Forgotten king

A Decision That Could End the World

The abyss loomed.

A gaping wound in reality, pulsing with an unnatural heartbeat. From its depths, they watched.

The Forgotten Ones.

Twisted figures draped in shadows, their bodies flickering like broken reflections in a cracked mirror. Their faces obscured. Their voices unheard.

Yet they bowed.

Not in mockery. Not in defiance.

In submission.

Jorath couldn't breathe. His mind screamed at him to run, to get as far away as possible from whatever this was—from whatever Thalos had become.

But his feet wouldn't move.

Because deep down, he knew.

Something irreversible was about to happen.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The Rift's True Purpose

A massive force pressed down on the battlefield, making the very air feel like liquid. The ground beneath them cracked, unable to withstand the weight of whatever was on the other side of that abyssal gateway.

And then—it spoke.

Not in words.

Not in sound.

But in raw, overwhelming intent.

"Thalos Arctur."

It wasn't a name.

It was a claim.

Jorath's pulse hammered in his skull. The voice—if it could even be called that—came from beyond the Rift. From something that should not exist in this world.

But it knew Thalos.

And it wanted him.

"The Forsaken Throne awaits."

Thalos' Reaction

The entire battlefield shuddered.

The Forgotten Ones remained still, their heads lowered, their flickering forms almost serene despite the chaos unfolding around them.

Jorath clenched his fists. "Thalos—what the hell is going on?"

No response.

Thalos stood at the edge of the abyss, staring into the Rift like he was peering into something only he could see.

Then—

He took a step forward.

Panic seized Jorath's chest. "Wait—"

Another step.

Eryndra cursed. "Thalos, don't you dare—"

A third step.

The Rift pulsed.

The world screamed.

A Power That Shouldn't Exist

A golden chain snapped.

Then another.

Then another.

The air itself rippled, bending in ways it shouldn't.

Something deep within Thalos stirred.

Something ancient.

Something forgotten.

And then—

The chains shattered completely.

And the sky turned black.

Not dark.

Not dim.

Black.

Like something had simply erased the sun, the clouds, the very concept of light itself.

And in the midst of it all—

Thalos opened his eyes.

The Abyss Responds

A single golden spark crackled at his fingertips.

Then—an explosion of power.

The Forgotten Ones shuddered. Their veiled faces turned toward Thalos in silent reverence. The Rift—once unstable and chaotic—stilled.

The being beyond it paused.

Then, for the first time, it spoke again—this time, not as a demand.

But as recognition.

"You have chosen."

Thalos simply lifted his hand—

And closed the Rift.

The Silence That Followed

The battlefield was unnaturally quiet.

The pressure was gone.

The sky remained black, but the weight—the presence of something far beyond mortal comprehension—had vanished.

Jorath exhaled sharply, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath.

Eryndra didn't move.

None of them did.

Because they all saw it.

The way the Forgotten Ones still knelt before Thalos.

The way the Rift—once an uncontrollable force—had simply obeyed his will.

And the way Thalos stood there, unchanged… yet different.

More.

Greater.

Like he had just reclaimed something that had always been his.

The Forsaken Throne's Awakening

Jorath finally found his voice. "Thalos…"

His friend turned to face him.

The golden glow in his eyes had faded.

But the feeling—the suffocating, absolute presence—remained.

Jorath swallowed hard.

"Tell me the truth." His voice was barely a whisper. "Who… no, what are you?"

Thalos didn't answer immediately.

Then—

He smiled.

Not cruelly. Not coldly.

But in a way that was far more terrifying.

Because it was the smile of someone who finally remembered who they were.

And who had never lost in the first place.