Chapter 38: The Sword and the Throne
The chamber of the patriarchal seat was a relic of old power. Giant columns of silver-veined obsidian rose like titans, bearing a ceiling etched with the names of every Luther Patriarch since the clan's founding. At the end of the long hall stood the Throne of Judgment, carved from the rib bone of a slain dragon—a symbol of conquest, authority, and burden.
Jean walked its length, her steps echoing like thunder.
The clan watched from both sides of the aisle. Envoy Knights, masters and elders, all present for the next step of the succession. Every head turned as Jean passed. Some with awe. Some with envy. Some with fear.
Whitney trailed behind her silently.
At the top of the dais, Charles Luther sat like a mountain unmoved by time. He studied her with a hunter's gaze.
"You've won the Bloodfire Trial," he said.
Jean met his eyes. "I have."
"Three of my finest descendants challenged you," he continued, voice sharp. "You defeated them without killing. That shows strength—and restraint."
He rose, his aura pressing down like a crashing wave. Even the Elders flinched.
"But victory alone doesn't earn the throne."
Jean didn't blink. "Then what does?"
Charles stepped down.
He pulled a blade from behind the throne—a curved, ancient sword wrapped in dragon hide. The Thornfang, once wielded by Martin Luther himself.
"To claim the Patriarch's Path, you must take this sword from me. Not in trial. In battle."
A hush fell.
This was no ritual.
This was real.
Jean's hand fell to Solstice.
"If I lose?" she asked.
"You will live. But never rule."
Jean nodded once. "Then I will not lose."
---
The duel began.
Charles moved first, impossibly fast for a man of his age. Thornfang blurred in his hands, its edge howling as it cleaved the air. Jean met him blow for blow, but each strike rattled her arms, shook her bones.
He wasn't a Transcendent Master by title only.
He was a storm in human form.
Jean's aura burned brighter—Celeste's divine light wrapped her like a second skin. Her sword danced, matching Charles in tempo and technique.
But he was still stronger.
He feinted left and struck her ribs. She staggered.
A sweep took her to the ground. Solstice skidded away.
Charles stood over her, blade raised.
"Is this your limit?"
Jean's fingers dug into the stone floor. Blood seeped from her lip.
"No," she whispered.
She breathed.
From the ground, her aura surged—not in waves, but in pillars.
The arena dimmed.
Light roared around her.
Jean stood.
Solstice flew back to her hand, pulled by the will of its chosen bearer.
Then, for the first time, Jean channeled a technique not taught in the Luther manuals—
A technique granted by Celeste herself.
"Radiant Vow."
Her blade moved like light incarnate.
Charles parried—once, twice.
On the third strike, Thornfang cracked.
He stepped back, eyes wide—not in pain, but awe.
Jean stopped, breathing heavily. Her blade hovered inches from his throat.
Charles looked at the shattered Thornfang, then at her.
And laughed.
"Martin would've loved you."
He dropped what remained of his blade.
"All hail Jean Luther," he declared. "Heir of the Patriarch."
---
Outside, bells tolled.
The clans of the world would soon learn—
The Emissary of Light had claimed her place.
But war was coming.
And thrones did not stay unchallenged for long.
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