Chapter 1615: Story 1615: The Hollow Throne
The silence was unbearable. It pressed against the ears like a scream held too long. The wyrm’s coiled bulk lay draped across the broken graveyard, its scales pulsing with faint crimson lines—the bindings of Damien’s will burned into its flesh. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Zara cradled Damien’s head in her lap. His skin was cold, his breath shallow. The ember-light in his eyes flickered, guttering like a candle drowning in wax. “Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Don’t let it take you.”
The Keeper approached slowly, his staff tapping against fractured stone. His face, usually shrouded in unreadable calm, now bore the lines of something close to fear. He studied Damien with wary eyes. “He has not slain it,” he murmured. “He has crowned it.”
Zara looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
The Keeper’s gaze shifted to the wyrm, its massive form trembling as if breathing through Damien’s lungs. “The beast is chained, yes. But chains can be thrones as well. He has seated himself upon a hunger older than the bones of the earth. Do you not feel it?”
Zara’s chest tightened. The air was heavy, thick with an unseen pressure. It felt as though the fog itself bowed toward Damien, as though the night had gained a master. She shook her head, denying what her heart already feared. “No... he saved us. He saved everyone.”
The Keeper’s voice dropped, low and grim. “He saved nothing. He only delayed the abyss. And in doing so, he has become its vessel.”
A groan rippled from Damien’s chest, low and hollow. His body twitched, and his eyes snapped open. The ember light within them had changed—no longer crimson flame, but something darker, deeper. Hunger stared out through him.
Zara recoiled, clutching his shoulders. “Damien—it’s me. Listen to my voice.”
For a heartbeat, recognition flickered. His lips moved soundlessly before a wave of pain wracked him. His back arched, and black veins spiraled across his skin, pulsing in rhythm with the wyrm’s coils.
The ground trembled. Graves burst open, not from the dead clawing upward, but from the earth itself rejecting what it held. Soil turned to ash. Stone cracked into dust. The wyrm stirred faintly, not to rise, but to bow lower, as though kneeling before Damien’s broken form.
The Keeper’s voice trembled, rare uncertainty in every syllable. “He is no longer merely bound to them... they are bound to him. The wyrm’s throne is hollow, and he sits upon it.”
Zara shook her head violently, tears streaking her dirt-stained face. “No! He’s still Damien! He has to be!”
Damien’s eyes rolled toward her, heavy with agony. His voice was layered now, human words braided with something vaster: “Zara... run.”
The earth split again, and from the chasm below came a chorus of whispers—thousands of voices, chanting as one. The fog thickened, curling toward Damien like smoke drawn to flame.
The Keeper tightened his grip on his staff. “If he rises fully upon that throne, child, he will not be Damien. He will be the abyss given flesh.”
And still, the whispers grew louder.