Gotim's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Gotim feels the pulse through the layers of distance and time. The Black Crown feeds, and its rhythm is wrong. Whoever holds it now uses it like a child uses fire — hungry and careless, burning through power with no thought to control. The hunger grows stronger with each pulse. Gotim has waited longer than the crown has existed, and he can wait longer still. But waiting has its limits. He stands before the throne carved from obsidian, his throne, positioned where the currents of shadow converge. The crown's pulse reaches him here like ripples across dark water. Each throb reveals more — the holder grows drunk on power, letting the crown amplify their chaos instead of directing it. Darkness pooled around the wrong hands spreads like spilled ink. Gotim watches the shadow patterns spread across the floor at his feet. They twist outward without purpose, without design. The crown is teaching its unworthy bearer nothing except appetite. Gotim places one clawed hand on the throne's arm. The obsidian responds to his touch, warming. The throne has stood here since before the current age, waiting for its rightful occupant. He does not sit. Not yet. Sitting means claiming, and claiming means the time for patience has ended. The crown's pulse quickens again, stronger now. Its holder is learning to draw deeper. Soon they will draw too deep and either break or become something worse. He moves away from the throne and walks to where the shadows pool thickest. The crown must be claimed before its bearer learns true mastery or destroys themselves and the crown with them. Either outcome is unacceptable. Gotim extends his hand and the shadows respond, gathering around his fingers like loyal hounds. They know him. They have always known him. The time for observation ends. He will move now, not with haste but with certainty. The crown will answer to its master.