The Dying Arcane

The ruins of the once-mighty kingdom stretched before Ronan, a haunting reminder of the past. Crumbling stone walls loomed over him, their surfaces covered in cracks and overgrown vines. The echoes of history whispered through the hollow corridors, remnants of a civilization that had long since faded.

And yet, amidst the decay, something lingered.

Ronan moved cautiously, his boots crunching over shattered stone and discarded relics of an era lost to time. He had followed rumors here—whispers of power buried deep within the forsaken city. If there was even a sliver of truth to them, he would claim it.

The air was thick with dust and an unnatural silence. It was too quiet. Too still.

Then he saw it.

The Throne.

Unlike the rest of the ruins, it remained untouched by time. Crafted from obsidian and inlaid with veins of glowing blue energy, it radiated an aura of something ancient—something watching. The throne sat atop a raised platform, its presence commanding, as if waiting for someone worthy to claim it.

"You feel it, don't you?"

The voice shattered the silence like a dagger through glass.

Ronan whirled around, blade raised.

A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, imposing, and clad in a fusion of ancient armor and intricate robes. His face was half-covered by a metal mask, only his burning crimson eyes visible.

"You stand before the remnants of the old world," the stranger continued, his voice a low rumble. "This throne was not made for kings—it was made for conquerors."

Ronan studied the man carefully. There was power here—something unnatural, something dangerous.

"I'm not here to claim a throne," Ronan said coldly.

The figure chuckled. "Not yet. But you will. Because you seek power, Ronan Vale. You seek the strength to challenge the gods themselves."

Ronan stiffened. His name. How did this man know his name?

"You speak as if you know me."

The stranger took another step forward. "I know what you are. What you are becoming." His voice grew softer, almost reverent. "You are the bridge between the past and the future. Between magic and steel. You, Ronan, are the one who will decide what remains… and what is lost forever."

A tense silence stretched between them.

The throne pulsed, the blue energy within its obsidian veins flickering in response.

Ronan stepped forward.

His hand hovered just above the armrest. He could feel it now—the raw, unyielding force hidden within. The echoes of warriors long past, their ambitions, their failures, all imprinted upon this seat of power.

"You hesitate," the stranger mused. "Why?"

Ronan closed his eyes for a moment. His journey had begun with vengeance. But now? It had become something much more.

Slowly, he let his hand drop to his side.

"I'm not here to be a king," he said firmly.

The stranger smiled. "Then what are you here to be?"

Ronan turned away from the throne.

"A warrior," he murmured. "Until the last battle is fought."

And with that, he walked away.

For now.