Absent Throne, Silent King

The world was ending.

Fiora felt it in the marrow of her bones. She stood in a void, vast and shapeless, stretching in all directions.

Something loomed above her. She could feel it.

A celestial titan, woven from the very fabric of the cosmos. Of darkness and dying stars. Vorath-Astra, the God of Endings.

His form shifted endlessly, vast and unmoved. He did not threaten. He simply was. And before him, Fiora felt impossibly small.

A great hand of starfire and void descended—slow, inevitable.

In the final moment, as all crumbled—

Fiora awoke.

The dream clung to her like mist in the morning air. Even as Fiora sat up, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, the weight of it remained.

She was greeted by the familiar chill of the forest at dawn—the pale light of morning spilling through the trees, painting their camp in muted golds and greys. A few feet away, River sat by the flames, already awake.

Of course he was.

His gloved fingers turned a small tin cup, steam rising in slow, curling wisps.

Fiora rubbed her eyes, pushing the remnants of the dream to the back of her mind.

It had been ten days on the road. Ten days of mud, rationed food, aching feet, and cold camps.

But they were close.

Montevio lay just past the next stretch of hills. Grand, golden, and full of secrets. Soon, they would step through its gilded gates.

But for now…

Fiora exhaled and pushed herself to her feet, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. She made her way toward the fire, plopping down on the opposite side of River.

Without a word, he handed her a cup.

She took it without hesitation.

Bringing it to her lips, she braced herself for the awful bitterness she knew was coming—but this time, she didn’t recoil.

Instead, she reached for one of the dry crackers from the pack, dipped it into the coffee, and took a bite.

It was still disgusting.

But it was softer. More bearable.

River, who had been watching her out of the corner of his eye, let out an amused huff.

“Look at you… Surviving.”

“Mock me all you want. I refuse to break my teeth on these things.”

“Smartest thing you’ve done all week.” River sipped his own coffee.

“We’ll reach Montevio by nightfall if we keep pace. Hopefully we don’t run into any more unexpected detours.”

Fiora raised a brow, grinning, Are you still mad about the haunted mansion?”

“No more floating teacups. Ever.”

Fiora snickered behind her cup.

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves overhead.

Then, after a pause, Fiora spoke.

“Say… are you a believer of Flamecourt faith?”

River didn’t look up, but the way his fingers tapped idly against his knee made it clear he’d heard her.

“Flamecourt? You mean the only religion allowed in these lands by His Majesty?” River said sarcastically, causing Fiora to frown. Then he continued.

“Strange question for a noble. Thought your kind were raised on temple sermons.”

Fiora stared at her reflection in the dark liquid of her cup. “I was. That’s not what I meant.”

She hesitated.

Then—she told him.

Told him about the dream. About Vorath-Astra, looming above her like a force beyond time. About the feeling of smallness, insignificance, inevitability.

When she finished, River didn’t have much to say.

“Can’t say I’m jealous.”

“He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cruel. He was just… there. Like a storm you can’t outrun.”

River exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Sounds about right. He’s the End, isn’t he? Doesn’t need a reason. Doesn’t need permission. He just is.”

Fiora studied him. “You speak like you actually know of the gods.”

“I know of them. Doesn’t mean I care.”

But Fiora wasn’t convinced.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Then humor me. How does a mercenary see the deities of the Flamecourt?”

River exhaled through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered, leaning back slightly. “You want the gods? I’ll give you the gods.”

“They say the world burns with four flames—but only three are meant to guide us.”

He held up a single finger.

“One. Vael’Karth. God of War, Strength, and Endurance. The trial-by-fire sort. Worship him, and you’d better be ready to bleed for it.”

He raised another.

“Two. Elanwen. Goddess of Knowledge, Secrets, and Trickery. She’s the whisper in the dark—the reason people lie and call it wisdom.”

Fiora smirked faintly. “You sound like you’ve met her.”

“I think I’ve met plenty who pray to her,” he muttered.

He lifted a third.

“Three. Serathis. Goddess of Fate, Death, and Reflection. The quiet one. The one waiting at the end of your road with a mirror in her hands.”

“Is that what the Flamecourt says? That she shows you who you really are?”

