Throne Of Glass Pronunciation Guide の小説・ストーリー

“Because for the first time in over a thousand years, I was able to see my sister grow. To learn, to change. I couldn’t have missed it even if I tried” “Oh” Gemma said, blushing “And for the record. You also beat our actual mum by two weeks” “I did?” Gemma asked, eyes opened wide “You did” Nait said, smilingly “Do you think she would be upset?” “No. She would be very proud!” He said quietly “Ok so what is with this glass dance floor?” Ben asked as he walked back to where Gemma and Nait stood “The glass podium has always been a sign of when someone from the ruling house of Fae is near. No matter where they are, it becomes available. Glass is pure, it is clear and hold powerful properties. The

Soon, the speech ended. The Clan's Priestess moved forward, lifted her staff slowly, looking towards the sky. She slammed her staff on the concrete podium thrice, echoing through the crowd. The wind blew, blowing dust; even the last lantern broke, and the fire gathered together, forming a circle around the Priestess as she kept muttering: “Sael’vara luneth kai, Thren morai vel’shae, Drakai noor ethen’rai, Vael’mira bondreth nai.”

“Drama’s the right word.” The stone flared. White-gold light spilled between my fingers. The grooves opened—not cracks, but eyes. Three of them. Glowing. A voice—not sound, but knowing—poured into my skull. “SPRING QUEEN. YOU SHATTERED MY CROWN. YOU BINDED MY BREATH. NAME THE PRICE.” I didn’t flinch. Light magic coiled around my wrist like a bracelet. “First,” I said, “no more drowning the valley.

She gestured toward the far end of the hall, and I followed it— To a raised dais. I hadn’t noticed it in the frantic fight. At the far end of the gallery, beyond the broken window, a smaller **throne** sat: less dramatic than the one I’d glimpsed in my half-written drafts, but unmistakable High‑backed, carved, with veins of dark wood running through it like dried blood. DON’T BLEED ON THE THRONE, the rule on the wall had said. “And where is that?” Corvin asked, voice flat.

“That ends now.” She pointed to a northern ruin “The next god doesn’t rise from ash. It rises from glass.” Theron frowned. “And how do you know that?” Liora looked at her wrist, The mark shimmered again, And in her mind seven thrones flickered. Only one remained lit The Glass Crown. Suddenly A scout burst through the doors. “Report from Blackpine!” he gasped. “They’re under attack from within.” “By who?” Auren asked. The scout trembled. “By a woman with Kael’s eyes.”

Seraphine tried to laugh it off, but the moment her eyes locked on the glowing symbols circling the thrones, a chill rippled down her spine. A hush fell. Shadows thickened at the end of the hall, folding inward until a tall man emerged, his robes rippling with constellations stitched in silver thread. His presence seemed to bend the air itself, every word layered with magic when he finally spoke: “Students of Aetherborn. Creatures of strain and bloodline. You stand at the threshold of destiny.” The Headmaster's voice resonated in her chest. Lyra leaned closer, eyes wide. “Don’t pass out. They say if you faint during his speech, the thrones remember it forever.”

The mortar that bound the stones carried flecks of battlefield ash, a silent promise that their sacrifice would never be forgotten. Where the legendary Nightglass Throne once loomed, an obsidian seat carved to resemble a crown of icicles, now stood a simpler chair: fashioned from blackened moonwood and braided phoenix feathers, veins of gold running through its curves. It neither towered nor dazzled. It waited.

The circle's edges flared, creating cascading waves of golden light that collided with tendrils of dark purple energy, blending and clashing in a mesmerizing display. The room trembled under the spell. The candles were extinguished one by one as the power Zavian summoned grew. His voice grew louder, reverberating off the walls as the spell reached its apex. "Velora shan, era'than ral'ora. Nyssa voreth, tu'lal celeste. In myrithan vel'alas... Ith'lamor solai!"

Otsana’s name appeared next in gold fire, brighter and wilder than mine, making her gold mark flare until tears ran down her face. Otsana Rudina-blood, shadow mercy, second hinge, and hidden crown. My sister inhaled sharply because the throne had named the part Adolphus never wanted her to own. Then Maelor’s name appeared. No blood rose to write it. No silver, gold, black, or red stream touched the letters. The name simply appeared above the throne, already carved into the air as if it had been waiting there before any of us were born. Maelor, promised heir, unborn king, throne-blood without bleeding.

More whispered conversations in an archaic dialect that predated modern vampire common tongue. "Behold," announced the Herald, his voice echoing off stone walls, "the Equinox Tribute, offered in accordance with the Treaty of Withering Grace." Queen Ysoria occupied the obsidian throne like shadow given form, her midnight hair cascading over shoulders draped in crimson silk. She was beautiful in the way winter was beautiful—sharp, cold, and merciless. Her pale fingers drummed against the throne's armrest as her dark eyes assessed each tribute with the clinical interest of a butcher examining cattle.