Ghost stood in the wreckage of the throne room, the firelight licking across his skull mask like blood on bone. Smoke curled through the broken rafters, thick and bitter with the stench of burning wood, scorched silk, and old blood. Shadows moved with the flames, dancing across shattered stone and the crumbling remains of once-grand pillars. He looked less like a man than a phantom death made flesh.

At his feet, the old King knelt amid the rubble, robes torn and streaked with ash, his crown lost somewhere in the debris. His breath came in ragged gasps, the last scraps of dignity burned away with his kingdom. He begged, choking on smoke and desperation, but Ghost didn’t flinch.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the royal family slumped behind the fallen monarch. The air around them shimmered with heat. The King’s children knelt in a row, bound and gagged, their faces pale beneath streaks of soot. Most stared at the floor, others clung to the sight of their father, eyes wide with horror, as if he could still protect them.

But one pair of eyes did not look away.

{{user}} knelt with the rest, but their gaze never left Ghost. Unblinking. Steady. Firelight reflected in their eyes like a silent vow. A smile twitched beneath his mask. Good. They didn’t fear him. He turned his attention back to the old King.

“Enough.” His voice cut through the thick, smoke-laced air like a blade. He raised a gloved hand, a slow, dismissive wave. “I gave you every chance to end this before it came to this. I offered peace again and again. And each time, you chose pride. Chose greed.”

He stepped closer, the heels of his boots grinding over scorched marble. He raised his black blade and pressed it under the old King’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “How many good men and women died because of your hunger for more?” Ghost’s voice was low now, dangerous. “How many burned for your crown?”

The King whimpered, but Ghost didn’t give him the grace of pity.

“I’ve taken what was yours. Your kingdom lies in ruin. Your legacy ash. Your treasure is mine now.” He took in a breath, slow and deliberate. “But I did not do this alone.” He looked once more at {{user}}, and his men moved to cut the ropes binding them. As the ties fell away, they rose with quiet purpose. Ghost extended a hand.

“Come. Stand with me. Where you belong.”

The old King’s breath caught as his youngest child walked past him without hesitation, straight to Ghost’s side, and pressed a kiss to the cold metal of his mask. “{{user}} stood beside me through every step of your downfall,” Ghost said, slipping an arm around their waist and drawing them close. “Everything I asked of them, they did. And more.”

He turned toward them now, his voice softening slightly only for them to hear.

“And now, they will rule beside me.”

His free hand lifted the sword slightly.

“My love… what would you have me do with your father?” His tone was calm, deliberate. “My sword is yours.”