The City of Ghosts was a graveyard of kings.
Cassian moved cautiously through the ruins, his boots silent against the cracked stone roads. The air here was thick, dense with something unseen, something ancient. The mist slithered around his legs, moving like grasping fingers, curling and shifting as though alive. The city was abandoned in the eyes of the living, but he could feel it. He was not alone.
The voices had started the moment he entered the gates, murmurs at the edges of his consciousness. They whispered half-formed words, their meanings elusive, their intent uncertain. Some beckoned him forward, others warned him away.
He ignored them all.
At the city's heart stood the remnants of the royal palace, a crumbling skeleton of a once-great empire. Towers rose like broken fingers, their tips lost in the thick, churning clouds. Once, this had been the center of power, the seat of those who had ruled before the empire had rewritten its own history.
Cassian could still see the remnants of grandeur: golden inlays faded with time, mosaics shattered but still telling stories in fragmented glass. But beneath the splendor was something darker. The palace was not just the seat of old kings.
It was a tomb.
The whispers grew louder.
"You are not the first."
Cassian clenched his jaw, his fingers instinctively flexing at his sides. He had heard that voice before. It was the same voice that had spoken to him in the Black Archive, the same presence that had haunted the edges of his mind since he had risen from the pyre.
"I know," he muttered.
A gust of wind swept through the ruins, carrying with it the scent of decay and old parchment. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision, shifting like echoes of the past refusing to fade. He knew better than to trust them, yet something within him recognized them.
They were watching. Judging.
Cassian stepped forward.
The great doors to the palace were shattered, their iron-banded remains lying half-buried in the stone. He passed through them, his steps slow, deliberate. The grand hall stretched before him, vast and empty. Once, this chamber had held councils of rulers, echoed with the voices of those who had shaped history. Now, only silence remained.
No—not silence.
A figure stood at the far end of the hall.
Cassian stilled.
The figure was draped in ancient robes, their color long since faded. Their face was obscured by a hood, but Cassian could feel the weight of their gaze. They were not a ghost, not entirely. Something held them tethered to this world, something unnatural.
"You have come far," the figure said, their voice carrying the weight of centuries.
Cassian did not relax. "I've come for answers."
The figure chuckled softly. "They will cost you more than you are willing to give."
Cassian took another step forward. "Then I'll take them."
The shadows in the room stirred, shifting, writhing. The figure raised a hand, and suddenly, the whispers around him became deafening. Voices layered over one another, some pleading, some warning, others speaking in a language Cassian did not recognize. The room seemed to bend, reality itself twisting under the weight of whatever force dwelled within these walls.
Cassian gritted his teeth, the embers beneath his skin flaring in response. "Enough."
The whispers stopped.
The figure tilted their head slightly, as though considering him anew. "The throne has left its mark upon you. It lingers, even now."
Cassian's fists clenched. "Then tell me why."
The figure stepped forward. "Because you are its last mistake."
Cassian's breath hitched, but he did not let the words shake him. "What does that mean?"
The figure did not answer immediately. Instead, they raised their hand once more, and the shadows around them began to take shape. Figures appeared—half-formed, flickering like dying embers. They were kings.
The forgotten rulers.
They surrounded him, their hollow eyes burning with something ancient. Not rage, not sorrow, but something far worse. Expectation.
"You stand where we once stood," the figure intoned. "You are not the first to rise from the ashes, Burned King. You will not be the last to fall."
Cassian's fire flared in his veins, but the weight of their gazes pressed upon him, a force unlike anything he had ever felt. These were not mere specters. They were the remnants of those who had come before him, those who had sat upon the Hollow Throne and had been devoured by it.
And now, they waited to see if he would suffer the same fate.
Cassian exhaled slowly. "Then I'll do what none of you could. I will end this cycle."
The figure chuckled again, but this time there was no humor in it. "We have heard those words before."
Cassian stepped forward, his fire pulsing. "Then watch me."