The Flames of the Throne

The royal court of Caldera had long been known for its burning throne—a cursed seat of power wreathed in eternal fire. Legend said only the rightful ruler could sit upon it and extinguish the flames. But over the years, that had become a problem. A big problem. Mainly because no one knew who the rightful ruler was.

Which is why the throne room always smelled like smoke and...charred flesh.

"Well, that didn't go as planned," Malik grunted, yanking a scorched piece of fabric from his shoulder and tossing it aside. He winced. "Thought I was the chosen one. Guess not."

"You're lucky your skin isn't peeling off," Aaliya shot back from across the room, arms crossed. "Though I can think of worse fates."

Jamal chuckled from his seat by the window, sipping his joe. "That’s what, the fifth one to try this week? I’m starting to think we should make a betting pool out of this."

Aaliya shook her head. "How can you be so casual about this? People are literally getting roasted alive on that thing."

"Exactly," Jamal said, raising his mug. "At this point, it’s entertainment. Who needs theater when we’ve got front row seats to royal barbeque?"

Malik groaned as he hobbled to a nearby chair, still patting at lingering embers. "One of these days, it’ll be me. Mark my words. I can handle a few burns."

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," Aaliya said. "I’m not even sure why anyone still wants to sit on that throne. It's cursed! Even the lamps around it flicker like they’re spooked."

"Power, Aaliya," Malik replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Power is always worth a little...discomfort."

"Discomfort? You were literally screaming like a banshee two minutes ago."

He winced, clearly remembering. "Okay, maybe more than a little discomfort. But when I finally put that fire out, I’ll be king."

Jamal set his cup down with a clink. "You’ll be a pile of ash first."

Malik shot him a glare. "I don’t see you volunteering."

"Because I’m not an idiot," Jamal said, leaning back with a smug grin. "I like my skin exactly how it is—unsinged."

Aaliya wandered closer to the throne, careful not to get too close to the dancing flames. "So…if no one can sit on it, and the flames never die, what exactly is the plan here? Wait for some mythical chosen one?"

Jamal shrugged. "That’s usually how it works in these stories. Some random orphan, probably raised by wolves, walks in, takes the seat, and boom—instant royalty."

"Well, that’s not us," Malik said, wincing again as he shifted. "I wasn’t raised by wolves. I was raised by very strict, very judgmental parents. Might as well be wolves."

Aaliya smirked. "No wonder you're always trying to prove something."

Before Malik could come up with a retort, the door to the throne room creaked open, revealing the ever-silent, brooding figure of Lorian—the captain of the guard. His eyes, as always, were cold, assessing.

"And here we go," Jamal muttered, rolling his eyes. "Mr. Personality’s back."

Lorian stepped in, his boots echoing across the stone floor. "Has anyone else attempted the throne today?"

Aaliya glanced at Malik. "Yeah. Malik gave it a go."

Lorian’s eyebrow lifted, and a faint smirk crossed his lips. "And he failed, I take it."

"Oh, he failed spectacularly," Jamal chimed in. "There was a lot of screaming. It was pretty entertaining."

Malik glared. "I wasn’t screaming. I was...gritting my teeth in agony."

"Same difference," Aaliya said.

Lorian turned his attention to the throne, the flames reflecting in his sharp gaze. "The council is losing patience. The longer the throne remains unclaimed, the more power slips from our hands."

"Tell that to the charred remains of the last few candidates," Jamal said dryly.

Lorian didn’t seem to find the humor in it. He walked closer to the throne, his hand hovering near the flames, but not touching. "It is said that the true ruler will not burn. They will extinguish the fire with nothing but their presence."

"Well, then," Aaliya said, stepping closer, "it sounds like we’re fresh out of true rulers. What’s plan B?"

"There is no plan B," Lorian said coldly. "The throne must be claimed."

"Yeah, well," Malik muttered, "you try sitting on it, Lorian. Let’s see how that goes."

The captain gave Malik a sideways glance. "My duty is to protect the throne, not die attempting to claim it."

"Convenient," Jamal said with a smirk. "I’d say you’re the smartest one here."

Aaliya, her gaze still on the flames, spoke softly. "What if...what if we’re thinking about this all wrong? Maybe it’s not about who can sit on it, but why they want to."

Malik snorted. "I want to sit on it because I want to be king. Simple enough."

"But that’s the problem," Aaliya said, turning to face them. "Everyone who’s tried wants power. Maybe the throne doesn’t respond to greed. Maybe it’s looking for something else."

"Like what?" Jamal asked. "A moral compass? Compassion? This is the throne we’re talking about. Power’s the whole point."

"Is it?" she replied. "What if the true ruler is someone who doesn’t want the throne for themselves at all?"

Malik stared at her like she’d grown a second head. "Who wouldn’t want the throne?"

Aaliya met his gaze evenly. "Someone who understands that ruling isn’t about power. It’s about serving."

The room fell silent, except for the crackling of the eternal flames. Even Lorian seemed thoughtful, though he would never admit it.

"That’s a nice sentiment," Jamal said after a moment, "but it doesn’t exactly help us now, does it?"

"Maybe it does," Aaliya said, stepping even closer to the throne, her eyes locked on the fire. "Maybe...maybe I should try."

Malik shot to his feet, nearly tripping over his own burnt clothing. "Are you out of your mind? That thing will roast you alive!"

"Or it won’t," she said quietly. "What if I’m right?"

Jamal raised an eyebrow. "You think you’re the chosen one?"

She shook her head. "No. But I think I care more about saving this kingdom than claiming power over it."

Lorian, watching her with his calculating gaze, gave a slight nod. "Then try."

"Wait, wait, wait," Malik stammered. "You can’t just—"

But Aaliya ignored him, stepping forward until she was right in front of the flaming throne. The heat was intense, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and touched the arm of the throne.

The flames...flickered.

Jamal leaned forward, his eyes wide. "Did you see that?"

Aaliya took a deep breath and sat down. The fire flared, wrapping around her—but it didn’t burn.

It started to die.

And for the first time in a century, the flames of the throne began to extinguish.

Malik’s jaw dropped. "You...you did it?"

Aaliya looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief. "I think...I think I did."

The room fell silent again as the last of the flames disappeared, leaving only a faint wisp of smoke.

Jamal blinked. "Well, I’ll be damned."

Malik gaped. "So...you’re queen now?"

Lorian stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "It appears so."

Aaliya stood from the now-cool throne, still in shock. "But I didn’t—"

Jamal grinned. "Looks like not wanting power is exactly what makes you the right ruler. Who would’ve thought?"

Malik, still stunned, muttered under his breath. "I can’t believe I got burned for nothing."

Jamal clapped him on the back. "Hey, at least you tried. You gave us all a good show."

As Aaliya looked at the throne, still trying to process what had just happened, Lorian bowed his head slightly. "Your Majesty."

She looked at him, startled. "I’m not ready for this."

Jamal laughed. "No one ever is."

Aaliya sighed. "This isn’t the end of it, is it?"

Malik groaned. "Not even close."

And so, the flames of the throne were extinguished—but the real battle was just beginning.

The End