The first morning sun of the "Ash King's" reign was no ordinary sun. It rose pale and strangled by black clouds of smoke still rising from the ravaged districts of "Iris." The city was no longer that glittering jewel the kingdom had once been proud of — it had become a skeleton of charred stone, inhabited by men who walked like ghosts, soldiers who spoke not a word, and eyes that saw nothing on the horizon but ruin.
Alaric sat upon the golden throne, yet he no longer felt the cold metal beneath his palms. His blood-stained armor he had not removed, as though the steel had fused with his dead flesh. The black tattoo that had completed itself across his face was no longer merely a drawing — it had become a stone mask, sealing his emotions away from the world. His violet eyes stared into the void, piercing through the walls of the hall to see beyond the borders of the kingdom, seeing the destruction that had not yet come.
Merlok spoke as he stepped across the red carpet soaked in royal blood, his voice echoing through the hollow hall like the hissing of serpents:
"Behold your kingdom, Your Majesty… Is there any sight more magnificent than this submission? The tongues that once openly defied you have fallen silent, and the heads that once scraped the clouds have bowed. The crown now rests firmly upon your head — not by inheritance, but by unbreakable dread. Tell me, do you feel its weight? Or has the dark power made the throne feel light as a feather?"
Alaric replied in a metallic voice — a voice that had entirely lost its human resonance and now carried the echo of clashing metals:
"I feel nothing, Merlok. No weight, no lightness, not even victory. I feel only a terrifying stillness — as though the world stopped breathing the moment I placed this cursed crown upon my head. Tell me, is this how kings live? In a cell of gold and blood?"
Merlok let out a sickly yellow laugh that sent a cold shudder through the room, and said:
"True kings do not live, my king — they reign. Life is for the subjects. Sovereignty belongs to those who have crossed beyond the borders of pain and feeling. You sought power to exact revenge, and here power is in your hands. But remember — power is like a blaze that drives away shadows, yet burns everyone who draws near… even those you love."
At that moment, the great doors swung slowly open, and Eleanor entered. She was not dressed in courtly garments — she still wore her torn clothes, her features bearing the wilt of flowers watered with salt. She stood at a great distance from the throne, as though an invisible wall of death prevented her from drawing closer. She spoke in a trembling voice, quivering with boundless sorrow:
"I came for one last look at the man who once inhabited this body. Alaric… can you still hear me? Or has the crown sealed your ears to the voices of the living? The city outside is dying — not only by the sword, but by despair. The soldiers who followed you into the Valley of Bones are now asking: did you free them from Baurik only to enslave them to your demons?"
Alaric's voice sharpened, and the tattoo on his face trembled as though breathing in pure darkness:
"I freed them from the illusion of safety, Eleanor! I made them understand that this world respects nothing but the cutting blade. Do you want me to hand out bread and roses over the rubble of a kingdom that intended to annihilate us? I am building a foundation that will not crumble — even if that foundation is made of bones!"
Eleanor replied with bitterness, tears streaming down her dust-covered cheeks:
"A foundation built on bones yields nothing but death, Alaric. Look at your hands… look at your face in the mirror of truth. You are no longer the knight I swore to follow to the ends of the earth. You are now nothing more than a vessel for an ancient evil, an idol enthroned upon a gilded chair. We lost the war, Alaric… we lost it the moment we entered this palace."
Alaric murmured, and for the first time his tattooed hand moved toward his heart, as though searching for a missing heartbeat:
"I gave my soul as the price for this crown, to ensure no one would ever dare touch a hair on your head — or on the heads of those men — ever again. Is that not enough?"
Eleanor cried out in a smothered scream:
"It is not enough! Because I would rather die at the hands of an unknown enemy than live in the shadow of a king who steals souls to prolong his own existence. I am leaving, Alaric… I will return to the forests, to where everything began, to where there was once a man named Alaric who cared about the suffering of others. I leave you to your greatness… and to your solitude."
Eleanor turned to leave. Merlok interjected with shameless spite:
"Let her go, Your Majesty. Weak hearts cannot bear the air of the summits. You are above everyone now — and the summit has no room for two."
Alaric spoke in a voice that shook the very pillars of the hall, rising from his throne, darkness flowing from his hand like a thick fog:
"Silence, Merlok! Eleanor… if you step outside these doors, you will never return. I will seal the city's gates, I will bring the entire world to its knees beneath my feet, and you will find no place in the world to hide from my shadow."
Eleanor did not look back. She continued walking until she disappeared behind the heavy doors, which closed after her with a funereal groan. Alaric returned to the throne, and felt an absolute coldness sweep through his body — a coldness that had nothing to do with the weather. He looked at Merlok and spoke words that sounded like the prophecy of an ending:
"Now, Merlok… the isolation is complete. Tell my soldiers to prepare — the neighboring kingdoms will try to exploit our weakness. I will show them that the Ash King possesses no heart that can be stabbed, and no soul that can be broken. We will burn everything that is green, so that nothing remains in this world but ash… my ash."
Merlok replied with a wide smile, his eyes gleaming with a demonic light:
"Now that is the speech I have been waiting for. Chapter Eleven awaits us — and destruction craves more."
Silence descended once again over the throne hall — but it was a poisoned silence. The "Ash King" sat alone, surrounded by ghosts and slaughtered memories, watching the new world he had built with his own hands: a world he owned completely, yet in which he could not find a single soul to share its wreckage.