Throne of Blood and Bone

The night in Meryvion began like any other—steeped in shadow, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens, and illuminated by the electric pulse of neon signs; heavy with unspoken stories etched in the air. This city of steel and smoke possessed the temperament of a restless soul, forever awake. But tonight carried a different weight, as though the city itself held its breath, anticipating an unknown event.

Aria Valdaris awoke abruptly, heart hammering, lungs straining as she realized a scream had escaped her. Beads of sweat traced paths down her face, a chilling film upon her skin. Lingering fragments of nightmare clung to her: bloodied cobblestones, a throne constructed of bone, and a faceless god murmuring her name in the suffocating darkness.

“Aria…” The voice possessed a tangible quality, a smoky tendril coiling around her thoughts—intense, yearning.

She looked down at her trembling hands. Crimson sigils flickered into existence along her arms—both alien and intimately familiar—before dissolving back beneath her skin. She had drawn them in ink for as long as she could remember, pulled from fragmented memories surfacing in dreams. Now, they manifested unbidden.

Turning toward the mirror, her reflection startled her. Her eyes had deepened, grown darker, as though bearing a weight of ages. This was more than the aftermath of a nightmare; something fundamental was shifting within her.

A deafening impact reverberated against her apartment door. Then came a whisper, cloying and deep, utterly unfamiliar, yet born of nightmare. No language she recognized, but the message resonated with chilling clarity.

We have found you, little bloodling. Return to the dark. Feed the bone.

Panic seized her, a frantic drumbeat in her chest. Her gaze flicked to the bookshelf. Tucked between a dusty herbal and an archaic dictionary, lay her dagger—a gift from her grandmother, its history interwoven with lullabies and grim portents.

She gripped it tightly.

Before thought could coalesce, the door splintered inward. A figure emerged from the swirling haze, a creature of impossible height and leanness, cloaked in living darkness. Its eyes burned with a malevolent light, its teeth—innumerable and razor-sharp—sparked with a grin that froze her marrow.

Without pause, Aria lunged.

The dagger struck resistance. A scream ripped through the room—not from the creature, but from the weapon itself, unleashing a blinding radiance that coalesced into arcane symbols. The creature recoiled, a shriek tearing from its throat as smoke streamed from its wound, swirling like inverted ash.

Adrenaline surged, and she bolted.

Her feet pounded the stairwell as she burst onto the street, Meryvion’s air thick with the tang of danger and stale smoke. She dared not glance back.

But the chilling sensation of the city's unseen eyes burrowed into her.

Rain cascaded down the back alley of a shuttered nightclub as she pressed against the damp brick, the dagger’s faint glow warming her palm.

“What is happening?” she murmured, heart still threatening to escape her chest.

“You should be dead.”

The voice, rough and gravelly, arose from the shadows, carrying a palpable weight.

Aria brandished the dagger, every nerve on high alert. “Who’s there?”

From the darkness, a figure materialized slowly, as though peeled from the night itself. He was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in armor that spoke of a bygone era. Two swords adorned his back, his face—etched with scars—possessed a haunting attractiveness that unnerved her.

“You’re the last of the bloodline,” he said, his gaze dissecting her. “I expected someone… taller.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, bewildered.

He did not answer, instead closing the distance, invading her personal space.

“Back off,” she snapped, raising the dagger defensively. “One more step, and I’ll cut you.”

He seized her wrist effortlessly, his grip warm, unwavering.

“Easy, Princess. That dagger isn’t meant for me.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I will,” he stated, his tone softening. “Because I’m the reason you’re still breathing.”

He released her.

“Name,” she said, her voice hardening with resolve.

“Kael Dravaris.”

The name struck her like a blow. Mythical, infamous. Her grandmother had spoken it with hatred in stories steeped in warning.

“You should be dead.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained distant. “But it’s not over yet. They will return, and this time, they’ll bring the Bone-Walker.”

