Chapter 7 - The March to the Throne
The heavy oak doors of the subterranean vault groaned open, echoing up through the spiral staircase of the western tower.
Commander Kaelen and his loyalist guards stood waiting at the base of the stairs, weapons ready for an ambush. But as the footsteps approached—not the rolling crunch of steel wheels, but the steady, rhythmic, purposeful tramp of heavy boots against stone—every soldier froze.
Out from the shadows stepped Prince Cassian.
He was clad in the ancient silver greaves of his house, glowing faintly with rune-magic, his midnight-blue coat sweeping behind him. Though he leaned slightly on Lyra for support, his posture was straight, his shoulders broad, and his grey eyes burned with an unearthly, cold fire.
Kaelen dropped to one knee instantly, pressing his fist against his breastplate.
"My Prince," Kaelen murmured, awe and relief warring in his voice. "We thought... we feared the worst."
"The worst is over, Commander," Cassian said, his voice steady and commanding. He looked around at the dozen loyal guards assembled in the hall. "Is the upper palace secure?"
"Chancellor Morvath and King Alistair are currently detained in the grand throne hall," Kaelen reported, rising to his feet. "The garrison has split. Half remain loyal to Morvath out of fear, but the rest are waiting for proof. They are waiting for you."
"They will have it," Cassian said, lifting the heavy iron key and the chronicle of the realm in his left hand. "Let’s walk."
The procession moved with deliberate speed up the winding stairs and through the secret corridors of the palace, bypassing the main patrols. Every step Cassian took sent a sharp wave of pain through his legs, but with every stride, the pain faded, replaced by an intoxicating surge of vitality. The magic of his bloodline, suppressed for twelve years, was roaring back to life, healing muscle, bone, and spirit.
When they reached the grand double doors of the Throne Hall, the guards stationed outside—young men wearing the colors of the royal house—started to raise their pikes.
"Halt! No one enters without the Chancellor's—"
Kaelen stepped forward, his hand resting on his sword hilt, but Cassian raised a hand, stopping him.
Cassian stepped out from the shadows of the corridor, his silver-plated boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. He didn't look like a victim. He looked like vengeance incarnate.
The guards blinked, staring down at his legs, then up into his piercing eyes. The color drained from their faces as recognition—and ancient, hereditary fear—swept over them.
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Without a word, the two guards slowly lowered their pikes, stepped aside, and dropped to their knees.
The heavy doors swung inward, revealing the brightly lit throne hall where the fate of Aurelorn was about to be decided.
