The king’s spirit flickered, its spectral form now locked in a semblance of shape—a gaunt figure, draped in tattered royal garb. A crown made of shadows perched atop its skull, a mockery of the gleaming one that had once adorned the king's head. Kaelith’s heart thudded in time with the pulse beneath the stone floor, but their hand did not waver, keeping the ritual’s grip firm.

"You think I can be bought with promises of truth, necromancer?" The dead king’s voice hissed, no longer tinged with the confusion of his untimely death, but with a dark understanding. "My truth is as poisonous as the hands that killed me."

Kaelith's eyes flicked toward the door where the regent had retreated, the coward who would not witness what his desperation had brought into the world. The necromancer inhaled deeply, drawing on the power that surged beneath their fingertips. The spirits did not bargain lightly; every summoning, every revelation, came at a cost. And the dead king had already sensed the question hidden behind the necromancer’s demands.

The king’s ghost leaned closer, its form growing more corporeal, more present in the dim light of the flickering candles. Its voice dropped to a whisper, almost conspiratorial. "There is a power in your eyes, necromancer. A hunger. I see it in you, even beyond the price I will ask. A hunger for more than just a murderer’s name. But be warned—what you seek will take more than you are willing to offer."

The necromancer did not flinch, their pulse steady, even as the room around them seemed to shift. The shadows in the corners of the throne room stretched like living things, their tendrils creeping toward Kaelith as if to pull them into the depths of the dead king’s realm.

“I seek justice. Your killer’s name,” Kaelith repeated, every word deliberate. They would not show weakness now, not when they were so close to the answer.

The king’s laughter was a cold wind, a sound that rattled the very foundations of the palace. “Justice? Justice died the moment that blade was drawn across my throat, necromancer. It was not my death that broke this kingdom. It was the rot that lay beneath it all, the rot you seek to uncover.”

Kaelith's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of doubt creeping in. What had the king seen in their heart? What had he truly meant by the rot beneath the kingdom?

“I will not play your games,” Kaelith said, their voice growing sharper. “Give me the name.”

The king’s figure twisted, its form warping into something even more horrific. The edges of its body became blurry, like a mirage, but the eyes—those cold, dead eyes—were sharper than ever. "You want names, necromancer? I'll give you names, but not just one. I'll give you the name of the murderer and the name of the true usurper. The one who would claim the throne even if my blood had never spilled. You want power, Kaelith? Then you must pay the price."

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The room seemed to grow darker, colder, as if the very air was suffocating beneath the weight of the king's words. The candles guttered, and the flames struggled to stay alive in the suffocating chill. Kaelith gritted their teeth, knowing this was the moment of decision.

“Name them,” they demanded, knowing what would come next.

The king’s mouth curled into a grin, sharp and cruel. "Your killer is not who you think. But you already know that, don’t you? You feel it, in the marrow of your bones. The rot spreads deeper than you realize. It always has."

The dead king’s voice grew louder, his form expanding beyond the circle, reaching toward Kaelith, twisting in dark fury. “The one who murdered me is the one who hides in the shadows, the one who bears the title of ‘regent,’ the one who holds your heart in a vice, necromancer. But it was never him who truly sought my throne. No. There is another—the one you dare not speak of. The one who stands behind the regent, pulling strings like a marionette.”

Kaelith’s breath caught in their throat. The regent, yes, but... who stood behind him? What other secrets did the king’s spirit carry in death? Could it be that the king had known more than they had anticipated, more than they could have ever guessed?

"Who?" Kaelith whispered, their voice cracking slightly, the weight of the spirit’s power pressing down on them.

The king’s ghost flickered once more, its form shifting into something grotesque, a shadow of its former self. "You know who, necromancer. And when you learn the full truth, when you uncover the hidden hand behind the throne... know this: you will never walk away unscathed."

The room seemed to collapse inward, the air thick with malevolent power. The vision of thrones—endless rows of dead kings—returned, and this time, the thrones were not empty. They were occupied by faceless figures, their hands extended, beckoning.

Kaelith’s vision blurred, the weight of the ritual pressing in on them like a physical force. They could barely hold the circle, could feel the spirit slipping away, but they fought to maintain their grip. "The name," Kaelith demanded again, trembling as their power began to wane.

With a final, guttural laugh, the king’s spirit dissolved into the shadows, leaving only a faint whisper.

“Cecil.”

And then... silence.

Kaelith collapsed to their knees, breathless and cold, the weight of the spirit’s words crashing over them like a tidal wave. The candlelight flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

Cecil.

The name echoed in their mind. The regent's puppet master, the true architect of the kingdom's decay. Kaelith knew, with sickening clarity, that uncovering the truth would come at a price far higher than they had ever imagined.

But they would pay it.

For the kingdom's sake. For their own sake.

And for the souls that had already been lost.