CHAPTER 14: THE CROWN THAT BLEEDS
Vantheir was dying.
Its spires, once reaching for the heavens, now crumbled like the bones of forgotten titans. Dust coiled in alleyways where laughter had once danced. And at the center of this broken city stood the mirror-laced throne room, where Lucien Draeven sat beneath a crown that bled into his thoughts.
The Crown of Dichotomy was not a mere relic.
It was a parasite of judgment.
It whispered in tongues only broken souls could understand, testing the boundaries of wrath and mercy with each passing moment. To wear it was to hold the scale of a world between breath and oblivion.
And Lucien… was slipping.
He had once been a healer.
Once, long ago, he believed all things could be mended—bodies, hearts, even faith. But healing required consent, and the world had long since refused to be saved.
The gods had seen to that.
He bore their scars.
A hand burned by divine fire. A mind shattered by the truths hidden beneath holy lies. And now, a crown of thorns laced with celestial alloy and infernal vine—a mark of both blessing and curse.
He had taken the crown by choice.
He had judged himself first.
But the longer he wore it, the more the line between justice and vengeance blurred.
The throne room was lined with mirrors.
Not ordinary glass, but reflective memory: fragments of his life, captured in torment. Each mirror showed a different version of Lucien.
The son who knelt at a mother's grave.
The soldier who begged the gods for peace.
The healer who refused to kill.
The king who bled.
He had ordered them placed here, these cursed mirrors, to remember what he fought for.
But tonight, they turned against him.
"I see you," he whispered.
To the mirror on his right.
It showed him as he had been during the siege of Helvryn—his hands pressed to the chest of a dying boy, weeping as divine magic refused to obey him.
"I failed you," Lucien said.
To the left, another image: the moment he refused the mercy stroke to the traitor-general who had murdered thousands.
"I spared you… and paid for it in blood."
Behind him, the largest mirror remained dark.
That one he had covered.
Because it showed the future.
A future the crown feared.
He stood.
His guards—silent constructs born from judgment magic—watched but did not move. They had no hearts to sway.
Lucien stepped toward the veiled mirror.
His blood marked the floor.
The thorns of the crown dug deeper with every step.
He reached the mirror.
And pulled the cover free.
In the glass, he saw a world burning.
Cities turned to ash.
Children choking on smoke.
And atop a mountain of skulls, he sat—still wearing the crown, but his eyes hollowed by endless execution.
He blinked.
And the vision shifted.
The same world. But rebuilt.
Lush forests. Clean rivers. People of all creeds sharing bread.
And at its heart, a leader—himself, older, weary, but kind.
Still wearing the crown.
The mirror shimmered.
Two futures. Two truths.
But only one could be real.
The crown whispered.
"Choose the world."
Lucien trembled.
"Which world?"
It bled harder.
From behind the throne, a figure emerged.
Not a guard.
Not a ghost.
But Sameer—the boy from the Mortal Plane, the dreamer of machines.
Now a man.
Now a builder.
He bowed, but not in submission.
"I've seen both futures, Lucien," Sameer said. "You asked me to build the machines that could store fate. And I have. But I need you to decide… not as king. As man."
Lucien's eyes sharpened.
"You remember who I was."
"I remember who you are."
Sameer stepped closer, unafraid of the blood pooling beneath the crown.
"You once healed a village that tried to burn you."
"They needed water more than vengeance."
"You saved a demon child during the Rift collapse."
"He was scared. Not evil."
"And now?"
Lucien turned to the burning mirror.
"I want to save this world. But I no longer know how."
Sameer lifted a device—a memory prism shaped like a lotus.
"I've stored your regrets. All of them. Would you face them again?"
Lucien hesitated.
Then nodded.
The prism activated.
The throne room melted into light.
He stood once more in his childhood home.
His father preaching fire and fear.
Lucien, only twelve, hiding a dying animal behind the altar.
The first life he saved.
The scene shifted.
The warfront.
The moment he let a wounded enemy escape.
That enemy returned later… and saved Lucien's life.
Another shift.
The death of his sister.
She had begged him not to take the crown.
"Don't become their tool," she said.
"I won't," he had promised.
But he had lied.
Lucien wept.
Sameer's voice echoed: "You don't need to erase your pain. You need to forgive your self."
The light faded.
The throne room returned.
Lucien stood taller.
The blood still flowed, but now it nourished clarity.
He turned to Sameer.
"Then help me build a new system. One not rooted in fear."
"And if they resist?"
Lucien smiled.
"Then let them judge me."
The crown pulsed.
Not with wrath.
But with balance.
For the first time, it did not bleed.
Lucien placed it beside the throne.
And sat—not as a king—but as a man ready to earn his crown.
Beyond the crumbling towers, the Rift trembled.
Realms shifted.
And far above, on the Thread of Judgment, Eris climbed still.
The Seeker would meet the King.
And fate would bow to choice.