The priests said it was madness, passed in dreams and whispers. The physicians said it was rot of the blood. But Madeline knew the truth before the first bell tolled from the Tower of Vigil:
It wasn’t sickness. It was memory.
And memory was spreading.
It began in Hollowby, the poorest quarter in King’s Reach. Just after dawn, a group of twelve emerged from their hovels — barefoot, faces ashen, eyes glazed with silver.
They walked silently.
Each carried something ancient: broken bits of armor, scorched pages, splinters of carved bone. Relics no one should have touched. Their skin was marked — not tattooed, but branded, the same as Madeline’s wrist. Some bore it on their foreheads. Others across the chest, carved crudely in blood.
They walked in a line, slowly, toward the palace gates.
People stared.
Then ran.
Because behind the twelve came others — dozens, then hundreds. Men, women, children. Dreaming the same dream. Eyes silver, skin pale.
And all of them were singing.
“Seven thrones.One mouth.Let the crown rise again…”
Madeline watched from the reliquary tower as the city erupted in fear. The Sable Order charged the procession at the gates. Steel met flesh.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
The ash-walkers did not scream.
They broke.
And rose again.
Each time they were cut down, they stood back up.
Not healed.
Not whole.
Just driven.
Something was guiding them. Pushing them forward.
And she knew its name.
Saldrith.
Madeline tried to flee the tower, but the mark burned hot. Her knees buckled. Her mind opened.
And then — she was elsewhere.
The vision struck like lightning.
She stood in a ruined cathedral. Not stone — bone. Its arches made from ribs, its altar a throne of fused skulls. Before it stood the Bone King.
He turned.
She saw his face.
It was her grandfather.
Not as he had been in life — a nameless craftsman, dead before she was born — but younger. Fiercer. Clad in war-plate and fire. The crown fused to his skull.
“You carry what your mother refused,” he said. His voice echoed in marrow.
“I carry the seal,” Madeline answered.
“You carry me,” he corrected.
He stepped forward. The world trembled.
“Let it go. Break the last bond. I will burn the world clean of rot. Of liars. Of kings who forget.”
Madeline stood tall.
“You’re not justice,” she said. “You’re remembrance twisted.”
He grinned, and the fire in his mouth blazed.
“Still, you remember.”
She came to on the floor of the tower, bleeding from the nose, chest heaving. Ithan was there, shouting, shaking her. Behind him, the sky outside was darkened with smoke.
The procession had breached the gates.
The palace was burning.
And the bonefire was spreading.
Madeline stood, wiped the blood from her face, and whispered:
“We end this. Now.”