"If gods do not weep for men, why should men weep for gods?"
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The palace was silent.
Not the silence of peace, nor the gentle hush of slumber. No, this was the silence of death. The kind that lingered long after the screams had faded. The kind that turned grand halls into graveyards.
Aedric sat upon the throne.
It did not belong to him. Not yet.
The marble beneath his fingers was cracked, blackened by the fires of conquest. The banners that once bore the royal sigil had been torn from their posts, their shredded remnants scattered like forgotten prayers.
The crown lay before him.
Not on his head. Not yet.
It sat upon the steps, bathed in the blood of the last king.
Aedric's crimson eyes flickered as he stared at it. A simple thing, really—gold and jewels forged into a symbol of power. A relic of a world that had failed him.
"Is this all a throne is?" he murmured.
His voice was soft, almost wistful.
Behind him, a shadow stirred.
"You have won," the voice said, rich with amusement. "And yet, you hesitate."
Aedric did not look up. He knew who stood there.
A man who was not a man. A being who was not quite real, nor quite illusion. Wrapped in dark silks, his face hidden beneath an obsidian mask, the figure loomed over the ruined hall like a specter.
The Architect.
The one who had whispered to him in the dark.
The one who had shown him the path to power.
Aedric exhaled. "Was it always meant to be this way?"
A chuckle. "Meant to be?" The Architect took a slow step forward. "Do you still believe in fate?"
Aedric's fingers curled. The weight of his deeds pressed against him—like chains, like armor, like something more.
He had no answer.
The Architect knelt, reaching for the fallen crown. He lifted it with delicate fingers, holding it up to the dim torchlight.
"A symbol," he mused. "A mere trinket. And yet… men kill for it. Die for it. Sell their souls for it."
His masked gaze turned to Aedric.
"And you? What will you do for it?"
Aedric did not answer.
Not with words.
He reached forward and took the crown from the Architect's hands.
For a moment, the weight of it felt immense.
And then, he placed it upon his head.
The silence deepened.
Power surged through him—not magic, not sorcery, but something deeper. Something older. The throne beneath him groaned as if the very palace recoiled at what had just been done.
The Architect laughed.
Low. Dark. Triumphant.
"It suits you," he said.
Aedric closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, the boy who had wept beneath the stars was gone.
Only the King remained.
The world had long abandoned him.
Now, it would bow.
Or it would burn.