The Forge Throne was older than time, older than the written words that governed gods and mortals alike. Its blackened iron pulsed with the embers of creation itself—the last remnant of the First Flame, kindled by the First Storyteller.
Darius knew the truth the moment his fingers grazed the throne's molten edges. It was not simply a seat of power; it was a conduit, a bridge to the genesis of all reality. The moment stretched into eternity, the weight of his own existence pressing against him like an unforgiving tide.
But with that realization came the cost.
A flicker in his mind—like a candle snuffed out.
Kaela's laughter, her rebellious smirk, her fire in the dark—all gone in an instant.
Another flicker.
Nyx's voice, sharp as shattered glass and soft as twilight's embrace—vanished.
