(KOTG) Ch 17: Resting Place Of The First King!

Thron stayed quiet as Kyvareth carried him across the long stone bridge and into the towering structure ahead. The First Tower loomed larger the closer they got—less like a building and more like a mountain sculpted into halls and archways. Enormous carved doors stood open at the entrance, high enough for even the tallest of the priestesses to pass without ducking. As they crossed the threshold, a warm light washed over them, golden and soft, spilling from sconces mounted high along the walls.

Inside, the air changed. It was warmer than outside but not stifling. There was a faint floral scent, like dried herbs and some kind of sweet incense. The floor beneath Kyvareth's steps was smooth stone, patterned with wide circular designs that spiraled outward like ripples in a lake. Every now and then, Thron caught glimpses of massive murals painted across the upper walls—depictions of hooded women standing around a tall figure in a crown, their hands lifted in reverence.

The tower was... beautiful. Massive, yes, but it felt alive in some strange way. Every surface seemed to hum with energy—not magic exactly, but something older. Something quieter.

As they moved deeper into the tower, more of the robed women began to appear. Dozens of them, all wearing the same flowing white robes, the same hoods draped low over their faces. Some were walking in pairs down the wide corridors, others knelt in corners, praying silently. A few stood in clusters near the inner balconies, talking in hushed voices.

When they saw Thron, the whispers shifted.

"...is that him?"

"...the king..."

"...he's so cute..."

He didn't catch every word, but he caught enough.

Several of the priestesses glanced over at him, then leaned in close to their sisters and giggled. Others just smiled, some behind their veils, others without any attempt to hide it.

Thron blushed again. Hard. The heat bloomed across his cheeks and into his ears. He looked down, avoiding their eyes—even if he couldn't help but notice the sheer amount of them watching. Giantess or not, being the center of attention was never his thing. Not in school. Not in his hometown. Not ever.

Kyvareth said nothing. She moved with the same steady pace, calm and proud as always. But Naeloria, who held Thron in her grasp, noticed the look on his face.

"Apologies," she said with a faint smile, her voice soft and amused. "You're the first man to ever step inside this place."

Thron looked up at her, eyebrows raised. "Wait, really?"

Naeloria nodded. "The temple has been sealed to all men since the death of the First King. Only the high priestesses and chosen guardians may enter. You being here... it's a little unusual, to say the least."

"Right," Thron muttered. "Unusual seems to be my whole thing lately."

They passed under a wide archway into a larger chamber—circular, with light pouring in from a dome above. The ceiling soared so high it almost disappeared into shadow. Tall columns lined the edges of the room, each etched with winding text and symbols. At the center stood a raised platform, shaped like a flat stone bed, surrounded by thick white candles—most of them already lit.

Thron frowned slightly. "So... why me? Why am I the only guy allowed in here?"

Naeloria stepped forward, her voice lowering slightly, more serious now. "Because this is where the First King was laid to rest."

Thron blinked. "You mean... buried?"

"Yes. His body rests beneath this chamber," she said, gesturing to the stone platform. "But his presence never left. It is here we come when we seek his guidance. And it is here that his voice speaks."

Thron squinted. "Wait... hold on. You're saying you still talk to him?"

Naeloria looked down at him, her blue eyes shining in the candlelight. "His spirit lives within the walls of the temple. His voice lingers in the stones, the wind, the fire. We hear him when we pray."

Thron looked around slowly—at the murals, the flickering flames, the smooth stone beneath Kyvareth's boots.

"And you can actually hear him?" he asked, still skeptical. "Like, full conversations?"

Naeloria gave a soft laugh. "Not always so clear. Sometimes it's whispers. Other times it's dreams. But when we listen closely... yes. We hear him."

Thron scratched the back of his neck, uncertain. "Right. Sure. Talking ghost king in the walls. Totally normal."

Naeloria smiled gently. "I know it sounds strange."

"That's putting it lightly," Thron muttered.

But something about the way she said it... she didn't sound like someone trying to trick him. Her voice was calm, sincere. She believed it, at least.

Naeloria lowered her hand carefully, setting Thron down on a stone pedestal at the side of the room. The moment his boots touched the ground, he felt something odd—like a pulse through the floor, just faint enough to question if it was even real. He shifted his feet, feeling it again. A heartbeat?

Or maybe just his nerves.

The priestesses began to gather around the chamber now, forming a loose circle at the edges, their white robes fluttering gently as they moved. A few continued to whisper to one another, but most were silent now, heads bowed.

Naeloria stepped forward toward the stone platform. "We come not just to honor the past," she said softly, "but to listen to it. To remember what was lost... and what still lingers."

Thron watched her, still unsure what to make of all this. Ghost kings. Temples of whispering stone. Priestesses who treated him like royalty.

And yet, for some reason, his heart didn't feel afraid.

Thron stood still on the stone pedestal, his boots planted squarely on the carved surface. He glanced down at the swirls etched beneath his feet—thin, looping lines like vines or rivers curling toward the center of the room. The temple was quiet now, almost unnaturally so. The whispers had died off. The only sound was the gentle flicker of candles, their soft pops and crackles echoing high up into the domed ceiling.

And yet, something stirred inside him.

It was subtle at first—like a hum in his chest, barely noticeable. But it didn't fade. In fact, it deepened. A weightless pull beneath his ribs. A pressure behind his eyes. Not pain, not fear... something stranger. Something older.

The feeling spread—slow and steady—like warm water rising around his limbs. Thron felt it in his fingertips, in the soles of his feet, even in the tips of his ears. Like the very walls of the temple were... vibrating. Not with noise, but with presence. He couldn't see it. He couldn't name it. But the deeper he breathed in the air of this place, the more it felt like his very soul was resonating with it.

As if the temple had been waiting for him.

Or worse—expecting him.

He swallowed, eyes lifting to meet Naeloria's. She stood before the platform now, her hood drawn back, her golden hair catching the candlelight like threads of fire. She looked regal, yes—but there was a softness to her expression now. A kind of humility. Reverence, even.

She slowly bowed her head. Her voice, when it came, was steady and clear, echoing gently in the high chamber.

"We welcome the new king," Naeloria said. "May he carry the weight of his line with dignity. May he listen when others turn away. May he lead not with might, but with purpose. And may he fulfill the obligations passed to him by the first king, whose spirit watches even now."

She raised her gaze to him again, her blue eyes piercing but kind.

All around him, the other priestesses mirrored her bow, their white robes flowing like a quiet tide. Dozens of women, kneeling, honoring him—the one thing he'd never imagined himself becoming.

Thron blinked, stunned... but not paralyzed. The fear he'd expected to feel never came. Instead, he felt something strange rise in his chest—confidence, maybe, or resolve. Maybe just acceptance of a fate he didn't understand yet.

He looked out at the sea of veiled faces. So many eyes. So many expectations.

He could hear his heart now, loud in his ears.

But even still, he smiled.

It wasn't forced.

"I'll do my best," Thron said.

The words came out simple, quiet, and a little rough. But they felt real.

Some of the priestesses lifted their heads. A few even smiled behind their hoods. One let out a soft, pleased laugh.

Naeloria stepped closer and gave a small, approving nod. "Then may your path be guided, Thron. You'll need more than strength. More than wit. But I believe... you might just be enough."

She paused, then added gently, "Good luck."

Thron exhaled slowly, the warmth in his chest steady now. Behind him, he could still feel the hum in the walls. Like someone—something—was still listening. Watching.

And somehow, he wasn't afraid.