The news of Caelhold's downfall spread like wildfire—not through imperial dispatches, but through songs, rumors, and whispers.
Bards sang of a ghost emperor clad in shadows, of an imperial bastard who bore the Phoenix Sigil.
In taverns across the realm, people began to whisper the name:
> "Saelar Velgaeron."
At the war camp hidden within the Forest of Iridhal, Saelar met with his generals and allies once more. Myrcella had arrived with Avareth archers—over five thousand disciplined elven warriors, silent and deadly.
> "The Kingdom of Avareth honors the marriage contract," she declared proudly. "We now have an army in the northeast."
Alicent slinked into the tent with her usual smirk.
> "And the Empress is panicking. Spies report three noble houses are holding emergency councils."
Bramir looked at the map and gave a grim nod.
> "House Vrael was the Empress's sword. We just broke it. But now… she will rally her wolves."
> "Good," Saelar replied. "Let her. It's time we test the strength of our flame."
He looked to the horizon.
> "We lit the first fire. Now we set the fields ablaze."