The path to the next crown began not with fire, but with whispers.
Three days after their return from the Crystal Wastes, the scouts brought news. South of the Kingdom of Ardane, deep in the Bleeding Marshes, strange phenomena had been reported—black fogs swallowing entire villages, and the dead walking with golden eyes. The locals had a name for the place now:
"The Mire of Mourning."
Althar stood in the war room, hands resting on the edge of the table as a map burned with glowing sigils. One glowed brightest—marked with the ancient symbol of Mortem, the domain of Death.
Rorek stabbed a dagger into the location. "If there's a crown there, it's already causing damage."
Seris folded her arms. "A crown tied to the domain of death, leaking corruption. We'll be lucky if it hasn't raised an army."
Ariya stood near the doorway, her expression unreadable. "What happens if you touch that crown?"
Althar didn't answer immediately. In truth, he didn't know. The first had awakened him. The second had returned fragments of his past.
But Death?
He didn't want to imagine what that might stir.
"I'll claim it before anyone else does," he said. "If it's left unchecked, the crown will choose another."
"A necromancer," Rorek said grimly.
"Or worse," Seris added. "A godling."
They arrived in the Bleeding Marshes three days later, traveling by spellbound vessel that skimmed over the water like a windblown leaf. The air here stank of decay and wet rot. Mist coiled through the twisted trees, and the ground squelched beneath each step.
They left the main force behind—only Althar, Seris, Rorek, Ariya, and a small elite unit of six enchanted knights crossed into the thickest part of the marsh. The closer they drew to the source of the disturbance, the less the world felt alive. Trees stood still as statues. No insects hummed. Even the birds had fled.
"It's like the world's holding its breath," Ariya whispered.
They reached a clearing where the land dipped into a shallow basin of stagnant black water. And there—half-submerged in the muck—stood a massive stone crypt. Its archway was etched with runes identical to the first two crowns.
The seal of Mortem.
Rorek swore under his breath. "We're standing on a graveyard that predates kingdoms."
Althar stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the mud. As he approached the crypt, the sigils flared—not with flame this time, but with a cold, silvery light. A wind rose, carrying voices that were not their own.
Seris pulled out a protective charm. "They're speaking. The dead."
"They're warning us," Ariya said.
Althar ignored them and pressed his palm to the stone.
The crypt door opened with a groan.
Inside, the world changed.
The air was dry, the stone impossibly preserved. Torches lit with pale fire as they walked, illuminating walls covered in murals—depictions of a kingdom of bones, ruled by a faceless king who wore a crown made from dying stars.
"This was once the Dominion of the End," Althar murmured. "One of the seven fallen realms."
"And this is its tomb," Seris said, awed.
They reached the inner sanctum.
There, resting atop a coffin of obsidian glass, was the Crown of Death.
It was different from the others.
Instead of gleaming, it seemed to absorb light. The very air around it was still, as though time itself paused in reverence.
Althar stepped toward it.
Rorek grabbed his arm. "You sure this one won't kill you?"
"No," Althar said.
Then he placed his hand on the crown.
Darkness swallowed him.
He stood in a void, surrounded by a sea of stars that bled into shadows. Before him, a figure rose—a reflection of himself, older, colder, clad in robes woven from funeral cloth.
"You've come back," the reflection said.
"Who are you?" Althar asked.
"I am what you buried to become a king again. I am the death you once commanded."
A memory surfaced: the screaming of dying armies, the burning of souls, a war against a god of endings.
"I gave up death to be reborn," Althar whispered.
"And now you take it back," the reflection said. "Willingly?"
"No."
"But necessarily," the figure replied, stepping aside to reveal a path of skulls. "Then walk it. For what is a king, if not a keeper of the dead?"
Althar opened his eyes.
He stood alone in the crypt.
Everyone else had been frozen in place—motionless, breathless—as if trapped in a moment that passed without them. But as the crown floated to him and settled above his hand, time resumed.
Ariya gasped.
Seris fell to a knee.
The knights bowed without command.
Rorek just stared, silent.
Althar placed the crown in a rune-sealed satchel and turned without a word.
He had remembered more than his death this time.
He had remembered the burden of it.
And it was only beginning.