The throne wasn’t where I expected it to be.
Not in the grand hall of the Fae High Court, with its vaulted ceilings and enchanted chandeliers that wept light like tears. Not on a dais of black marble beneath the watchful eyes of ancient monarchs whose portraits glowed with trapped souls. Not even in the heart of the Northern Woods, where the roots of the world twisted deep and the wind carried the names of the dead.
It was in the ruins.
The old archive—the chamber where Vexen had risen, where the bond had shattered and remade itself, where my mother’s soul had finally been freed—was no longer a place of power. It was a graveyard of broken stone and scorched parchment, of shattered grimoires and splintered oak. The ceiling had collapsed in places, letting in shafts of pale morning light that cut through the dust like blades. The torches were out. The wards were dead. And in the center, where the cursed contract had once burned with stolen magic, stood a single chair.
Not carved from bone. Not forged in shadow.
Just wood.
Plain. Unadorned. Cracked with age.
And yet—
It hummed.
The bond flared beneath my skin as I stepped over the threshold, not with warning, not with desire, but with recognition. This was no ordinary seat. This was no symbol of conquest. This was the Hollow Throne—the final piece of the Hollow Crown, the missing half of a legacy I hadn’t known I was meant to inherit.
Kael—no, Elion—followed behind me, his footsteps silent on the rubble-strewn floor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. Just stood at the archway, his presence a wall between me and the world, his obsidian eyes scanning the ruins with quiet intensity. The bond pulsed between us—warm, deep, alive—but now it carried something new. Not just love. Not just magic.
Weight.
“It’s not what I expected,” I said, stepping forward. “I thought it would be… grander.”
“Power isn’t in the throne,” he said, voice low. “It’s in the one who sits upon it.”
I turned to look at him. “And if I don’t want to sit?”
“Then it will remain empty,” he said. “But it will still be yours.”
Just like the crown.
Just like the storm.
Just like him.
I didn’t answer. Just moved forward, my boots crunching over broken glass and splintered wood. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and old blood, of magic long spent and grief not yet laid to rest. And beneath it all—the faint, steady pulse of the throne. Not a call. Not a command.
A question.
Will you?
I reached out—slowly, deliberately—and touched the armrest.
Not with magic.
With memory.
The moment my fingers brushed the wood, the chamber shifted.
Not in reality.
In vision.
The ruins melted away. The dust cleared. The torches flared to life, their flames black and writhing, fed by shadow. And before me—
My mother.
Not as I remembered her—broken, chained, whispering her final words in a dungeon. No.
This was Elara as she had been in life.
Tall. Proud. Her storm-gray eyes blazing with defiance, her silver hair unbound, her hands glowing with the same violet fire that now lived in my veins. She stood beside the throne, her hand resting on its back, her gaze fixed on me—on the woman I had become.
“You found it,” she said, voice soft, warm, filled with love.
“I didn’t know I was looking,” I whispered.
She smiled. “You’ve always known. The throne doesn’t choose a queen. The queen chooses the throne.”
“And what if I’m not ready?”
“You are,” she said. “You broke the chain. You freed the storm. You loved when it was easier to hate. That is not readiness. That is rule.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then you rise again,” she said. “That is not weakness. That is truth.”
My chest ached.
Not from fear.
From the truth in her voice.
From the way she looked at me—like I was the only thing left that mattered.
“I didn’t want this,” I said. “I wanted to be free.”
“And you are,” she said. “Freedom is not the absence of duty. It is the presence of choice. You chose him. You chose mercy. You chose to kneel before your people. That is not submission. That is power.”
“And if they turn on me?”
“Then you stand,” she said. “Not above them. Not against them. With them.”
“And if I fall?”
“Then I will be there,” she said. “Not in flesh. Not in bone. But in the storm. In the fire. In the silence between heartbeats.”
And then—
She stepped forward.
Not to embrace me.
Not to weep.
To bow.
Her head dipped, her hand lifting in a gesture not of submission, but of acknowledgment. Of pride. Of love.
“My queen,” she whispered.
And then—
The vision shattered.
I gasped, staggering back, my heart hammering, my breath ragged. The ruins returned—the broken stone, the dust, the silence. But the throne still hummed. Still waited. Still asked.
Kael was beside me in an instant, his arms wrapping around me, his body shielding mine, his breath warm against my neck. “You saw her,” he said, voice rough. “You saw what she was. What she fought for.”
“She believed in me,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes. “Even when I didn’t.”
“And so do I,” he said. “Not because of the crown. Not because of the throne. Because of who you are.”
The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—and this time, I didn’t fight it.
I let it pull me in.
Another memory.
Not mine.
His.
