The Bone Throne was not built for a king. It was built for the last soul who dared to enter the cathedral after midnight. The place had been forgotten, buried beneath a forest where even birds refused to sing. People said the throne was made from the bones of those who once ruled the land, and every skull carried a memory of its final breath. One night, a traveler crossed the cathedral doors. Hundreds of candles were burning, although no living hand had lit them. At the center sat a figure wrapped in black, perfectly still, waiting. The traveler stepped closer and heard whispers coming from the walls. They were not voices of the dead. They were his own. He finally understood the throne's purpose. It did not choose rulers. It revealed what remained of a person after power, fear, and pride were stripped away. By sunrise, the cathedral was silent again, but one new skull had appeared upon the throne.