FROST
Chapter 103: Broken King

Chapter 103: Broken King

As if summoned by his words, the ground beneath them cracked. A tremor shook the land. And from the fissures rose tall stone figures—hooded, eyeless, cloaked in chains and whispering in a language older than time. Guardians of the Threshold.

Each held a weapon—one a spear of silver flame, another a hammer of ice, the last a whip of light.

"They really hate visitors, huh?" Seravine backed into Caspian. "Tell me you’ve got a spell for this."

"I have something better." Caspian reached into his coat—

Then remembered.

Seravine was still wearing it.

"Never mind," he muttered, sighing. "Plan B."

"What’s plan B?!"

Caspian cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. "Survive."

The guardians lunged.

Caspian grabbed Seravine, spun her behind him, and unleashed a raw blast of violet energy from his palm. It surged forward, meeting the silver spear mid-air and bursting into a thunderous collision. Ice shards flew, the whip of light cracked past his face—he ducked just in time.

"Now would be amazing time for royal mana!" Seravine shouted, hiding behind a jagged rock.

"I told you," he grunted, grappling with the hammer guardian. "Using too much could rupture the realm!"

"So go medium! Medium power!"

Caspian bared his teeth. "That’s... not how mana works!"

One of the gem shards suddenly circled back, spiraling into the heart of a guardian. There was a pulse of red light—and the guardian froze, as if stunned by recognition.

Then another shard shot toward Seravine.

She shrieked, swatted at it like a bee. "Hey! No! Not in the hair—!"

But it sank into her chest.

Her eyes widened. Then narrowed.

"...I feel... amazing."

"What?!" Caspian shouted mid-punch.

Seravine stood up, eyes glowing faintly red. She raised a hand and blasted a guardian backwards with a crackling bolt of scarlet magic. "Holy crap. I have powers?!"

Caspian blinked, stunned. "That shard... it chose you."

"Ohhhh I am going to abuse this," she grinned wildly. "I’m gonna throw lightning at everyone."

The battle turned swiftly. With Seravine flinging scarlet blasts and Caspian channeling his mana in careful, focused bursts, they brought down the remaining guardians one by one. When the dust cleared, the Threshold was silent again—but now, the path to the distant black castle had opened, stones rising from the void like a bridge.

They stood at the edge of it, wind curling around them.

Caspian looked at her. "You okay?"

Seravine smirked, eyes still glowing faintly. "I’m half a demon, wearing a prince’s coat, and I just unlocked magical puberty. I’m great."

Together, they stepped onto the bridge.

The castle loomed closer with each heartbeat.

And within it—awaited Yami. Or what remained of him.

The castle doors towered above them like the teeth of some ancient beast—weathered, cracked, yet pulsing faintly with eldritch life. Glyphs shimmered across the obsidian, disappearing when looked at directly, as if the walls themselves were shy.

Seravine tilted her head. "Why do I feel like we’re knocking on the front door of a demon’s diary?"

Caspian didn’t answer.

He was staring.

Not just at the castle—but beyond it.

At the shifting sky, the crimson lightning that now spiraled in deliberate, almost intelligent patterns. At the way the air grew thicker, not with heat, but with expectation.

"Something’s waiting," he said. "And it knows we’re here."

"Great. I left my social anxiety at the portal, so this should be fun."

With a deep breath, Caspian pushed open the doors. They groaned in resistance before flinging wide with a thunderous crack.

Inside... was not a castle.

It was a memory.

They stepped into a vast hall of starlight and red velvet, where mirrors floated in mid-air, turning slowly, reflecting things that weren’t real—or perhaps things that were, but no longer existed. Statues of faceless figures lined the walls, all draped in moth-bitten cloaks. A harp played itself in the corner, its strings made of spider silk, humming a tune of grief.

"Okay," Seravine whispered. "This is officially the fanciest haunted house I’ve ever broken into."

As they walked, the mirrors began whispering. Caspian... Caspian... lost king... fallen prince... betrayer... beloved...

Caspian kept his eyes forward, jaw tight.

"Do they always do that?" Seravine asked.

"Yes."

"Oh. That’s not unsettling at all."

Suddenly, one of the mirrors turned to reflect her. Only her. And in it, Seravine saw herself—not as she was, but older. Stronger. Clad in a longcoat with a crimson crown, her eyes glowing like twin suns. Behind her stood an army. And beside her... Caspian. Or maybe not. His form flickered, shadowed, half real, half memory.

She stepped back. "What the hell was that?"

"The castle shows possibilities," Caspian said, barely glancing. "What may come. Or what may never be."

