The sky turned gold by the next morning. Not from sunlight—but from fire.
Flames danced across the far side of the canyon. Smoke curled into the clouds, black and thick. Kairo stood at the cliff's edge, watching it burn.
The Order had sent their message.
And now the world was answering.
Solin kicked a rock down into the ravine, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"They're not just after you anymore," he said.
"I figured," Kairo replied.
"They'll hunt anyone who walks beside the throne."
Lira walked up behind them, tying her hair back and adjusting her blade. "Then let them try."
Kairo didn't say anything. His hand was still bandaged, pulsing with a dull heat. The wound from the leader's blade hadn't fully closed. And deeper than that—he felt something worse.
The throne had opened something in him.
And now the world could feel it.
They moved fast, heading through the jagged maze of the Cracked Steppes. The sky stayed gold all day, lit by distant cities set on fire. Whole forests smoldered. Villages vanished in smoke.
"The Order is cleansing," Solin said, voice grim.
"Of what?"
"Anyone touched by curse or fate."
Kairo clenched his jaw.
Iri walked silently behind them, holding her rabbit tight. Even she had stopped humming.
Everything had changed.
And it was happening fast.
They reached the Temple of Silence by sunset.
Or what was left of it.
Pillars of stone stood crooked and broken. The ground was soaked with old blood. At the center stood a statue of a weeping figure—its eyes hollowed out, arms outstretched toward the heavens.
Kairo walked toward it slowly. The closer he got, the louder the whispers grew.
"He returns…"
"He bears the mark…"
"He carries the shard…"
The voices weren't spirits.
They were memories.
The stone itself remembered him.
Solin brushed dust off an altar. "This place was once sacred. The Bone Throne's first kings used to gather here."
"Why?" Lira asked.
"To remember the cost," Solin said. "Every time the throne chose an heir, the world bled."
Kairo looked around at the carvings on the walls—scenes of battles, of cities turned to rubble, of people bowing before a figure crowned in shadow.
He recognized the figure's face.
It was his.
Over and over again.
Him… but different.
Sometimes older.
Sometimes younger.
But always cursed.
Always alone.
Suddenly, a scream echoed from the edge of the temple.
Iri.
Kairo ran first.
She stood frozen near the old garden, pointing at the ground.
A figure lay there, half-buried in dust and vines.
Not a skeleton.
Not bones.
A person.
Still breathing.
Barely.
Lira dropped to her knees beside him. "He's alive."
The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen. His skin was burned. His robes were scorched with golden flames. And carved into his chest… the sigil of the Order of Purity.
But it had been slashed through.
A traitor?
A survivor?
Kairo knelt beside him. "Who did this?"
The boy coughed, blood on his lips. His eyes locked on Kairo's glowing marks.
And he whispered:
"They're coming."
"The Golden Saints."
Solin paled. "No."
Lira stood. "What are the Golden Saints?"
"Not Saints," Solin said. "Assassins. The Order's elite. Each one is worth an army."
Kairo's blood ran cold. "Why send them now?"
"Because you lived," Solin replied. "And because you're rising."
The boy on the ground choked again. His hand reached out to Kairo—shaking, desperate.
"They'll burn it all," he gasped. "They're not hunting just you… they're hunting the throne itself."
Then his eyes went still.
And his hand dropped.
They buried him beneath the weeping statue.
No words.
No prayers.
Just silence.
That night, Kairo sat alone, watching the bone shard in his hand pulse faintly in the dark. He felt the pressure of something far away—moving toward him. A force older than kings. Stronger than curses.
Solin walked up and sat beside him.
"They'll be here in days," he said.
Kairo didn't look up. "Then we'll be ready."
"You say that," Solin said, "but you haven't decided yet."
"Decided what?"
"If you're going to run…" Solin paused, "or sit."
Kairo's hand closed around the shard.
And he whispered,
"I'm done running."
Far away, under a palace of glass and gold, six figures stood in a circle of light. Their cloaks gleamed like sunfire. Their eyes were empty.
At the center, a floating scroll burned with golden fire.
"The Heir has awakened," one said.
"Then we ride," said another.
"And we paint the skies with his blood."