Reinhardt's breath hitched. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stared at the Hollow Seat—a throne that shouldn't exist, yet felt like it had always been waiting for him.
Memories he didn't recognize flickered at the edges of his mind. Visions of battles never fought. Voices never heard. A crown never worn.
Selene's voice pulled him back. "Reinhardt."
He turned to her, his eyes searching for something—an anchor. But her expression was unreadable. She was studying him just as much as she was the throne.
The shadowed figure on the altar leaned forward slightly, its presence pressing against them like an unseen weight. "You feel it, don't you?"
Reinhardt clenched his fists. "What trick is this?"
The figure did not answer immediately. Instead, the golden veins running through the altar pulsed, and suddenly—Reinhardt was no longer standing in the temple.
He was somewhere else. Somewhen else.
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The Vision
A battlefield stretched before him, but it wasn't any war he had ever fought.
The sky was a violent shade of crimson, the air thick with magic so strong it made his skin burn. Bodies littered the ground, armor shattered, swords buried in the dirt. At the heart of the carnage, a lone figure stood atop a mound of corpses—a warrior clad in black and gold, his armor cracked but unyielding.
Reinhardt's breath caught as the figure turned.
And he saw his own face.
A crown of obsidian sat upon his brow, his eyes glowing with power that was not entirely human. The warriors who remained standing around him knelt, their heads bowed in reverence, as his past self raised his sword toward the heavens.
"All things must break," the other him declared, his voice cold. "Even fate."
_________________________________________________________________
The Hollow Seat, Present Time
Reinhardt gasped, stumbling back as the vision shattered. The temple came rushing back—the altar, the throne, the weight of the air pressing on his chest.
Selene caught his arm before he could fall. "What did you see?"
He swallowed hard. How could he explain what had just happened?
Before he could answer, the shadowed figure finally spoke again.
"You were a king once, Marked One. And now, you stand at the crossroads once more."
The throne pulsed. Waiting. Offering. Demanding.
And Reinhardt realized the truth:
This was never about power.
It was about whether he would take back what was once his.