THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD : THE DYING LIGHT
Chapter 7: The Father’s Sin
The throne room was vast.
Larger than the great hall in Valdris. Larger than any hall Kaelen had ever seen. The walls were black stone, carved with scenes of battle and conquest, of kings kneeling before dark altars, of cities burning and armies falling. The floor was polished obsidian, so smooth that Kaelen could see his own reflection staring back at him—pale, frightened, small.
And at the far end of the room, on a throne of twisted iron and black wood, sat the man who had abandoned him.
The man who had given him nothing but a name and a legacy of failure.
His father.
Kaelen had never known his father’s face. His mother had refused to speak of him, had burned his letters, had torn his portrait from the wall and thrown it into the sea. All Kaelen knew was that he had been a soldier, a lord, a traitor. That he had left before Kaelen was born and never looked back.
That he had died in a foreign war, alone and unmourned.
Or so Kaelen had been told.
The man on the throne was not dead.
He was not old, either. He looked to be in his forties—the same age Kaelen’s mother had been when she died. His hair was dark, streaked with gray, and his face was handsome in a harsh, angular way. His eyes were black—not the black of the nightmare, but the black of old blood, of old magic, of old sins.
He was wearing armor. Black and silver, etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. A crown of thorns rested on his head, the points digging into his skin, drawing blood that trickled down his temples and stained his cheeks.
He was smiling.
“Hello, son,” he said.
His voice was deep, resonant, like the echo of a bell in an empty chamber.
“You’re not my father,” Kaelen said.
“I am. I was there when you were conceived. I was there when you were born. I held you in my arms and named you before your mother took you away.”
“You abandoned us.”
“I was forced to leave. There’s a difference.”
“You could have come back.”
“I couldn’t. Not if I wanted you to live.”
Kaelen walked toward the throne.
His footsteps echoed on the obsidian floor.
The man watched him, his black eyes unreadable.
“What do you want?” Kaelen asked.
“To explain. To apologize. To ask for your forgiveness.”
“You don’t deserve my forgiveness.”
“No. But I’m asking for it anyway.”
Kaelen stopped at the foot of the throne.
He looked up at the man who had given him life.
“Why did you leave?”
The man was silent for a long moment.
“Because I was cursed,” he said. “Not by magic. By blood. The old blood runs in my veins, just as it runs in yours. And the old blood carries a price.”
“What price?”
“The door. The nightmare. The hunger. Every generation, someone from our bloodline must guard the door. My father did it. His father before him. And his father before him. Back to the first king himself.”
“You’re the guardian?”
“I was. For twenty years. I sat on the throne of bones and held the blade and watched the darkness. And then you were born.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The man leaned forward.
His black eyes burned.
“The guardian cannot have children. The door feeds on life, on hope, on the future. If the guardian has a child, the door takes it. Consumes it. Erases it from existence.”
Kaelen’s blood went cold.
“I should have died.”
“You should have died. But your mother—” The man’s voice cracked. “Your mother made a bargain. She gave herself to the door in your place. Her life for yours. Her soul for yours. Her future for yours.”
Kaelen staggered back.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath him.
“My mother—”
“Died because of me. Because of the door. Because of the bargain she made to save you.”
Kaelen’s hands were shaking.
“She never told me.”
“She couldn’t. The door takes memories as well as lives. She forgot the bargain. Forgot me. Forgot everything except the need to protect you.”
“Then how do you remember?”
The man touched his crown of thorns.
“The crown. It preserves memories. It preserves identity. It preserves the self. But it also preserves pain.”
Kaelen looked at the thorns.
At the blood.
“You’ve been wearing that for twenty years?”
“I’ve been wearing it since the day I left. Every moment. Every hour. Every breath. The thorns remind me of what I sacrificed. What I lost. What I can never get back.”
“Why didn’t you come back? After she died? After the door no longer threatened me?”
The man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because I was afraid,” he said. “Afraid that you would hate me. Afraid that you would reject me. Afraid that you would look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
Kaelen looked at his father.
At the black eyes. The thorns. The blood.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
The man reached into his armor and pulled out a locket.
It was old—bronze, tarnished, worn smooth by years of handling. He opened it.
Inside was a portrait.
A woman.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. A gentle smile.
Kaelen’s mother.
“She gave me this the night you were born,” the man said. “She told me to keep it. To remember her. To remember what she sacrificed.”
He held out the locket.
Kaelen took it.
The metal was warm.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Kaelen said.
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can ever trust you.”
“I know.”
“But I want to understand.”
The man nodded.
“Then let me show you.”
He stood.
His armor clanked.
He walked down from the throne and stopped in front of Kaelen.
“The door is not just a wound,” he said. “It is a prison. A prison for the nightmares. A prison for the hunger. A prison for the parts of ourselves that we cannot control.”
“And the guardian?”
“The guardian is the warden. The one who holds the keys. The one who keeps the prisoners contained.”
“But the prisoners are escaping.”
“The door is weakening. The nightmares are growing stronger. And the warden—” He looked at his hands. At the blood. “The warden is dying.”
“That’s why the king sent me. To replace you.”
“To replace all of us. To become the new warden. To hold the door for another generation.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
The man smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“Then you find another way. The way I should have found. The way your mother wanted you to find.”
“What way?”
The man leaned close.
His breath was cold.
“Close the door,” he whispered. “Not guard it. Not hold it. Not contain it. Close it. Forever.”
Kaelen’s heart pounded.
“How?”
“The key you carry. The blade you wield. The blood in your veins. All of it together—all of it used at once—can seal the wound. Can end the nightmare. Can free us all.”
“Then why hasn’t anyone done it?”
The man stepped back.
“Because the cost is too high.”
“What cost?”
The man looked at the throne. At the crown. At the blood.
“Everything,” he said. “The key consumes. The blade devours. The blood burns. Whoever tries to close the door will not survive.”
Kaelen was silent.
The man watched him.
“You’re asking me to die.”
“I’m asking you to choose. To live as the guardian, watching the world fade for a thousand years. Or to die as the hero, ending the nightmare forever.”
“That’s not a choice.”
“Every choice has a cost. The only question is which cost you’re willing to pay.”
The throne room began to fade.
The walls crumbled. The floor cracked. The obsidian shattered.
“Wait,” Kaelen said. “I’m not ready.”
“You’re never ready. No one is.”
“How did you do it? How did you survive twenty years as the guardian?”
The man smiled.
It was a different smile. Kinder. Wiser.
“I thought of you,” he said. “Every day. Every hour. Every breath. I thought of your face. Your voice. Your laugh. I held onto the memory of you like a drowning man holds onto a rope.”
“And it was enough?”
“It was enough to keep me alive. It was not enough to keep me whole.”
The man began to fade.
His armor dissolved. His crown crumbled. His face blurred.
“I love you, son,” he said. “I have always loved you. I will always love you.”
Kaelen reached for him.
His hand passed through empty air.
The throne room was gone.
Kaelen stood in the hallway.
The woman in white was waiting.
“Your father is gone,” she said.
“He was never there. Not really.”
“He was there. In the memories. In the regrets. In the love he could not express.”
Kaelen looked at the locket in his hand.
His mother’s face smiled up at him.
“How many more doors?” he asked.
The woman looked at the endless line.
“Many,” she said. “But fewer than before.”
“What’s at the end?”
She smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“The truth,” she said. “The truth about the door. The truth about the nightmare. The truth about yourself.”
She opened the next door.
Beyond it was a garden.
A garden of lilies.
And standing in the garden, waiting for him, was his mother.