My Father Ordered His Own Mother's Execution and Forgot My Name—Then the Secret of His Relic Throne Revealed the Terrifying Truth About Our Enclave
The sanctum was a maelstrom of violence. Ephraim’s Iron Smugglers, grim and efficient, moved through the chaos like predators, their black leather blending with the shadows. They bypassed the fighting cult factions, their sole focus on reaching the inner treasury, presumably to recover their 800 gold sovereigns.
Gideon and I weaved through the pandemonium, narrowly avoiding a stray crossbow bolt from Ephraim’s men and a wild swing from a zealot’s axe. The main sanctuary doors finally splintered and burst open, allowing more fanatical cultists to pour in, only to be met by the cold steel of the smugglers. It was a three-way battle for control, utterly devoid of mercy or reason.
“The relic hall!” I shouted over the din, pointing towards the heavily reinforced doors leading to the inner chamber where the iron throne rested. “That’s where she’ll be!”
Abigail. My “saintly” foster mother, who had been imprisoned in a hidden cell beneath the sanctuary, now likely freed in the chaos. The one who had poisoned my father, orchestrated the smear campaign against me, and, I now suspected, initiated the black-market deal.
We fought our way through a tangle of bodies and desperate combatants. Finally, we reached the heavy iron-bound doors of the relic hall. They stood slightly ajar, a sliver of light escaping from within.
I pushed them open, my heart thumping against my ribs.
Inside, the relic hall was eerily calm compared to the raging battle just beyond its walls. Torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the ancient stone. In the center, cold and ominous, sat the iron throne.
And standing beside it, her hands clasped in front of her, a look of terrifying triumph on her face, was Abigail.
Her white hair, usually neatly braided, was now loose, framing her face like a wild halo. Her eyes, usually soft and gentle, blazed with a fierce, almost manic glee. She had been freed, no doubt by one of the factions, or perhaps even by Ephraim’s men in their sweep.
“Evangeline!” she called out, her voice clear and strong, cutting through the distant sounds of war. She did not look like a woman who had just been imprisoned. She looked like a queen.
She gestured grandly towards the throne, a wide, unsettling smile stretching her lips. “You have arrived. Just as prophesied.”
My blood ran cold. Prophesied? Was this her twisted version of destiny?
“The city burns, child,” Abigail continued, her voice hypnotic, beckoning. “Our people are lost. Only you can unite them now. Only you can bring peace.”
She took a step towards me, her hands still extended towards the throne. “Take your rightful place. Sit upon the seat of power, Evangeline. Crown yourself. End this bloodshed.”
Her words were laced with an insidious sweetness, a false promise of redemption. She was urging me to sit upon the very throne that had destroyed my father, the one she had poisoned him with, the one that would strip me of my memory, my empathy, my very soul. She wanted me to become her puppet, a mindless monarch under her sway.
I looked at the cold, dark metal of the throne, then back at Abigail’s triumphant face. The mask had completely fallen. Her eyes, once filled with maternal affection, now gleamed with a chilling, vindictive victory.
“You knew,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “All of it. The throne. Father’s suffering. The poison.”
Abigail’s smile widened, a slow, predatory unveiling. She was not a victim. She was the architect.
The air in the relic chamber grew heavy, charged with unspoken truths and the echoes of my father’s silent suffering. She had waited for this moment, orchestrated every piece of this tragedy. And now, she wanted me to willingly step into the trap.
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