Novel & Cerita Ivory Throne Book

The door wasn't locked, surprising and careless - Rhea noted. The room had been arranged perfectly but there was a lot of dust and it was easy to spot where there wasn't dust anymore. Something told her that it was where Lyra had just searched and as she went closer, the fingerprints told her she was right. She picked the book up, reading the cover out loud with surprise. “The descendants of the throne, the determinants of the next in line" it said, boldly written on the cover.

Otsana’s gold mark burned beside me, but its light bent toward the throne like a flame leaning toward wind. Ashina sobbed harder, gripping her stomach while Maelor’s heartbeat echoed through the black bone like drums beneath a coronation hall. The first Blood Feather book floated above the throne, no longer thrashing, no longer screaming, but opening itself like a servant obeying its true master. A circle of old blood appeared around the throne’s base, then spread outward until it touched Blackfang warriors and Northridge nobles alike. Conri shouted orders, but the blood ignored every blade, every title, and every frightened foot trying to step away.

Victoria squeezed Raven’s hand once—reassuring, steady. Then she pushed the doors open. The throne room waited beyond—vast, echoing, lit by chandeliers of blood-red crystal. King Alaric sat upon a throne of black obsidian and polished bone. His eyes—ruby like his daughter’s, but ancient, fathomless—fixed on the small necromantress in crimson. Raven felt the weight of that gaze like a physical thing. Her free hand brushed the black tome hidden in the satchel at her side.

⸻ THE THRONE ROOM It wasn’t a room. It was a cavern that stretched beyond sight, lit by rivers of fire that ran along the walls like veins of molten gold. Floating platforms of obsidian drifted lazily in the air. Pillars of bone spiraled upward, disappearing into darkness. And in the center— A throne of shimmering black stone, edged with smoke that curled upward and vanished. It was both beautiful and terrifying. Alive yet ancient. Calling me and warning me at the same time. “The throne of the underworld,” Malik said quietly. “No demon has sat here in thousands of years. It rejects all who touch it. But I think…”

The sooner it starts, the sooner I’ll return to my home, to my simple life. Eros holds my waist as soon as he closes the door; his hand rests delicately on my hip—a subtlety I didn’t know from him, and it even feels strange. The slow, silent steps are soon met with classical music. It doesn’t take long for me to enter a grand hall that I see is the throne room. I pass through a polished stone arch, almost white, and walk toward the two thrones, elevated a meter off the ground. They are black as coal, cushioned in red, while the back resembles branches of old, rotten trees.

Pawns don’t see the spies. And pawns sure as hell don’t sass nobility into silence. Checkmate, darling. The next day…Oh it was chaos and drama. The council chamber was every villain's dream room. High ceilings. Thick curtains. A red carpet that screamed “betrayal happened here once, maybe twice.” Seven thrones for seven big egos, and at the center— A throne of solid mana crystal, glittering with raw power and generational trauma. That’s where the King sat.

“Because truth doesn’t die easy. They had to burn it out of the stones.” Ash crunched under their boots. Faded glyphs, scrawled like last prayers, flaked beneath their steps. Every step forward felt like a step through someone else’s memory. And then… they saw it. The throne. It wasn’t high or gilded or grand. It wasn’t anything it should have been. It was wrong. Gray. Shapeless. Sitting in the center like a scar the world couldn’t quite heal. It didn’t hum with magic—it breathed with silence. A silence so deep, it felt like it was watching them.

Not the peace bought by victory, but the peace that comes after surrender, not to another’s will, but to the truth of endings. Elara walked the spire’s winding stairs alone. There was no summoning bell, no royal guards, no whispers of intrigue or rivalry. The throne room, once a place of terror and hope, had been remade: no seat of power, just shelves of memory, old banners folded in shadow, records written in every tongue. The only throne that remained was a low desk, shaped of moonstone and scales, empty except for a single, blank book. She touched its cover. The book hummed with latent power, woven through by the spells of a hundred different hands: witches, vampires, wolves, and mortals.

I pat him on the shoulder before we pull apart. ------------- King Orrin's ashes lay in the jar, as every God in Serenacia stays present in the room, honouring the dead king. Octavius, the wizard of Gods, takes over the event, where Orrin takes part in burial ritual of spreading his father's ashes through the Holy line, so he can rest in peace. The signature of white attires compliments the hall, as both God and goddesses, pay due decorum and respect to the late king. My eye meets with Cicero, as the look on his face makes me feel even more guilty of knowing what I know, but still yet, I couldn't call it murder when it is indeed treason.

Nonetheless, the bright full moon at the sky served enough to illuminate the grounds and other objects inside from the open windows. Likewise, the figure of a lady seated on an extravagant, intricately chiseled and decorated throne glows bright as two tall windows flash light on her like converging spotlights. The rear of her fingers altogether supported her tilted head while her other arm rests at her lap. Few meters away from her, a young man stands still, staring directly at her, awaiting the movement she will take. It is Tristan, that child she has been watching over since the first day of their meeting.