Blade of the Fallen Kingdom

Chapter 20 – The Ruined Spires

The march to the mountains drained every ounce of strength the survivors had left. For three days they trudged through thickets and rivers, their footsteps heavy, their hope thinner than smoke. Children whimpered against their mothers’ shoulders, soldiers carried comrades too weak to stand, and Kael pressed on at the front, his blade like a beacon leading them into the unknown.

The Ruined Spires rose before them at last, jagged black peaks clawing at the storm-filled skies. Lightning carved across their ridges, thunder rolling like the growl of some ancient beast. The sight made even the bravest falter.

Isolde muttered under her breath, “This place was never meant for men.”

Eldrin’s staff glowed faintly, as though resisting the pull of the mountain. “The Spires were once a citadel of kings. But when their pride reached beyond the gods, the stone cursed itself. Time broke it, storms devoured it, and the dead never left.”

The villagers shivered, clutching charms and prayers. Yet Kael stepped forward without hesitation. “If this stone cannot burn, then it is here we bleed, not in the forests.”

The survivors followed, their fear bowed beneath his resolve.

The air grew heavy as they climbed. The wind shrieked like voices of the damned, tearing at cloaks and banners. Broken spires jutted from the cliffs, their shapes like twisted spears piercing the heavens. And always, in the distance, the faint glow of fire pursued them, creeping closer with each night.

When they reached the first plateau, ruins sprawled before them—arches crumbling into dust, statues toppled and half-buried in ash. But in the center stood a throne, hewn from obsidian stone, untouched by time. It loomed like a shadow waiting for a master.

Kael’s eyes locked on it, his pulse quickening. His father’s words whispered again: Inherit the throne of hearts, not stones.

Isolde noticed his gaze. “Kael… what are you seeing?”

He shook his head, tearing his eyes away. “Nothing. Just ruins.”

But deep inside, something stirred.

They set camp within the hollow of the fallen citadel. Fires were lit, though the flames sputtered strangely, as if the air itself rejected warmth. The villagers whispered of curses, of spirits, of the mountain’s hunger.

That night, Kael wandered alone into the ruins, drawn back toward the black throne. He approached slowly, each step echoing like a drumbeat. When his hand brushed its cold surface, a shock surged through him—visions bursting in his mind.

He saw fire raining on kingdoms. He saw the masked commander kneeling before the throne. And he saw himself, standing there with a crown of flames upon his brow.

The vision ripped away, leaving him gasping.

From the shadows, Eldrin’s voice broke the silence. “It calls to you, doesn’t it?”

Kael turned sharply. “You’ve been following me?”

The old mage’s eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “I’ve been watching. The Spires do not tempt every man who enters. Only those whose blood remembers.”

Kael’s chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

Eldrin’s staff hummed as thunder rumbled above. “The fire your enemy wields is bound to bloodlines. If the throne speaks to you, then you carry the same fire in your veins. Perhaps the commander is not only your enemy…” His gaze narrowed. “…but your kin.”

Kael staggered back as though struck. His mind reeled with denial. His father’s silence about their true past, the commander’s familiar eyes, the whisper in the forest—it all began to coil into something far darker.

Before Kael could answer, a horn blared from the lower slopes. The villagers screamed, and the glow of fire spilled across the night. The commander’s army had found them.

Kael drew his sword, his doubt drowned in fury. “Then cursed or not, the Spires will be their grave.”

Lightning struck the cliffs, casting his silhouette against the throne of stone. The storm and fire collided as destiny closed in.

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