The Throne of Bones
The hall was vast.
Larger than any hall Rhaena had ever seen — larger than the great hall of Kingsfall, larger than the temple of the forgotten gods, larger than any building had a right to be. The walls of black stone stretched into darkness on every side, their surfaces slick with moisture that smelled of iron and old blood. The floor was covered in water — not deep, just enough to wet her boots, to chill her feet, to remind her that she was standing in a place that should not exist.
The throne of bones loomed at the far end of the hall.
Skulls and ribs and femurs and phalanges, all fused together, all pulsing with silver light, all watching her with empty eyes. The light pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. The throne was alive.
“I built it,” the old woman said. “I built it to contain the hunger. I built it to hold back the Withering. I built it to protect the world.”
She stood beside Rhaena, her bare feet pressed against the water, her gray silk dress shimmering in the silver light. Her white hair floated in a wind that did not exist. Her silver eyes were fixed on the throne.
“You failed,” Rhaena said.
The old woman nodded.
“I failed. The hunger grew. The Withering spread. The throne began to crack.”
“Why did you not destroy it?”
The old woman was silent for a long moment.
“Because I loved it. Because I built it with my own hands. Because I poured my heart into its bones.”
“You loved a throne of bones?”
“I loved what it represented. Order. Peace. Hope. The throne was not evil. The throne was not good. The throne was. It simply was. The hunger came from the one who sat on it.”
Rhaena walked toward the throne.
The water rippled with each step.
The skulls turned to watch her.
“You are the first queen,” she said.
The old woman followed.
“I am the first. The one who built this hall. The one who forged this throne. The one who planted the forest to guard my bones.”
“Your bones are not in the forest.”
“My bones are in the throne. The first king took them when he built his castle. He thought they would protect him. He thought they would hold back the hunger.”
“Did they?”
“No. The hunger consumed him. The hunger consumed his sons. The hunger consumed his grandsons. The hunger consumed them all.”
“Until my father?”
“Until your father. He was different. He did not try to wield the hunger. He tried to feed it. He gave it his blood, his breath, his dreams.”
“He fed the Withering?”
“He fed it to keep it sleeping. He gave it pieces of himself so that it would not take pieces of the world.”
Rhaena stopped before the throne.
The skulls were close enough to touch.
She could see the cracks in the bone — small at first, then larger, spiderwebbing across the surface, spreading like veins, like roots, like wounds.
“The throne is breaking,” she said.
“It has been breaking for a thousand years. It will break completely soon. And when it breaks, the Withering will wake.”
“What happens when it wakes?”
The old woman’s silver eyes dimmed.
“The world ends. Not with fire. Not with flood. Not with war. With hunger. The Withering will consume everything — the soil, the water, the air, the memory of the people. There will be nothing left. Not even bones.”
“How do I stop it?”
The old woman looked at her.
“You break the throne. Not with a hammer. Not with a sword. Not with magic. With you. You sit on it. You claim it. You become it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you become the cage. The hunger will feed on you instead of the world. The Withering will sleep beneath your skin instead of beneath the earth.”
Rhaena’s blood went cold.
“That will kill me.”
The old woman nodded.
“Yes.”
“You are asking me to die.”
“I am asking you to live. Forever. In the throne. In the hunger. In the hope.”
“There is no hope in that.”
“There is always hope. The people will remember you. The kingdom will remember you. The world will remember you. You will not be forgotten.”
“I would rather be forgotten and alive.”
The old woman smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“Would you? You have been forgotten for twenty years. You have been alive for twenty years. Which has been harder?”
Rhaena looked at the throne.
At the skulls.
At the cracks.
At the light.
She thought of her father. Of his crown. Of his last words.
Live, he had said. Live, and remember.
She had lived.
She had remembered.
Now she had to choose.
“How much time do I have?”
The old woman’s silver eyes brightened.
“Days. Weeks. Months. The throne is breaking faster now. Malrik’s greed, his cruelty, his wars — they are all feeding the Withering. Every death, every scream, every tear is a crack in the bone.”
“Then I must stop Malrik.”
“You must stop the throne.”
“One will lead to the other.”
The old woman nodded.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the throne will break before you reach it.”
Rhaena turned from the throne.
She walked back through the water, back toward the darkness, back toward the place where the hall ended and the world began.
The old woman followed.
“Wait,” she said.
Rhaena stopped.
“Do you know my name?”
The old woman’s silver eyes were wet.
“No. I have forgotten it. The throne takes names as well as lives. It has been so long since anyone called me anything.”
“Then I will call you Grandmother. You are older than the first king. You are older than the kingdom. You are older than memory. You are the grandmother of the throne.”
The old woman smiled.
It was a real smile, warm and bright and full of love.
“Thank you.”
The hall faded.
The water vanished.
The throne dissolved.
Rhaena opened her eyes.
She was kneeling by the stream, her hand still in the water, the silver light fading beneath the surface.
The dawn was breaking.
The sky was pink and gold.
Corin knelt beside her.
“Your Grace, you were gone for hours.”
“It felt like minutes.”
“What did you see?”
She pulled her hand from the water.
Her fingers were cold.
“The throne. The bones. The grandmother.”
“The grandmother?”
“The one who built it. The first queen. She has been waiting for someone to break it.”
“Can you break it?”
She stood.
Her legs were steady.
Her heart was calm.
“Yes.”