Seravine swallowed. "So I’m... what? Evil queen vibes in my forties?"

"Potential queen," Caspian corrected, calm. "Emphasis on potential."

"Not sure whether to be flattered or terrified."

They came at last to a door of solid glass. Beyond it: a throne room suspended in a void. No walls. No floor. Just a seat of bones floating in a cradle of light.

And in it sat a figure.

Yami.

Or what remained of him.

His hair, once dark as night, had turned white at the tips, like frost. His skin glowed faintly blue, veined with runes that pulsed with every breath. One eye was gone, replaced by a gem that bled light. He wore no crown—but power coiled around him like a cape.

When he spoke, his voice echoed not in the room, but in their minds.

"So. The boy returns."

Caspian stepped forward. "I came to bring back what’s mine."

Yami tilted his head, smiling faintly. "You always were bold. That’s what I liked about you." His gaze shifted to Seravine. "And who is this? A souvenir from your exile?"

Seravine raised a hand. "Hi. Half-demon. Full sass. Limited patience."

Yami chuckled. "She’s spirited. I see why you’re hesitant."

"Hesitant?" she asked.

"He still hasn’t told you the price," Yami said, rising slowly from the throne. The glass floor beneath his feet cracked like ice with each step. "You want your magic back, Caspian? Your legacy? Then pay the cost."

Caspian’s hands clenched. "I’m not giving you her."

"Oh, no," Yami said sweetly. "Not her. You."

With a snap of his fingers, the mirrors behind them shattered. And the memories came rushing out.

Battles Caspian had fought. Betrayals. Mistakes. The moment he was crowned. The moment he abandoned it.

And behind them all—a promise he made to someone long gone.

Yami opened his arms. "Return to the throne. Bind your soul to the kingdom again. And everything will be as it was."

Seravine stepped between them. "That sounds suspiciously like a trap."

"Oh, it is," Yami grinned. "But that’s royalty, dear. Always was."

The chamber pulsed.

Time to choose.

Either Caspian reclaims his power—and binds himself forever to a fate he once fled.

Or they turn back, together, and face the uncertain world without it.

Caspian looked at Seravine. At the scarred, stubborn, ridiculous woman who’d pulled his hair, stolen his coat, and nearly got shot for him five times today.

Then he looked at Yami.

And smiled.

"I’m not that boy anymore."

Then he punched Yami square in the jaw.

All hell broke loose.

Yami staggered backward, his white-tipped hair flaring like a crown of fire as he collided with the throne. Runes erupted from his skin like shattering glass, briefly destabilizing the throne room’s illusion. The void flickered. The floating bones trembled.

Seravine blinked. "Wait. Did you just punch a demi-god?"

Caspian flexed his hand. "Yeah. Been waiting years for that."

"You punched him in the jaw!"

"He talks too much."

The cracked throne behind Yami dissolved into mist, revealing jagged obsidian beneath. The illusion was gone. Now it was just them—in an ancient ruin suspended in a dying rift, reality unraveling at the edges like threads pulled from a cursed tapestry.

Yami’s expression slowly twisted from amused to... delighted. "You truly are broken, aren’t you? How charming."

He raised his hand—and the void itself screamed.

Dozens of spectral arms shot from the nothingness below, grabbing at Caspian and Seravine like desperate hands reaching from graves. Caspian leapt backward, summoning a pulse of violet energy that pushed the arms back just in time.

Seravine yelped and swung wildly with a cursed dagger she "borrowed" from a demon’s jewelry box three weeks ago. "I knew keeping this thing was a good idea!"

The arms hissed and retracted at the blade’s presence.

"Remind me to never ask where you got that," Caspian muttered.

"Oh, you’re gonna love the story. It involves wine, a unicorn, and very little dignity."

Yami, bored now, clapped his hands. The floor beneath them split, casting both Caspian and Seravine onto a descending platform that spiraled down like a broken helix into the depths of the castle’s real heart: a black core of magic, pulsing with memory and mourning.

"You’ll understand soon," Yami’s voice echoed. "This place doesn’t forget who it belongs to."

Caspian, bleeding from the temple now, turned to Seravine. "This place is a memory vault. It’s going to throw everything at us."

"What kind of everything?"

"Nightmares. Regrets. Former lovers, probably."

"Wait—how many lovers are we talking—"

The corridor they landed in suddenly twisted—and out of the mist stepped a younger version of Caspian, blood-soaked and wearing the old crown. His eyes glowed like he’d swallowed a star.

He looked at Caspian. Then at Seravine.

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