“Supposedly. One look, and she decides where your soul belongs.”

River didn’t raise a fourth finger. He simply stared into the fire.

“You know who the last is. But Vorath-Astra isn’t counted among the guiding flames. The Flamecourt calls him the Absent Throne. The God of Endings. They don’t worship him—they acknowledge him. He’s not a choice. He’s the end of all choices.”

Fiora’s expression shifted—quiet, solemn. “That’s who I saw in the dream…”

River gave a small nod. “He doesn’t need temples. Doesn’t need prayers. He just waits. And when everything else burns out… he’s what’s left.”

“…You explain things better than the temple priests,” Fiora murmured, managing a small smile.

River smirked. “That’s because I don’t care if anyone actually listens.”

Fiora laughed, but the weight of their conversation still hung between them.

She tilted her head. “Which one would you follow, if you had to?”

River paused.

“None of ‘em.”

Fiora raised a brow. “Not even Vael’Karth? You’re a fighter.”

“I fight to live. Vael’Karth wants people to live to fight.”

“What about you? Ever prayed to Elanwen?” He turned the question back on her.

Fiora hesitated, fingers tightening around her cup.

“…Not for wisdom. Just for understanding.”

“There a difference?”

“I didn’t want to know more,” she admitted. “I just wanted to understand why things were the way they were.”

River studied her.

But before he could reply the sun finally broke over the treetops, painting the road ahead in golden light.

Montevio awaited.

✾

Montevio emerged from the horizon like a vision from another age.

The road they had traveled for ten long days finally spilled into the outskirts, where towering spires reached toward the sky, their domes adorned in gold and ivory. Red-roofed buildings stretched endlessly, sprawling across the hills in layered terraces, their balconies draped in ivy and silken banners. The streets thrummed with life, bustling with merchants, nobles, scholars, and travelers alike.

Fiora’s breath caught in her throat.

She had heard of grand cities before. But Montevio was something else. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Wider than Lorenzia. Louder than Riena. A sprawling tapestry of splendor and secrets.

Yet beneath the city’s grandeur, a different kind of energy thrummed. A kind only the prophecy could have brought.

The city felt restless.

Montevio was not just the heart of Vermillia—it was the seat of the royal family, the place where kings address the people from marble balconies beneath banners of crimson and gold. But since the day of the divine vision, the King of Castovia had remained silent. He offered no decree, no guidance—nothing. And the people had taken notice. Some whispered of failing faith. Others of cowardice. And all the while, rumors spread like wildfire

Guards lined the streets, tense and watchful. Preachers shouted from corners—some crying salvation, others doom. And the people… They moved quickly. Purposefully. As if time itself were slipping away.

Fiora’s gaze locked on a group near a noble gate. Dark-cloaked figures, one hand gloved to hide their marks. If they had managed to attain that.

Oath Chasers.

They weren’t attacking, not yet, but their presence alone was enough to draw uneasy glances from passing citizens.

Near the center of the city, one building rose above the rest, just shy of the royal palace. Black marble columns flanked its entrance, its domed roof crowned with a single eternal flame burning high above. It was the Grand Hall of the Flamecourt—the seat of the highest clergy in all Castovia. It was said the Flamekeeper himself, the archbishop of the faith, resided there. Some claimed he had the king’s ear. Others whispered he spoke on behalf of the gods now that the world was ending.

Whatever the truth, his influence in Montevio was undeniable.

“…It’s different than last time,” River muttered as they walked, more to himself than to her.

Fiora glanced at him. “Different how?”

River didn’t answer immediately. Montevio had once been wine and song, masks and opulence. Now it stood on edge, like a sword half-drawn.

Fiora, however, was still wide-eyed, drinking in the city’s beauty despite the unease curling at its edges.

“It’s magnificent,” she murmured.

“You see gilded statues and gold-laced streets.” He gestured around him, “I see a city on the verge of tearing itself apart.”

Fiora hesitated, but her wonder didn’t fade completely. Even if Montevio was cracking, it still stood. And that was something.

River picked up his pace, “Come on. The tavern’s this way.”

“Tavern? What for?”

“You’ll see.”