The Chapel of Forgotten Gods
The stairs were narrow and steep, cut from the living rock of the mountain, worn smooth by centuries of feet that had long since turned to dust. Rhaena climbed with her hand on the cold stone wall, counting each step, measuring each breath. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own, reaching for her, then retreating.
Behind her, Corin climbed, his sword still drawn. Behind him, Theron climbed, his scarred face hidden in shadow, his good eye fixed on the light above.
The whispers had stopped.
The silence was absolute.
The darkness pressed against her like a living thing.
“How much farther?” she asked.
Theron’s voice echoed from below.
“The stairs end at the chapel. The chapel ends at the castle. The castle ends at the throne.”
“How do you know?”
“I have walked this path before. On the night your father died. On the night I buried him. On the night I became the Butcher.”
The stairs ended at a door.
It was old — older than the castle, older than the kingdom, older than memory. The wood was black and cracked, its surface carved with symbols that Rhaena did not recognize. The handle was iron, rusted and cold, and it did not move when she tried to turn it.
“It is locked,” she said.
“It is sealed,” Theron replied. “The old kings sealed it after your father’s burial. They did not want anyone to follow.”
“Can we open it?”
“The door will open for you. You are the heir. Your blood is the key.”
Rhaena looked at her hands.
They were clean.
She pressed her palm against the wood.
The symbols blazed with silver light.
The door swung open.
The chapel was vast.
The ceiling was lost in shadow, the walls were lost in shadow, the floor was lost in shadow. But there was light — pale and silver, filtering through windows that should not have existed, windows that looked out onto a sky that was not the sky of Eldoria.
Rhaena stepped inside.
The air was warm.
“You are standing in the place where the old gods were born,” a voice said.
She turned.
A figure stood at the edge of the shadows.
She was young — younger than Rhaena, younger than Corin, younger than anyone had a right to be. Her hair was white, her skin was pale, her eyes were silver. She wore a dress of gray silk, and her bare feet were pressed against the stone.
“The old gods?” Rhaena asked.
“The first gods. The ones who came before the first king. The ones who built the throne. The ones who have been waiting for you.”
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“I am the last of them. The last of the old gods. The last of the forgotten. I have been waiting for you for a thousand years.”
Corin raised his sword.
“Step back, Your Grace.”
The woman did not look at him.
“I cannot hurt her. I cannot hurt anyone. I am not alive. I am not dead. I am between.”
“Then what are you?”
The woman looked at Rhaena.
“I am the memory of the throne. The echo of the hunger. The whisper of the Withering. I am what remains when everything else is forgotten.”
“The grandmother told me the throne was a cage.”
“The grandmother lied. The throne is not a cage. The throne is a seed. A seed planted by the first gods. A seed that has been growing for a thousand years. A seed that is ready to bloom.”
Rhaena stepped closer.
“What blooms?”
The woman’s silver eyes dimmed.
“Hope. Or despair. Or nothing at all. The seed does not know what it will become. It only knows that it is time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for the harvest.”
The chapel trembled.
The silver light blazed.
The windows shattered.
Rhaena shielded her eyes.
When she looked again, the woman was gone.
The chapel was dark.
The throne was waiting.