.
From behind, Duke Emeritus Aldric Therion appeared unchanged. Upright. Regal. A man who had ruled for decades, his spine still unbowed.
I stepped forward and began my report aloud, my voice smooth, practiced.
"The subsidiary houses remain restless. House Valcrest petitions for expanded jurisdiction. House Ilyr presses for military concessions. The magistrate's envoys report no overt rebellion. Bla-bla-bla, this is all but meaningless, isn't that right, Father."
I moved closer.
"With your leave, Father, I have assured them stability will soon return."
Still, he did not turn.
I stopped beside the seat.
And laughed.
Emeritus Aldric Therion's eyes were open.
Empty.
Unfocused.
His chest rose and fell, shallow and obedient, but the man inside was gone—locked behind a paralysis construct so perfect it preserved the illusion of life while hollowing out the will.
This.
This was my assurance.
A flash of memory surfaced unbidden.
—
The Royal Magistrate's chamber had been cold that night, its walls layered with ward upon ward. The Supreme Magistrate—the ruler of Sunspire sat above me, face obscured by sigil-light, voice echoing with institutional authority.
"How proceed the preparations?" she asked.
"According to design," I replied, bowing just enough to satisfy protocol. "House Therion will not eclipse your radiance, Magistrate. I give you my word."
A pause.
Then: "My court mages were dispatched last night. Your father is now under complete paralysis. Consciousness intact. Autonomy removed. He will obey."
Perfect.
"The coronation will occur in three sunsets," the Magistrate continued. "See it done."
I bowed deeper.
Smiling.
—
Back in the ducal chamber, I gripped my father's jaw and turned his face toward mine.
"You have no choice now, Father," I whispered. "You never did."
Tomorrow, I would claim everything.
—
The coronation hall was filled beyond capacity.
Sunspire's nobility gathered beneath vaulted ceilings, light refracted through Axiom prisms that bathed the chamber in gold and white. This was the same hall where Elrin Therion had once stood—small, defiant, crowned as successor amid applause that now felt almost obscene to remember.
The current lord—Duke Emeritus Aldric Therion, stood at the dais, unmoving, supported subtly by magistrate wards. His eyes were dull, his voice hollow, but no one dared question it.
When he spoke, the hall listened.
"By my authority… I name my son… Marius Therion… as Lord of House Therion."
Applause thundered.
I stepped forward, accepting the weight of countless gazes.
I spoke then—oh, I spoke beautifully.
Of unity.
Of stability.
Of honor and renewal.
Each word carefully crafted, each promise a blade wrapped in silk.
Lies, all of them.
I knelt.
Father raised the sigil of succession—
...And the world screamed.
A huge explosion, a sudden surge of Axiom was felt throughout Sunspire.
A pulse of Axiom detonated through Sunspire, so violent it rattled bone and soul alike. The hall shook. Chandeliers shattered. Nobles cried out as the air itself warped, unstable, hostile.
I felt it immediately.
That pressure.
At the mouth of the dungeon, far below the city, layers upon layers of magic circles ignited simultaneously. The sky beyond the windows burned as a colossal beam of Axiom erupted upward, a beacon of impossible density.
Reality fractured.
Stone shattered.
The dungeon collapsed—no, disintegrated—as though excised from existence.
Panic erupted.
"Calamity—!"
"Divine punishment—!"
"The gods—!"
Fools.
My breath caught.
In my mind rose a single image: a boy at the gallows, eyes burning with fury, skin pale against the abyss behind him.
Elrin Therion.
My hand trembled.
No—impossible. That brat is already dead. But my hands began shaking.
I seized Father's wrist, nails digging into lifeless flesh.
"Finish it! FINISH IT, OLD MAN!" I hissed, voice breaking. "DAMN IT. Give me the sigil!"
Laughter burst from me, sharp and unhinged, drowned beneath the chaos as the sigil pressed into my palm. The hall still reeled, eyes fixed on the sky, on the impossible light.
They did not see my fear.
They did not hear my heart pounding.
I stood as Lord Marius Therion.
Ruler of the strongest house in Sunspire.
And for the first time since that execution—
I was afraid.
Because somewhere beyond certainty itself—
The successor might still be alive.
The chances will forever haunt me.
And if he was—
Then this coronation was not an ending.