The Empty Throne

The victory parade was three days later.

The city of Nocturne celebrated. The Obsidian Syndicate was absolute. The Pale King was a memory.

In the penthouse, the glass had been repaired. The blood had been scrubbed away.

Kaelen Voss sat on his throne. He wore a suit of black silk. He was stronger than he had ever been. He was immortal.

He looked to his right.

Elian sat on a velvet cushion on the dais. He was dressed in the finest clothes money could buy—a tunic of silver thread, trousers of soft wool.

He was staring at a sunbeam hitting the dust motes in the air.

"Elian?" Kaelen whispered.

Elian didn't blink. He didn't turn. His face was smooth, unlined by worry or anger. His mouth hung slightly open. A line of drool pooled at the corner of his lip.

Kaelen reached out and took Elian’s hand. It was warm. The pulse was steady.

"Elian, look at me. It's Kaelen. Insult me. Tell me I'm an arrogant prick. Please."

Elian turned his head slowly. He looked at Kaelen with eyes that were clear, beautiful, and utterly empty. There was no recognition. No hate. No doctor. No man.

He made a soft, nonsensical sound and turned back to the dust motes.

Kaelen squeezed the hand. He felt the physical perfection he had been gifted. He felt the power thrumming in his veins.

He had won. He had conquered his enemies. He had cured death.

He pulled Elian’s limp hand to his forehead and began to weep.

He was the King of the world. And he was the loneliest man in existence, holding the hand of the savior he had hollowed out to build his throne.

"I have you," Kaelen whispered to the shell, a lie he would tell himself every day for eternity. "I kept you."

Elian stared at the sunbeam, and smiled at nothing at all.