The world forgot her name long before she learned how to say it.
In the Obsidian Mines, names were as useless as freedom. All that mattered were chains and silence.
Nyra's fingers bled as they scraped against the jagged blackstone. Her breaths came short and shallow, clogged with dust and ash. Around her, hundreds of others swung picks in unison, their hollow eyes never meeting. The guards stood on steel platforms above, watching like vultures, crossbows ready.
She was seventeen today. Not that anyone cared. Birthdays didn't exist in the Vale of Chains—only survival.
A sharp whistle sliced through the air. The slaves froze. Nyra didn't.
She was still staring at the crack she'd uncovered in the stone wall—thin, glowing, breathing.
That's not normal.
"Hands off the wall, cursed filth!" a guard snarled, raising his whip.
But before it struck, the ground shuddered beneath her feet.
Then came the collapse.
A deafening roar. Screams. Shadows swallowing torches. Rocks fell like rain, burying bodies, crushing limbs, splitting light from air.
Nyra didn't run. She didn't scream. She just fell—into the crack, into the dark.
---
Silence.
Then a drip. Another. Cold against her cheek.
She blinked. Pain bloomed in her ribs. Her arm was trapped under rubble, but somehow she was still breathing.
Am I dead?
No. She could feel it. A warmth—impossible, unnatural—pulsing from the space ahead.
There, buried beneath centuries of forgotten stone, stood an altar.
Black. Cracked. Ancient. Floating above it… a silver chalice, and inside it… a black flame. It did not flicker. It danced like it was alive. Watching.
Whispers crawled through the air, low and coiled like snakes.
> "Daughter of the Ash. You have bled enough."
> "Rise, or burn forever."
Nyra couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her body shook—not from fear, but something deeper. Recognition. Like the flame had been waiting for her.
She reached out.
The moment her fingers touched the chalice, everything changed.
The fire didn't burn her. It entered her, pouring into her chest like liquid night. Her back arched. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Darkness crashed into her like a wave. She saw memories that weren't hers—battles, thrones, gods screaming in the void.
Then came the voice.
> " Shadow Core Activated. Throne-Bearer Detected. Initiating Ascension Path..."
Her eyes flew open.
Chains snapped from her wrists.
Rubble lifted from her body.
From her spine, tendrils of living shadow erupted, spiraling around her like armor, like wings.
---
Above, the mine split open. Survivors crawled from debris, frozen in terror.
"There! The cursed girl!" a guard shouted, stumbling back. "SHE'S AWAKENED!"
Crossbows fired. Bolts of steel sliced through air.
Nyra raised her hand. Shadows moved like instinct.
The bolts turned to ash before reaching her.
Gasps. Panic. The guards fled.
Everyone else? They just stared.
Some knelt. Others wept. One whispered, "A Shadow Throne has risen…"
---
Nyra didn't understand what was happening. But for the first time, she felt it:
Power.
The thing that had always been denied to her.
And beneath it, deeper still—rage. It was old. Hungry. Hers.
She turned to the boy buried beside her—Aeran. He was alive. Barely. She gathered him into her arms and disappeared into the tunnels, her shadows cloaking them both.
---
That night, the sky above the Shadow Dominion bled red.
The Blood Eclipse had returned.
Deep underground, Nyra lay beside Aeran in the ruins. Her body burned. Her mark pulsed. Sleep stole over her like a stormcloud.
In the darkness of her mind, the voice returned.
> "They will fear you."
> "They will chase you."
> "But if you rise... they will kneel."
She opened her eyes.
Her pupils now shimmered like black stars.
She had no army. No name. No throne.
But she had a flame that refused to die.
And soon, the world would burn because of it.
The whisper returned—no longer soft, but a command.
> "Find the gate. Awaken the other thrones."
Nyra sat upright, sweat soaking her tattered shift. The stone beneath her felt too warm, like the altar's fire had never left her skin.
Aeran stirred beside her. His breath was shallow, ribs rising and falling like broken wings.
She touched his forehead. "You'll live," she whispered. "I won't leave you."
From above, boots pounded the steel walkways. Voices barked orders. Torches flickered to life. The guards were coming back.
