The Empty Throne

At last, the path climbed beyond earth and air.

Mountains split to let me pass,

clouds opened their silver gates,

and I entered the hall where gods should dwell.

A throne of stone,

veined with fire,

rose in the chamber’s heart.

Its crown arched like antlers,

its seat carved with the bones of stars.

I dropped my bow.

I knelt, breath ragged,

waiting for the figure who had fled me

through flame,

through silence,

through storm.

But the throne was empty.

Its silence rang louder

than any voice,

its absence brighter

than any flame.

The walls trembled with echoes,

yet none bore a name.

The crown held no face.

The seat cradled no weight.

Only dust rose,

glittering as it fell—

a thousand sparks,

a thousand beginnings

that did not answer me.

I reached out,

and my hand passed through air

older than creation.

And I knew:

what I hunted

was not waiting here.