A crown of black iron rolls from the empty heartlands and stops at Cole’s feet without touching the ground. No name marks its severe band.
Every surviving road-mark bends toward the hovering crown. The finely robed herald recognizes its ceremonial shape, once used to command Vaelor’s subjects, and his composure tightens.
The finely robed herald reaches for it, but the iron crown rises a finger’s breadth. Seven pale spirits gather around its rim, their light trembling like candleflames in wind.
The Freed Spirits
Who has the right to rule what remains?
The question comes through the crown in the freed dead’s voices, without command or accusation. The herald slowly withdraws his hand, leaving the iron untouched before Cole.
The Finely Robed Herald
That seal answered to a vanished dominion. I have no authority to claim it now.
The crown hangs between Cole and the silent road, its dark metal reflecting seven pale faces. Nothing kneels, and nothing obeys; the question remains open beneath the gray sky.
✓ Quest Accepted
Render the black iron crown harmless