The Endless Dunes were death.
Not the swift, merciful kind—but the slow, creeping kind that peeled flesh, boiled blood, and stripped away sanity grain by grain. A thousand miles of golden storms and cursed ruins, where the sun never relented and the stars never showed the same sky twice.
And somewhere beneath that merciless sun… lay the sixth crown.
"The Crown of Dominion," Seris said, shading her eyes beneath a veil of spellwoven silk. "Once worn by the Warlord-Kings. Its last known location was the Sunken City of Qar'Han, swallowed by the sands two hundred years ago."
Althar studied the horizon, eyes narrowed. "It's buried deep."
Ariya, standing beside him, cast a protective veil over the group, shielding them from the worst of the heat. "We're not the only ones looking. I saw signs of other travelers on the way in. War camps. Banners I didn't recognize."
"They're digging," Rorek said grimly. "And they're not bothering to hide it."
That was the problem.
Ever since Althar had claimed the fifth crown, word had spread. Not through bards or birds, but through the crowns themselves—echoes in the arcane world, vibrations that stirred old magic. Like beacon fires calling out to every power-hungry creature still breathing.
Every crown claimed made him a stronger flame.
But also a brighter target.
They moved by night, when the sand cooled and the spirits of the dunes whispered secrets on the wind. And on the third night, those whispers changed.
Althar heard a name.
"Ezekar."
He stopped walking.
Ariya noticed first. "What is it?"
He didn't answer at first. His eyes were distant—listening to something far away. Then he spoke, slowly.
"I know who holds the crown."
The ruins of Qar'Han were not visible from above. They had to feel their way there—through fault lines, ancient magical trails buried beneath the earth, and the corpses of sand-buried gods.
When they finally arrived, they didn't find ruins.
They found a throne room, perfectly intact, entombed beneath layers of time. Black sandstone walls shimmered with old enchantments. At the center of the room sat a throne carved from obsidian and ivory.
And on it…
A man.
Tall. Bronze-skinned. Eyes like polished gold.
He wore the Crown of Dominion on his head as if it had never belonged to anyone else.
"Althar," the man greeted. His voice was warm. Familiar. Too familiar.
Althar stepped forward, slowly. "Ezekar."
Ariya blinked. "You know him?"
"I did," Althar said quietly. "Before the Cataclysm. Before the First Fall."
Ezekar rose from the throne.
Once, he had been a general. Althar's right hand. A man who led legions with fire and devotion. Loyal beyond reason.
Until he wasn't.
"You look better than the last time I saw you," Ezekar said with a chuckle. "Less blood. More soul."
"I thought you died."
"I did," Ezekar replied, stepping down. "But the crown called to me in the void. It remembered who I was."
Rorek grunted. "Let me guess. It wants you to finish what you started."
Ezekar's smile faded. "No. It wants me to stop him."
He looked at Althar, gaze unreadable.
"You were never meant to hold all seven. You were the sword, not the throne. You were destruction, not dominion. And the more you wear, the less of you remains."
Althar stepped forward. "If I don't take it, someone else will."
"And maybe that someone should," Ezekar snapped, the first crack in his calm. "You don't see it, do you? Even now, they call you King of Nothing. Not because they hate you—but because they fear what you could become."
Ariya moved between them. "He's not that man anymore."
Ezekar's gaze softened, but not toward her—toward Althar. "And yet every step you take brings you closer. Can you still feel it? That hunger? That emptiness?"
Althar didn't answer.
Because he could feel it.
Every crown added weight. Every crown made it harder to breathe. Harder to remember the boy who once swung a sword not for power, but for peace.
Ezekar sighed.
"I didn't wait here to fight you, old friend. I waited to give you a choice."
He removed the crown.
Held it out.
And with it, came a vision—a thousand soldiers bowing, the world bending to the will of one man, mountains crumbling beneath command alone.
The power to rule without question.
Althar stared at it.
Then looked away.
"I don't want dominion," he said. "I want freedom."
Ezekar smiled sadly. "Then may you carry it without becoming what we once were."
Althar reached out—and for the sixth time—claimed a crown.
The ground trembled.
The air rippled.
In the far distance, across deserts and oceans, the final crown awakened.
And the man in silver turned his head toward the storm gathering beyond reality.
"Only one remains," he whispered. "Let the final game begin."