"We have to move," Nyra hissed, slinging Aeran's arm over her shoulder. Her body protested—aching, sore—but the shadows inside her whispered strength.
They moved deeper into the tunnel maze, past crumbled walls and ancient carvings—scenes of kings with eyes of fire, armies kneeling in black ash, and a throne made not of gold, but shadow and flame.
Why would they bury this?
Why hide power that could end their chains?
Suddenly, Aeran spoke, voice cracked but clear.
"You're not cursed, Nyra."
She froze.
He met her eyes, pale and bruised but certain. "You were always... different. But not cursed. Chosen."
Her throat tightened. She'd never heard her name said with reverence. Never heard herself called anything but a burden.
"You saw it too," she whispered. "The flame."
Aeran nodded weakly. "And I saw you... standing above them all."
---
A loud horn blasted overhead.
Then a voice echoed through the tunnels—unnatural, deep, amplified by magic.
> "By order of the High Dominion: All slaves are to remain where they are. The girl marked by shadow is now classified as Class Omega Threat. Anyone hiding her will face immediate execution."
Nyra's heart stopped.
Then she smiled—slow, sharp.
"They're afraid."
Aeran's hand found hers. "What will you do?"
She looked ahead, eyes gleaming.
"Exactly what they fear."
---
As they slipped deeper into the forgotten corridors, Nyra paused before a sealed archway etched with a language she didn't know—but somehow understood.
> "Only the Throne-Bearer may pass."
The shadows curled around her fingers. The black flame pulsed in her chest.
With one touch, the door melted into smoke.
On the other side lay a chamber... empty, except for a mirror as tall as a man and framed in obsidian bones.
Inside the mirror wasn't her reflection.
It was her—dressed in armor of living shadow, sitting upon a throne of flame, a crown of ash on her brow.
The reflection smiled at her.
Then spoke.
> "They called us cursed. Now we become their end."
The mirror cracked.
Light exploded.
When Nyra opened her eyes again, she wasn't in the mines.
She was somewhere else—a black wasteland beneath a burning sky. Thrones stretched into the distance like broken teeth, each one empty.
Except for one.
And seated on it was a man with no face, cloaked in darkness, who spoke without moving.
> "Welcome to the throne war, Nyra. Win… or vanish from history."
Death had never felt so alive.
The sky above was wrong—painted in streaks of crimson and void. No stars. No sun. Just that eternal red haze and the cold breath of forgotten gods. Nyra stood barefoot on blackened soil that cracked like glass beneath her. The air carried no wind, only whispers—low, layered, unending.
> "Welcome, Flame-Bearer..."
The voice came from everywhere, yet nowhere. It crawled along her spine, familiar and ancient. She turned slowly.
There, across the obsidian plain, sat a single throne—enormous, jagged, breathing shadow. Upon it lounged a man cloaked in shifting darkness. He had no face. Just the outline of a crown made of ash and burning stars.
Nyra's voice was steady despite the storm within. "What is this place?"
The figure's reply was a low rumble. "The space between realms. The battlefield of kings. The test of thrones."
She stepped forward, defiant. "I didn't choose any throne."
"And yet, it chose you."
A pause.
Then he rose. Towering. Terrible. Timeless.
"Your world is at war, though it does not yet know it. The thrones are waking. The bloodlines are stirring. The gate has opened. You are the first to rise."
"Rise for what?"
The shadows behind him shivered, forming the silhouettes of other thrones—twelve in total. Some stood tall. Others were cracked. A few bled.
"To rule. To destroy. To save. You decide, child of ash."
Nyra felt the fire surge again, hotter this time, curling through her veins like wildfire.
"I never asked for this," she said quietly.
"No one ever does."
He extended a hand. "But now you must survive it."
---
Suddenly, a blade of light ripped through the sky above them, splitting the air with a deafening scream. The sky cracked like glass.
The throne realm was shattering.
The faceless man turned his head slowly toward the rift.
"They found you faster than expected…"
"Who?"
But he was already fading.
"Run, Throne-Bearer. This is only the beginning."
---
A scream dragged her back.
Nyra's eyes snapped open.
The mine. The dust. The blood.
