The road east curved into a valley where the air thickened with the smell of smoke and metal. From the crest of a hill, Elijah saw it — a sprawling mass of rooftops and towers, ringed by walls that had long since crumbled. Broken banners fluttered from the battlements, their emblems unrecognizable.


“The City of Broken Crowns,” Kael said quietly. “Last refuge of thieves and ghosts.”


Elijah stared at it in awe. “It looks… dying.”


Kael smirked. “That’s because it is. Dying cities are the ones that live the longest. They don’t have the strength to collapse.”


They descended toward the gates as twilight settled. The guards — if they could be called that — were mercenaries in mismatched armor, too busy gambling to care who entered. Inside, the streets were alive with noise: merchants shouting, beggars muttering prayers, drunkards laughing under broken lanterns. The smell of ale, blood, and damp stone mingled thick in the air.


Kael led the way through the maze of alleys. “Keep your hand on your coin pouch,” he said. “And your other hand on that sword of yours.”


Elijah did both. Everywhere he looked, he saw relics of a world that had once been proud — shattered statues, broken temples, and crowns melted into trinkets. In the center square, a massive iron throne sat half-buried in rubble, its surface covered in soot and wax from a hundred candles. People came to touch it, murmuring wishes or curses under their breath.


“What is that?” Elijah asked.


“The Throne of Vareth,” Kael said. “What’s left of it. My father’s.”


Elijah turned sharply. “You mean—”


Kael nodded. “He built this city. Conquered half the world to do it. Now it’s ruled by the people who stole from his corpse.”


They moved on, crossing a bridge where the river below glowed faintly with oil fires. The deeper they went, the darker the streets became. Kael finally stopped before a tavern marked by a rusted dragon emblem.


“The Gilded Scale,” he said. “Best place to find information. Worst place to keep your life.”


Inside, the air was thick with smoke and noise. Men and women in tattered cloaks crowded the tables, drinking from dented goblets. A bard strummed a broken lute in the corner, singing of the “last king of dragons” in a voice too sad for the words.


Kael approached the bar, tossing down a few silver coins. “We need a map,” he told the barkeep, a bald man with eyes like cold steel. “One that shows the mountains east of the Vale.”


The barkeep gave him a long look. “That’s cursed land. Nothing but ghosts and ash beyond those peaks.”


Kael’s smile was easy, but his hand stayed close to his dagger. “Ghosts don’t scare me.”


“Maybe they should,” the man muttered, disappearing into a back room.


Elijah scanned the room while they waited. In the corner, a group of mercenaries watched him — not Kael, him — their eyes glinting with greed. His pendant was glowing faintly again, just enough to catch the light.


One of them stood and approached. “That’s a nice trinket, boy. Family heirloom?”


Elijah backed away. “Not for sale.”


“Everything’s for sale here.” The man reached for it.


Before Elijah could react, Kael’s dagger was at the man’s throat. “He said no.”


The mercenary froze, then smiled thinly. “Didn’t realize you were still playing guardian, Prince Kael.”


Kael’s jaw tensed. “And I didn’t realize you were still breathing, Darric.”


The two men locked eyes — a silent, dangerous recognition. Darric raised his hands slowly. “Easy now. I was just admiring the craftsmanship.”


Kael lowered the blade an inch. “Admire from a distance.”


The man backed off, muttering curses as he returned to his table.


Elijah exhaled. “You know him?”


Kael nodded. “Used to. He fought for my father before he fought for whoever paid him most.”


“Seems like everyone here did.”


“Welcome to the city that crowns traitors,” Kael said grimly.


The barkeep returned, sliding a rolled map across the counter. “East of the Vale, you’ll find nothing but bones and storms. But if you’re looking for legends, there’s talk of fire under the mountains. People say the ground there still burns at night.”


Elijah exchanged a glance with Kael. “The Cavern of Embers,” he murmured.


The barkeep shrugged. “If you’re fool enough to go there, you’ll need to pass the Black Road — and to do that, you’ll need a token from the Warden.”


“Where do we find him?” Kael asked.


The barkeep smirked. “In the Palace of Dust. But be careful — the Warden doesn’t deal in coin. He deals in debts.”


They left the tavern as rain began to fall, slicking the cobblestones with silver. Lightning flashed behind the towers, and Elijah thought, just for a moment, that he saw the silhouette of wings in the storm clouds.


Kael clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You still want to do this?”


Elijah’s eyes burned faintly gold in the dark. “The dragons called me. I’m not stopping now.”


Kael grinned. “Then we pay the Warden a visit.”


As they disappeared into the maze of rain and smoke, thunder rolled across the city — and the throne of Vareth trembled faintly, as though something beneath it had stirred.