“What’s the Bone-Walker?”

His expression darkened. “The god your ancestors bargained with. He demands his payment. That payment is yours.”

Panic constricted her chest. “And you’re here to save me?”

“No.” He met her gaze, a spark of raw intensity passing between them. “I am your keeper. You are bound to me, like it or not.”

They navigated the underground, a labyrinth both literal and mystical. Ancient subway tunnels, etched with protective spells, stood as remnants of a forgotten war. Kael moved with the innate ease of one born in the shadows.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, testing the waters.

“Not anymore,” he replied, his focus unwavering.

“And you just happened to arrive in Meryvion tonight?” The ensuing silence resonated with unspoken truths.

“You’ve been following me,” she realized, a maelstrom of emotions swirling.

Kael’s gaze was unapologetic. “For years. Many have watched you, some with lethal intentions. I am here to prevent those.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“Because you are critical. You could shatter the curse…or amplify it.”

Just great. No pressure, right?

Finally, they reached a speakeasy seemingly cloaked from the world.

They stepped inside. The air thrummed with warm light and the mingled scents of herbs and metal; the low hum of voices washed over them. Beings of Fae, cursed souls, warriors chosen, monsters—all unveiled by a single glance.

“You brought her here?” hissed a silver-haired woman, her face a canvas of scars. “Are you trying to get us all killed?”

Kael remained unmoved. “She is already marked. They attacked her home.”

Whispers erupted. An Old Alithari curse word sliced through the air.

Aria crossed her arms, frustration mounting. “I’m standing right here. You can address me directly.”

The woman's eyes were daggers. “Then understand that you are a danger to everyone present.”

“Fine,” Aria retorted, defiance ringing in her voice. “I’m done being powerless.”

A few respectful nods followed. The silver-haired woman exhaled.

“I’m Lira, Kael’s second. If you are here, you fight. No freeloaders.”

“Sounds good to me,” Aria agreed.

Later that night, settled in a room above the safe house, bathed in the strange hues of a flickering candle, Kael materialized in the doorway.

“You will not sleep tonight,” he stated.

“Because I haven’t had decent sleep in weeks,” she shot back.

He stepped closer, silent as the night.

“You weren’t supposed to awaken like this,” he murmured. “The blood stirs when it is needed. And it is needed now.”

“What does it want from me?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Instead he knelt beside her, taking her hand carefully. His touch was warm, yet it could not conceal the coldness he carried like armor.

“Do you remember anything from your dreams?”

“Fragments. A throne. Bones. Fire. And you were there.”

His hand tightened. “I know.”

“Tell me the truth. Did you betray my family?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

The confession was a physical blow.

“And what of now?”

His gaze met hers, a profound sadness swirling within. “Now, I am going to betray him.”

That night, as sleep finally claimed her, her mind plunged into a maelstrom of dreams.

A crown forged of thorns.

A kiss stained crimson.

Kael stood amidst the ruins of a palace, her name a whisper on his lips—a prayer? Or a warning?

Meanwhile, in the shadows beneath Meryvion, the Bone-Walker stirred. The hunt had begun.

Rain lashed the worn streets of Vareth’s Edge, washing the foul tang out of the air and out of the fire escapes and washing through the drains and rusty alarm chains that hung on the outside of the tall buildings. Every crack of thunder sounded like a voice from above demanding that the tumult below calm down, yet, assembled as it was to welcome the coming of the god, it could not restrain the havoc surfacing from the city’s bowels.

Aria Valdaris had never run so hard.

She panted as she rushed through the storm, feeling the jagged rocks in her shallow breaths, she could taste the sharp anguished fear and some small degree of pain. Her hands felt sticky with blood — she prayed that it was her own, though doubts assailed her. The cold burn of the blade that had cut through her flesh sent a fresh wave of desperation crashing over her. The taste of metal and the scent of disaster coated the air around her, making her dizzy. Shadows danced and coiled, thick and heavy with a m