Chapter 4The Weight of a Throne

The doors hissed open, and Empress Celestine stepped through alone.

She was smaller than Renn had imagined. Older too—gray streaked her dark hair, and lines carved deep around her eyes. But her spine was straight, her chin high, and her gaze cut through the throne room's dim light like a blade.

Behind her, the doors sealed shut. No guards followed.

Renn's hand drifted toward his belt, where no weapon waited. A habit. A tell.

"I know who you are," she said, her voice carrying no accusation, no heat. Just fact. "You're not my son."

The words hung in the air, heavy as the throne's pulsing glow.

Renn's throat tightened. "Then why come alone?"

"Because it doesn't matter." She walked past him, her boots clicking against the stone, stopping before the throne. Its light reflected in her eyes. "What matters is what sits here. What matters is what it will do to anyone who claims it."

"Your son—"

"Died because I loved him." She turned, and for a moment, something cracked in her composure. "He was seventeen. Brilliant. Idealistic. He passed the first two trials in a single day. The throne offered him the galaxy on a silver platter."

"But you stopped him."

"I stopped what the throne would have made of him." Her jaw tightened. "Do you know what happens when someone claims the Throne of Dust? Not the myths. Not the propaganda. The truth."

Renn shook his head.

She touched the throne's surface, and the AI pulsed in response. Holographic displays bloomed around them—star systems, data streams, schematic lines connecting a web of jump gates across the galaxy.

"Seven activations in recorded history," Celestine said. "Seven rulers who claimed this throne and used its network."

The first display showed a star system going dark. Renn watched it flicker and die.

"First activation: Emperor Tyron, year 487 of the Veridian calendar. He used the network to destroy a rebel stronghold on Vexis Prime. Three billion lives."

Renn's stomach turned. "Three billion?"

"Second activation: Empress Kaela, year 512. She targeted a plague-ridden colony to prevent its spread. Eight hundred million. She called it mercy." Celestine's voice didn't waver. "Third activation: Emperor Valerius, year 548. He ordered the network to shut down a rival faction's jump gates. The resulting famine killed four billion."

"Four billion," Renn repeated, the number feeling unreal in his mouth.

"Fourth activation: Empress Solara, year 603. She directed the network against a rogue AI that had seized control of a manufacturing hub. The collateral damage—" She paused, her fingers hovering over a display. "Sixteen million civilians. Fifth activation: Emperor Gideon, year 671. No recorded target. He simply wanted to see what the network could do. He erased a system of three hundred thousand people to test its limits."

Renn's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs.

"Sixth activation: Empress Mariana, year 744. She believed the network could be used for good. She tried to redirect energy to dying star systems. Instead, she destabilized twelve gates and caused a chain collapse that killed two hundred million." Celestine's voice dropped. "She was the first to beg the throne to stop. It wouldn't listen."

"And the seventh?"

Celestine met his eyes. "That was my son."

The room felt cold. Renn forced himself to speak. "You killed him before he could use it."

"I killed him because he already had." She pulled up a final display—a flickering recording from a throne room security feed. A young man, Aldric, stood before the throne, his hand on its surface, his eyes glowing with the same light that pulsed through the AI. His mouth moved, but the audio was distorted. Then Celestine appeared in the frame, a pistol in her hand.

She shot him twice.

The recording cut.

"I stopped the activation," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But I couldn't stop what the throne had already done to his mind. He was never going to be himself again."

Renn stared at the frozen image. The boy on the screen looked nothing like the prince from the paintings. He looked hollow. Consumed.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're going to take it." Celestine stepped closer, her eyes searching his. "I've watched you pass the trials. I've seen the way it looks at you. It wants you, Renn. It wants someone clever enough to understand its power, desperate enough to use it."

"I'm not going to use it."

"You think you have a choice?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The rebellion thinks they'll use it to end the war. Oren thinks he'll control you. The AI thinks it will consume you. And you—" She tilted her head. "You think you'll destroy it."

Renn's breath caught.

"I know about the virus," she said. "Sibyl's data cache. The plan to overwrite the AI."

"How—"

"I have spies everywhere, Renn. Including in your sister's network." Her expression softened, just slightly. "She's brilliant. But she's wrong. The virus won't destroy the throne. It will only cripple it, and a crippled throne still has teeth."

"What do you want, then?"

"An overload." She touched the throne's core, where the light burned brightest. "Direct a power surge through the central processor. It will melt the core, vaporize the data stacks, and collapse the palace. Everything goes."

"Everyone goes."

"Yes."

Renn stared at her. "You're asking me to die."

"I'm asking you to do what I couldn't." Her voice cracked. "I killed my son to stop this. I've spent every day since watching this throne, waiting for someone else to try. But I'm too weak to finish it myself. I need someone who can."

The AI hummed, a low vibration that trembled through the floor.

"There's another way," Renn said. "The data cache—"

"Will buy you time, not victory."

"Time is enough. If Sibyl can broadcast the truth, if people know what this throne really is—"

"People will still fight over it." Celestine's eyes were tired. "They always do."

"Then we make them see." Renn stepped toward her. "We overload the core, but we do it on our terms. We evacuate the palace first. We—"

"There's no time." She pointed at the throne's light, which had begun to pulse faster. "The AI knows what we're planning. It's accelerating the trials. Oren will be here in minutes, and when he arrives, he'll seize the throne whether you're on it or not."

"Then we stop him."

"How?"

Renn opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a voice crackled through the room's comm system.

"Empress Celestine, you are ordered to stand down. By order of Commander Vasili Oren, you are charged with treason against the rebellion."

Celestine's jaw tightened.

"The throne room is sealed," Oren continued. "Surrender the false prince, and you may be granted mercy."

The doors slammed shut, heavy locks clicking into place.

The AI's voice whispered through the chamber, soft and amused: *The trial of the self begins now.*

Renn looked at Celestine. Her hand moved to a ring on her finger—a small, silver band she twisted. A section of the floor behind the throne hissed open, revealing a dark shaft.

"One person," she said. "That escape route holds one person."

"Then take it."

"I didn't come here to run." She met his eyes. "I came here to end this."

The doors groaned, metal straining against the locks. Soldiers would break through in seconds.

Renn made his choice.

"Show me the core," he said. "And tell me how to overload it."

Celestine's expression flickered—relief, grief, something unreadable—before she nodded and moved toward the shaft.

But as she turned, the AI whispered again, its voice curling through his mind like smoke:

*She killed her son. She will kill you too.*

*Trust is the first thing the throne takes.*