I saw Kael—no, Elion—as a boy, no older than sixteen, standing in the same chamber, his face pale, his hands clenched at his sides. Vexen loomed over him, his voice a whip of ice and fire. “You will rule,” he snarled. “You will be strong. You will be feared.”
Elion didn’t flinch. Just looked at him—steady, unyielding. “And if I choose not to?”
“Then you are nothing,” Vexen said. “And I will destroy you.”
But he didn’t.
Because the boy had already chosen.
Not power.
Not fear.
Love.
And now—now he stood beside me, not as a prince. Not as a monster.
As a man.
And I—
I wasn’t just a queen.
I was a woman.
And I wanted to rule beside him.
“I’ll sit,” I said, stepping forward. “But not as a conqueror. Not as a weapon. As a woman who remembers what it cost to be free.”
Kael didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just stepped back, his hand lifting in a silent gesture of respect.
And I—
I didn’t hesitate.
Just walked to the throne.
Not with ceremony.
Not with pride.
With grief.
I placed my hand on the backrest. Felt the hum deepen. Felt the bond flare—not with magic, not with fate, but with truth.
And then—
I sat.
Not with a crown. Not with a scepter.
With a breath.
The moment I lowered myself onto the wooden seat, the chamber changed.
Not with light.
Not with sound.
With presence.
The dust settled. The torches flared—not with fire, but with violet flame, the same color as my lightning. The broken grimoires rose from the floor, their pages mending, their ink glowing with ancient power. The shattered ceiling knit itself back together, not with stone, but with woven light. And from the walls—
Shadows.
Not of the dead.
Of the living.
Figures stepped forward—werewolves, vampires, Fae, witches, even humans—each one a guardian, a leader, a voice. Riven stood at the front, his amber eyes steady, his head bowed not in submission, but in solidarity. My father stood beside him, his face lined with grief, his eyes full of something I hadn’t seen in twenty-five years.
Hope.
And behind them—
Mara. Mirelle. Lyra—her face stripped of pretense, her voice quiet. Even the woman from the Underground, her body bandaged, her hands empty, her eyes searching mine not with hatred, but with something fragile.
Regret.
“This is not a court,” I said, my voice carrying through the chamber. “This is not a throne of conquest. This is a seat of truth. Of balance. Of choice.”
I looked at each of them—long, hard, unflinching.
“You do not bow to me,” I said. “You stand with me. Not because I command it. Because you choose to.”
And then—
I rose.
Not from power.
From love.
“And if you cannot,” I said, “then walk away. But know this—this throne will not be filled by fear. It will not be ruled by blood. It will be held by those who remember what it cost to be free.”
No one moved.
No one spoke.
And then—
Riven stepped forward.
Not to kneel.
To speak.
“I stand with you,” he said, voice rough. “Not because you are my queen. Because you are my sister.”
My chest ached.
Not from anger.
From the truth in his voice.
And then—
My father stepped forward.
“I stand with you,” he said. “Not because you are a storm-witch. Because you are my daughter.”
And then—
Mara.
“I stand with you,” she said. “Not because you are my student. Because you are my redemption.”
And then—
Mirelle.
“I stand with you,” she said. “Not because you wear the Hollow Crown. Because you are the future.”
And then—
Kael.
He didn’t speak.
Just stepped forward, his hand lifting, his thumb brushing my cheek. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive.
And I knew—
He didn’t need to.
Because his presence was his vow.
The chamber was silent.
Not from awe.
From truth.
And then—
I sat again.
Not as a queen.
As a woman.
And the throne—
The throne answered.
Not with power.
With peace.
Kael didn’t leave. Didn’t retreat. Just stood beside me, his hand finding mine, his presence a steady weight in the quiet. The others remained—Riven at the front, my father beside him, the rest arrayed like sentinels of a new world. And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone.
I felt seen.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, turning to Kael. “You were supposed to be my ruin.”
“And I am,” he said, his voice low, rough, intimate. “And my salvation.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not like before. Not angry. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips were cool, but the kiss was fire. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, his body pressing against mine. The bond roared to life, a tidal wave of sensation—her voice, her magic, her love, flooding through us like a river breaking its banks.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
For the first time, I didn’t run.
For the first time, I let myself believe—
That maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t come here to destroy him.
Maybe I’d come here to save him.
And in saving him… save myself.
He pulled back, his thumb brushing my cheek. “We did it,” he said. “We broke the chain.”
“And found something else,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body shielding mine, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hummed—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Love.
And as the first light of dawn broke through the broken ceiling, painting the chamber in gold and shadow, I knew—
The mission had changed.
The enemy was gone.
And the world—
Was finally ready to burn.
Not with hate.
But with light.