CHAPTER 1 — The Day the Flame Went Out
They lit no bells when the Emperor died.
The Fire Throne stood silent at the heart of Vael'Zareth, its ancient braziers cold for the first time in two centuries. Beneath the marble spires and red-tiled roofs of the Imperial Palace, wind carried the news like ash—quiet, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
In the Hall of Flame, the high ministers stood motionless as the scent of burning herbs faded. No one spoke. None dared move closer to the body.
He sat still upon the throne. That was the horror of it. Slumped slightly, yes, but not toppled, not sprawled. As if he'd merely paused mid-thought. His eyes were open. Unblinking. Staring past the vaulted chamber doors.
Lord Halrix of the Ministry of War was the first to break the silence.
"Fetch the Ember Guard," he growled. "Now."
It was unnecessary. Black-cloaked figures were already arriving, boots muffled by the thick crimson carpets of state. The one at the front—tall, masked, and silent—glanced once at the body, once at the brazier beside the throne. The flame had died with the Emperor. It was tradition. It was omen.
"Seal the chamber," said the masked officer. "No one enters. No one leaves. Not yet."
Halrix bristled. "You presume command of the Hall?"
"I enforce silence," the Ember Guard replied. "Until the council is ready to hear the truth."
"The council must be convened at once. The Empire is without a ruler."
"Not yet," murmured Minister Elsen of the Civil Ministry. He stepped forward, silks rustling. "We cannot move without protocol. The body must be examined. The will read. His words—if any—heard."
"There was no will," said a new voice.
From the side passage, First Prince Vaeron stepped into the Hall of Flame, robed in black. He wore no crown, only the long silver pin of the Imperial Heir—a pin no longer legally valid.
"The Emperor died in sleep. No signature, no seal. No declaration of heir. The succession is unclear."
"Convenient," said Halrix coldly. "Considering how many witnesses saw him dine alone last night. A rare occurrence."
"I mourn as much as you," Vaeron replied, voice even. "But speculation will not fill the throne. We must summon the full council."
"And the brothers," added Minister Elsen, voice low.
"All three," Vaeron agreed.
The ministers looked at one another.
Three princes. One throne. No heir.
---
In the outer wards of the palace, news spread faster than anyone could contain it. Servants whispered, messengers galloped. The common people sensed it before it was confirmed. Markets quieted. Taverns fell still. Merchants clutched coin pouches. The people of Vael'Zareth had known four emperors in the past two hundred years. None had died without declaring a successor.
Atop the Tower of Flame, the great crimson banners were lowered by silent hands.
Below, the capital shifted its weight uneasily, like a beast smelling blood.
---
That night, in the White Chamber—reserved for emergency meetings of the Imperial Council—nineteen chairs were filled.
Eleven civilian ministers. Four military lords. Three observers from the noble houses. And at the head of the room, the high seat of the Emperor sat empty, draped in black.
Only one figure remained standing: Vaeron.
He bowed before he spoke. Not deeply.
"Honored council. The Fire Throne sits cold. My father has passed. You have all seen the chamber, the body, the absence of a will."
Murmurs. None disputed the facts.
"I propose that, as firstborn son of the Emperor, I be named regent until the matter of succession can be formally debated."
"A regency?" barked Halrix. "In wartime?"
"There is no war," Vaeron said smoothly. "Only tension."
"Barbarian raids in the north. Eastern nomads testing borders. Southern trade routes disrupted. That is war enough. The throne must not sit empty."
Elsen raised a hand. "Perhaps… the Second Prince might be summoned. Rhovan commands three border legions. His claim is not weak."
"Nor is Sylas's," said Minister Raeven of the Coin Ministry. "His allies stretch far in the east."
Vaeron's smile thinned.
"And what of the fourth?" asked a quiet voice from the shadows.
All heads turned.
An Ember Guard officer stepped forward from the wall. Masked. Cloaked in black.
"The fourth son," he said, "is not dead."
Silence.
"You speak of the exile?" Halrix said, incredulous.
"Prince Lorien was cast out. The Emperor disavowed him."
"Yet no decree stripped his blood. No blade severed his name."
Vaeron's jaw tensed.
"The bastard has no standing," he said sharply. "He governs nothing but ruins."
"He governs one province," the Ember Guard officer corrected. "And he governs it alone."
Elsen leaned forward. "You speak as if he were… active."
"He has not written. He has not begged return. But he survives. In the Ashen Marches."
The words chilled the chamber.
Few liked to speak of the Ashen Marches. A ruined northern frontier, half-swallowed by barbarian tribes, its roads buried in snow and its keeps left to rot.
Vaeron turned his gaze toward the masked officer.
"If you raise the ghost of a bastard prince, you may force the other three to strike too soon."
The Ember Guard bowed.
"Then let them. Truth forces action."
---
That same night, in the Gallery of Sorrow, Third Prince Sylas walked alone. His long black coat whispered behind him, lined in the deep purple of his mother's house. He stopped before the statue of Emperor Vaelis—the last ruler to fight a civil war over succession.
He touched the cold marble sword at the statue's side.
"A new war," he whispered. "New knives."
Behind him, a woman stood silent in the shadows.
"Your brother moves quickly," she said.
"They all will."
"Even the one in exile?"
Sylas smiled faintly. "Lorien will not beg. He will not kneel. He will wait."
"For what?"
"For us to forget he's still breathing."
---
Outside the palace, snow began to fall. Unseasonal, and unnatural. A cold front sweeping down from the far north, where mountains shattered wind and blizzards masked movement.
Far beyond the city's edge, hundreds of leagues away, a raven circled above a ruined fortress perched atop black cliffs. Below, torchlights flickered along broken battlements.
A figure stood alone in the courtyard.
Tall. Wrapped in thick furs and oiled leathers. A sword strapped to his back. Scars across his hands.
The raven landed.
Lorien took the scroll from its claw. Wax sealed, imperial black.
He read it once.
Then burned it.