called it, was just a throne room to everyone else. They didn’t understand what happened in this room when no one was watching.
Then it hit him. His eyes opened, and he stared down the long hall.
He was ready. It was time. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones. The room was charged, and he didn’t understand why.
Alchan stood up and turned toward the throne, his heart pounding, loud and steady. On the throne was a pile of bones. Someone had died on the seat and was left to rot and fade away. Only their bones remained, not even a scrap of clothing.
He walked to it slowly. He had to remove those bones if he wanted to sit down and begin this. As he reached out to them, a specter appeared, sitting where Alchan needed to be.
Alchan looked up and saw his father’s face with a furious expression.
“Ah, so this is how you died,” Alchan whispered, straightening. “I guess it’s Al Moro Nat. A strange day to be here doing this, yet I see why it wanted me to open my eyes now. Are you here to warn me?” Alchan tilted his head to the side, unfeeling. His father had no power. He was long dead, still obviously paying for his last fatal mistake. “I don’t need it. I know the punishment, but there are other things I fear more. I must risk it.”
His father didn’t move or disappear, just sat there, arrogantly leaning back and stretching his legs, his furious expression unchanging.
“Ah…you couldn’t have it in life, so you want to keep it in death?” Alchan laughed. “I can sit through you, old man. Move on if you can because I’m not going to fear you. Years and years, I wondered if I would ever see your face, and you were here—power-hungry and refusing to let go. You had to control everyone and everything because our station in life was never enough for you. Why am I not surprised?” Alchan snorted. Of all the times and all the places to find his father’s soul, lingering long past its expiration date, it had to be in a room neither of them had a right to rule.
Alchan stepped closer and leaned into his furious father’s face.
“Mother is alive,” he whispered. “She came to see me after all these years. I was so angry with her, but seeing you? I think I might give her a chance…just to piss you off. Now begone, spirit of Behron Andini. You are no longer wanted here in the land of the living!” Alchan reached through his father and swept the bones off the throne. His father looked like he was screaming as he disappeared.
Alchan didn’t think twice. He turned, adjusted his armor, and sat down.
The real power entered the room.
His life flashed before his eyes. Pain tore through his back. He was struck by lightning and had no way to stop it. His back arched as he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as the memories and images assaulted him.
Every mistake and every victory. Every struggle and every easy day. Every time he made love, and every time he felt like his heart was broken.
All of it.
His parents. His grandmother. His brother. His friends. His lovers. His warriors.
His living and his dead.
There were so many dead because he was the king, and they were all his dead.
When it was over, he was sweating, feeling like the life had been sucked out of him.
“That killed your father,” a female said. “He could not endure.”
Alchan, hunched over and panting, recognized the voice he had never heard before. Knew it as he knew his own mind, for it resonated with his blood like no other ever could.
He carried her bloodline, after all.
“Goddess,” he greeted, straightening, but not looking her in the eye. She didn’t want him to, so he didn’t. It was that simple. For the first time in Alchan’s life, he was the submissive. He wasn’t in charge or in control of this conversation. She was and always would be.
Lariana, the white dragon, the most dominant of all things. Known for her leadership and her domain as the goddess of light and life. She ruled all of them—dragon, wyvern, and Andinna.
“Alchan Andini,” she said, sounding unimpressed. “Prince of Anden.”
“King of the Andinna,” he corrected, moving his eyes up, but the sheer force of her will kept him from reaching her face.