The throne room of the Elarion Empire was meant to terrify.
Its ceiling rose so high it vanished into shadow, etched with constellations no living scholar could fully decipher. Black marble pillars lined the hall, each carved with the laws of rulers long dead. At the center stood the throne—ancient, golden, and very particular about who it acknowledged.
Prince Caelan Ardyn sat upon it.
Nothing happened.
No blinding light.
No judgmental thunder.
Not even the faint hum the historians swore always accompanied destiny.
Caelan blinked once.
"…Is it broken?" he asked politely.
The High Chancellor nearly choked.
"Y-Your Highness," he said stiffly, "the throne is never broken."
Caelan nodded. "Ah. Of course. Then it must simply be disappointed."
The throne offered no reaction whatsoever.
---
Caelan adjusted the crown on his head. It was heavy—crafted from ancient gold, embedded with jewels that had witnessed generations of bloodshed and poor decisions. He sat straighter, adopting the posture drilled into him since childhood.
Still nothing.
He glanced down at the spotless marble beneath his boots.
"Just to confirm," he said, "this is the same throne that burned my great-uncle's hand?"
"Yes," several ministers replied.
"And struck my grandfather unconscious?"
"Yes."
"And cracked the floor when my father attempted to sit on it?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
Caelan hummed. "Interesting. So I'm either remarkably harmless… or the throne has very high standards."
The throne remained unimpressed.
---
Behind one of the towering pillars stood Avelyncè Ryler, very still and painfully aware that she should not be there.
She had not intended to enter the throne room.
Her plan for the morning had been simple: deliver documents, avoid nobles, and possibly steal a pastry if the kitchen staff looked the other way. Unfortunately, a spilled ink bottle, an offended noblewoman, and a guard who took his duty far too seriously had led her into the most forbidden room in the palace.
"Don't move," whispered the guard beside her.
"I wasn't planning to," Avelyncè whispered back. "Is breathing still allowed?"
"Preferably quiet breathing."
She tried. It was harder than expected.
---
At the center of the hall, Caelan rested his cheek against his gloved hand and surveyed the court.
"So," he said mildly, "how long does it usually take for the throne to acknowledge me?"
The High Chancellor hesitated. "Sometimes… it requires patience."
Caelan glanced at the silent throne.
"I've had more responsive conversations with furniture."
The throne did not argue.
---
Avelyncè's foot slipped.
It was barely a sound—just a soft scrape of leather against stone—but the throne room amplified it like a confession.
Every head turned.
Caelan's gaze snapped toward the pillars instantly.
"Who's there?"
The guard panicked. "I-I can explain—"
Avelyncè stepped forward before he could finish.
"I'm lost," she said.
Silence fell like a blade.
Caelan stared at her.
"You're… lost."
"Yes," Avelyncè replied calmly. "The palace corridors are confusing. I'm fairly certain one of them moved."
"That is impossible," the Chancellor snapped.
"I agree," she said. "Yet here I am."
Several nobles looked deeply offended on behalf of the palace's architecture.
---
Caelan stood.
The moment his foot touched the floor, the air changed.
A low hum rippled through the hall—not violent, not loud, but aware. The pillars trembled. The throne's golden veins pulsed once.
Avelyncè felt it in her chest before she saw it.
Light spilled across the marble like starlight finally remembering where it belonged.
"Oh," Caelan murmured.
"That's new."
The ministers dropped to their knees in terrified unison.
Avelyncè stared at the throne.
"I didn't touch it," she said quickly. "Just to clarify."
The throne pulsed again—warm, steady… pleased.
For the first time in two hundred years, the throne of Elarion had noticed someone.
And it wasn't the man wearing the crown.