Aeran was gone.
She jolted upright, panic clawing at her lungs.
Then she heard it—the gurgled cry of someone being dragged, the scuffle of boots, and above all… laughter.
Mocking. Cruel.
She ran.
---
Turning the corner, she saw them.
Three guards. One torch. Aeran on the ground, bloody, barely conscious.
One of them lifted a blade to his throat. "Found the rat with the cursed girl. Let's slit him open. Maybe she'll come out of hiding."
Nyra didn't think.
The shadows inside her didn't wait for permission.
They exploded.
Dark tendrils burst from the walls, wrapping around the guards like serpents. The torch extinguished instantly. Screams echoed through the tunnels. Bones cracked. Metal twisted. One by one, the men were swallowed whole into the dark.
And then—silence.
Nyra stood over them, breath shallow, chest heaving.
Aeran looked up at her, trembling. "What… what are you becoming?"
She knelt beside him, eyes glowing like embers. "Not what. Who."
He stared at her—terrified and in awe. "Then who are you?"
Nyra rose slowly, her shadow-wings unfurling behind her, brushing the tunnel walls.
> "I'm the girl they tried to bury in chains."
> "I'm the flame they couldn't put out."
She turned toward the path ahead—dark, uncertain, vast.
> "And I'm coming for my throne."
Far above the mines, in a palace of gold and prophecy, a seer screamed into her hands—her vision painted with fire, war, and a girl crowned in shadows.
> "The Ashborn lives… and she will end us all."
Silence isn't peace. It's the breath before the scream.
And the scream came.
Nyra barely had time to grab Aeran before the tunnel behind them exploded in a surge of blinding golden light. A blast wave knocked them forward, her back slamming against the rock. Dust choked the air. Her ears rang.
From the smoke, they emerged—cloaked in robes of deep crimson, bearing masks shaped like snarling wolves. Not soldiers. Not slavers.
Enforcers of the Dominion.
One raised a silver staff etched in runes. "The Ashborn is marked. Kill the boy. Capture her."
"No!" Nyra screamed, placing herself between Aeran and the advancing shadows. "You're not touching him!"
The lead Enforcer tilted his head, as if amused. "Still clinging to weakness? How human of you."
Nyra clenched her fists. Shadows writhed around her wrists like eager hounds waiting to be loosed.
"You want power," the Enforcer said, his voice echoing with magic. "Then prove you can hold it."
He struck the ground with his staff.
Reality rippled.
And the mirror appeared again—hovering in the air, spinning slowly—reflecting not her face, but a future soaked in blood, a battlefield of thrones crumbling into the sea.
Nyra staggered, pain shooting through her temples. The flames inside her surged—hotter, louder, angrier.
> You are not a girl anymore.
You are a gate.
She closed her eyes, reached into the fire, and opened herself to it.
When she spoke again, her voice wasn't just hers.
It was hers—and something more.
> "You wanted the Ashborn? Then bow."
The tunnel exploded in dark fire. The walls warped. The Dominion's magic shattered. The Enforcers were tossed like rag dolls, slammed into stone with thunderous force. One tried to crawl away—his mask cracked, revealing wide, terrified eyes.
Nyra stepped forward. Her feet didn't touch the ground.
Her shadows carried her.
She leaned close to him.
> "Tell your masters," she whispered, voice like molten steel, "their thrones are next."
Outside, the world was changing.
Above the slave pits, above the Dominion cities, above the High Walls of the East, thrones stirred—ancient seats of power that had slept for eons. One cracked open. Another trembled. A third bled black smoke.
In a citadel carved into the bones of a fallen titan, a boy with silver eyes looked up from his book.
"She's awakened," he murmured.
A hooded girl standing beside him paled. "So the war begins again."
"No," he whispered, shutting the book of fate.
> "The war never ended. We just forgot whose story it really was."
Back in the dark, Nyra collapsed beside Aeran, flames still curling off her skin.
He gripped her hand, breath shaking. "What happens now?"
Nyra looked to the tunnel ahead—open, unknown, alive with something ancient.
> "Now… we rise."
But as they stood, deep in the shadows behind them… a pair of glowing, inhuman eyes opened.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.