The Hollowed Throne

“Sit not where bones remember, lest your name be carved in ember.”

An ancient, cursed throne forged from the fused bones and soulsteel of a forgotten empire’s royal bloodline, standing alone in the crumbling Hall of Echoes. Portraits of long-dead monarchs line the walls—each one a soul trapped in oil and canvas, eyes following all who enter, whispering secrets or sobbing blood. The throne pulses faintly with a dull golden glow, alive and hungry, its carved arms engraved with a shifting family tree that erases names over time.

Above it, the shattered ceiling reveals a sky of unnatural stillness—the gods have long since abandoned this place. Dust floats like ash in the stagnant air. A tattered royal banner hangs limp, embroidered with the crest of Vel’thar: a crowned skull devouring its own tail.

The last living heir approaches, torn between ending the bloodline and claiming its power. The throne speaks in their voice. The portraits weep louder.