CHAPTER 3: Thrones and The Flame
Velvrahn, Capital of the Empire – The Imperial Court of High Crown Orsain Vellgaard
The Throne Hall was colder than usual. The scent of incense could not mask the staleness in the air. High Crown Orsain Vellgaard sat beneath a vault of golden lions, draped in robes too heavy for spring. He hadn't spoken in half an hour.
The silence tightened with every minute.
At last, Chancellor Elharn broke the tension. "Another supply convoy taken. Grain, coin, three officers—slain. The rebel left the bodies displayed like theatre props. He wants to be seen."
"The Ashmark dog," muttered Duke Averne. "He's just another northern thorn. We'll burn his hole and salt the ashes like the last dozen."
"That dozen didn't leave banners behind," Elharn replied evenly. "This one does."
From the side of the throne, the Bishop of the Flame stepped forward—tall, robed in crimson, his staff inlaid with bone.
"You speak of Kael," he said. "He who defiles the name of Sovereign."
Orsain stirred for the first time. His voice was softer than expected. "He calls himself that?"
"No," said Elharn. "Others do. His own call him Reclaimer. Some in the lowlands whisper Ashborn Sovereign. But none dare name him king—not yet."
The Bishop's face darkened. "He is heresy. He is defiance incarnate. And the Flame does not tolerate heresy."
"Elaborate," Orsain said, folding his fingers.
"He plants false hope in the hearts of the wretched," the Bishop said. "He wields symbols stolen from sacred bloodlines. He lets women fight. He speaks of justice, not order. These are not just crimes of war. These are crimes against divinity."
Orsain tapped the lion ring on his finger.
"And yet you have not smoked him out."
The Bishop's nostrils flared. "Faith burns slow, but complete. Our Purifiers march north as we speak."
"And the commoners?" Elharn asked quietly. "When he feeds them? When he spares their sons? When his knife kills only nobles?"
That earned several hard stares.
Orsain stood, his voice hollow and precise.
"Then perhaps the nobles must bleed louder."
The hall fell silent again.
The Bishop knelt, staff in hand. "Give me leave, Your Majesty. The Church will offer its strongest fire."
Orsain looked out the stained glass window—toward the darkening sky.
"Do what you must," he murmured. "But end this... before summer reaches the gates."
Elsewhere...
Temple Fortress of Kestren – Inner Sanctum of the Flame
High Priestess Marrenya opened the scroll and narrowed her eyes. A burned banner. A name repeated in blood and smoke. The boy from Ashmark had become something else.
She touched the altar and whispered, "Seyda… are you watching?"
Far in the torch-lit north, a woman with white-blonde hair and flame-touched eyes turned her gaze to the wind.
And smiled.