Power never knocks. It walks through gilded doors, uninvited, and sits at the table as if it belongs there.
The halls of House Velron did not smell like blood or smoke.
They smelled of perfume, polished wood, and generations of secrets. The walls were lined with portraits of narrow-eyed men and coldly beautiful women, all painted with that same expression — as if the world were a board game and they alone knew the rules.
Ash walked through them, his coat still stained with ash from Lowend, boots echoing on marble too clean for any honest city.
He did not bow.
He did not speak.
He simply walked as if he had every right to be there.
And that, more than anything, unsettled them.
They had prepared a grand room for the meeting.
Painted glass bathed the chamber in soft gold. A long table stood between them and Ash, flanked by noble advisors, minor lords, and two silent knights in black armor. Velvet banners hung above, stitched with the sigil of House Velron: a serpent coiled around a burning tree.
Lord Valric Velron sat at the head, his fingers adorned with rings, his smile sharp but practiced.
"You've caused quite a stir, Master Ash," he said, voice smooth as honeyed poison. "Lowend chants your name like a hymn. The slums are no longer afraid. That… disturbs the balance."
Ash said nothing.
He took a seat uninvited.
A subtle murmur rippled through the room.
Valric's smile never wavered.
"We are not enemies, you and I," he continued. "Your power… intrigues us. But power alone does not forge legacy. It must be guided. Cultivated. Owned."
Ash's eyes, calm and cold, met his.
"And you think you're the one to do it?"
"No," Valric replied, lifting a crystal glass. "But we all know what happens when men like you act without counsel. The old blood remembers. And some of us still bleed."
From a shadowed alcove, a woman watched the conversation unfold.
She was older than she looked, with silver-threaded black hair and a raven-shaped pin on her cloak. Her name was Lady Seris Malgrave, once rumored to be part of the King's secret arcane council — before the crown fell and silence took its place.
She studied Ash with eyes like knives.
He's not a peasant, she thought. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. As if he's lived among kings and killed them too.
When Ash turned slightly, his gaze brushing hers without moving his head, she felt a cold ripple in her bones.
Something old was watching through him.
Back in the catacombs, Kael paced like a caged wolf.
"Why go alone?" he muttered. "They could have poisoned the wine. Slit his throat in a velvet chair and buried him beneath the manor without a whisper."
Silna leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"He went because he knew they wouldn't dare. Not yet."
Kael scoffed. "You sound certain."
"I am. They're not trying to kill him."
"Then what?"
"They're trying to understand him. Because they fear what they don't control."
The meeting dragged on.
Polite threats dressed in flattery.
Offers of coin, titles, false allegiance.
But Ash remained still.
Watching. Listening.
Until Valric leaned forward, folding his hands.
"Tell me, Ash… what is it you want?"
Ash looked at him for a long time.
Then spoke, his voice a quiet thunder.
"I want a world where no one bows to names carved in gold. Where the slums don't burn to warm your wine."
He stood.
"I want your order broken."
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Valric smiled — a little tighter now.
"You think yourself a king?"
Ash shook his head.
"No. I remember what kings become."
He walked out without waiting to be dismissed.
The knights did not move.
The nobles did not breathe.
And behind her curtain, Lady Seris Malgrave whispered:
"He's not rebelling."
"He's returning."
Outside the gates, Ash stood in the dusk. The sky above Ravenmark burned gold and crimson.
A storm was coming.
Not one made of wind or rain.
But of people.
Of belief.
And fire.
He could feel it.
Just beneath his skin.
As if the world itself was waiting for the moment to exhale.
He reached into his coat, pulling out the scroll Valric had offered as a token — a document that promised land, coin, and title.
He held it over the brazier beside the gate.
Watched it burn.
Watched it refuse to burn.
The paper screamed.
Flame twisted into a serpent of smoke, hissing a wordless warning before vanishing into the air.
Ash stared after it, eyes narrowed.
"So it begins," he said.