Chapter 2784: Story 2785: The Blade That Killed a Father

The sword rose from Ronan’s hand.

Its melting blade had become whole again, glowing with crimson light beneath a crown of white bone. Ronan tried to release it, but his fingers refused to obey. His arm turned toward the golden door, moving with the dreadful certainty of a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

“Ronan!” Lyra struck the invisible barrier again. Blood ran from her knuckles. “Look at me!”

His golden eyes flickered.

For one heartbeat, he heard her.

Then the Father spoke.

“Come home, my son.”

The words shook the chamber. The golden door widened, revealing a vast throne room beyond it. Countless dead figures knelt along a path leading to a throne carved from the bones of forgotten kings.

At its center stood the Father, no longer a memory.

His hollow chest glowed with a faint red light.

The forgotten child clutched Ronan’s arm.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “That isn’t the father I remember.”

The Father lowered his head.

“You remember the love, little one. You have forgotten the fear.”

Black darkness spilled from his empty chest, spreading across the floor toward the brothers.

Elias attacked first. His black chains wrapped around the darkness, but the moment they touched it, they turned against him. The chains dragged him toward the doorway.

Aren caught his brother with silver restraints.

“Darian, help me!”

Violet fire erupted around Darian’s hands. He burned through the black chains, freeing Elias, but the flames suddenly changed direction and surged toward Ronan’s crown.

The crown drank them greedily.

Darian collapsed, staring at his empty palms.

“It’s feeding on us.”

The Firstborn rose unsteadily.

“Not on us,” he corrected. “On what we gave him.”

He approached Ronan, his silver hair whipping in the unnatural wind.

“Brother, listen carefully. The crown does not control your body. It awakens the memory of the one who wore it before you.”

“Then help me remove it!” Ronan gasped.

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

The Firstborn looked toward the Father.

“Because I was the one who placed it on your head.”

Silence struck the chamber.

Seratha covered her face.

The Firstborn continued, his voice breaking. “Our father had begun consuming names, memories, and souls. I believed the crown could command his hunger. Instead, it transferred his power into the youngest among us.”

“The forgotten child,” Lyra whispered.

“No.” The Firstborn looked at Ronan. “The Firstborn.”

Ronan’s sword trembled.

The Father extended his hand.

“Finish what you began.”

Suddenly, Ronan’s memories changed. He saw himself as the crowned Firstborn, standing beside the throne with the sword raised. His father knelt before him, not fighting, but weeping.

Ronan understood then.

The Father had not been murdered in battle.

He had allowed his son to strike.

“Why?” Ronan whispered.

The Father’s smile faded.

“Because you asked me to stop.”

Ronan’s sword plunged forward.

But at the final instant, Lyra’s broken bow slipped through the invisible barrier and struck the blade aside.

The sword missed the Father’s heart.

Instead, it pierced the golden door.

A terrible crack split the mountain.

The Father screamed—not in pain, but in terror.

Behind him, something older than the darkness opened its eyes.

And the Father whispered:

“Children, run. I was never the thing you needed to fear.”