The Council of Twelve convened beneath the towering spires of the Sanctum Arcanum, the heart of knowledge and governance in Rithaleon. Marble columns entwined with silver vines reached toward the vaulted dome, where stained glass bathed the chamber in beams of blue and gold. Twelve thrones curved in a circle, each occupied by a representative of the Great Houses. At the head stood a thirteenth seat—for the High King.
Zyren sat beside his father, straight-backed and tense. His hands clenched in his lap, anchoring him against the restless energy building within. The moonstone pendant beneath his tunic pulsed softly, in rhythm with his breath—or was it something deeper?
Lord Henrick's voice broke through the murmurs, low and gravel-edged. "Calder's Hollow is gone. Burned to the ground. We have survivors—scattered, shaken—speaking of robed figures and evidence of magical corruption." He placed a scorched parchment on the stone table. "And this was left behind."
A charcoal rubbing was passed down the line: a jagged sun, inked in crimson.
Zyren stared at it. Cold bloomed in his chest.
That symbol.
He had seen it in the vision—burning behind his eyelids, a sun bleeding fire. A sigil of something ancient and wrong.
Chancellor Veylin scoffed. "The villagers are always chasing shadows. Likely a pyromancer, drunk on moonleaf."
Zyren's voice cut across him. "That's not a coincidence."
The room quieted.
"I saw that mark in my dream—before the fires, before Calder's Hollow fell. It's a warning."
Veylin arched a brow. "Dreams are not strategy, Your Highness. We deal in facts, not fables."
Zyren met his gaze unflinching. "You may call it a dream. But I'm telling you—this is the work of the Order of the Black Sun. Calder's Hollow is only the beginning. If we don't act now, it will be too late."
A few council members shifted uncomfortably. Others listened more closely now.
Lord Kael leaned forward, eyes like steel. "And what do you suggest, Prince? March an army on a dream?"
Unease rippled through the council like a silent storm gathering on the horizon.
"No," Zyren said. "Send scouts. In silence. Discreet. Let truth speak before panic takes root."
Lord Henrick nodded. "Sound counsel. Quiet eyes. That's something even logic can support."
Murmurs of assent rippled through the circle.
Then Thalen spoke—his voice low and immovable. "Send them."
Silence returned.
Zyren felt a flash of relief—but then his father continued.
"But no wide action until we have certainty. We do not move kingdoms on riddles and symbols."
Zyren stood. His voice dropped, but his words struck like arrows.
"My mother told me: the future doesn't wait for our permission. If I'm wrong, I'll own the shame. But if I'm right, and we do nothing—"
"Enough," Thalen said. "You've spoken."
Lady Aestra, the eldest, studied Zyren over templed fingers. "Perhaps boldness is inherited. Trust your instincts, Prince. Let the scouts confirm what the moon already whispers."
Veylin gave a dismissive wave. "What if it's nothing?"
"Then we'll know," Zyren said evenly. "But if you're wrong… we won't get the chance to be sorry."
Thalen nodded once. "Have the reports within the week," he told the steward. "Dismissed."
As the council broke apart, Zyren rose, heart pounding. The moonstone thrummed against his chest, warm and alert. His father met his eyes but said nothing. His expression was carved from stone—but Zyren glimpsed something behind it.
Not anger.
Not disapproval.
Fear.
Or perhaps… regret.
---
Later, the palace behind him, Zyren wandered the winding streets of Rithaleon alone.
The city bloomed with its usual color and chaos. Vendors called over baskets of ripened fruit, silken banners fluttered from balconies, and the scent of bread and spices clung to the breeze. Laughter spilled from the market square.
For most, it was just another day.
But Zyren felt the truth beneath it all.
They don't know.
They don't see the fire waiting beyond the hills.
Not yet.
His fingers brushed the pendant beneath his tunic. The moonstone pulsed—warm, alive, like a second heartbeat.
At a nearby stall, a gray-bearded vendor handed a small girl a delicate glass charm. "To keep the nightmares away," he whispered with a wink.
The child laughed.
Zyren watched them. For a moment, he could pretend the world was still whole. That everything was as it had been. But he knew better. And soon, they would too.
He moved on.
"Good day, Prince Zyren!" called the baker. "Bread's still warm if you're hungry!"
"Not today," he answered, offering a strained smile.
He turned down a narrower street, where the noise of the market faded. The city changed here—quieter, older. Less color. More shadow.
He didn't see the figure until it moved.
A man stepped from the alley—tall, cloaked in black.
Zyren's instincts screamed.
The blade flashed.
He twisted aside, but not fast enough—the dagger sliced his ribs, hot and sharp.
Pain.
Immediate. Real.
The moonstone flared—heat surged through him, igniting something deep in his chest. He stumbled back, drawing his sword.
"Who sent you?" he snapped.
The assassin lunged again—silent, relentless.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. His wound screamed.
A heavy blow sent Zyren reeling. His vision swam. The dagger lifted—
"Down!"
A clay jar whistled through the dark, smashing against the assassin's temple.
The assassin reeled.
Zyren spun as a young woman leapt from the alley—quick, fierce, wild-eyed. She slammed into the assassin, knocking him off-balance.
"Move!" she shouted.
Zyren ran. His breath tore through him. His wound screamed. But the moonstone pulsed, keeping him upright. Keeping him alive.
They ducked into a side street, then another. Finally, silence.
The girl—dust in her hair, blood on her knuckles—looked him over.
"You're lucky," she said. "He wasn't aiming to kill."
"That was luck?"
She smirked. "If he were, we'd be having this talk over your corpse."
"You alright?" she asked, breathless but calm.
"I… I think so," he managed, pressing a hand to his side. "Not fatal."
She studied him—sharp, assessing eyes. "You need to be more careful. These aren't accidents anymore. The Order is moving."
His blood ran cold. "You know them?"
"I know enough." She paused, then gave him a faint, crooked smile. "And I know you'll need help. Keep trusting what you see—even when no one else does. The people might not understand you, but some of us do. And we'll fight for you."
Zyren stared at her—relief and resolve rising in his chest like breath after drowning.
"I won't forget this," he said.
She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and vanished into the crowd.
---
That night, back in the palace, Zyren sat bare-chested while the healers worked, the wound across his ribs red and raw. The moonstone pendant rested against his skin, still warm. Still glowing.
The door creaked.
Thalen entered.
"You could've died," Thalen said, his voice low, edged with a hint of fear—or was it something else?
"So could Calder's Hollow," Zyren replied quietly, his gaze unwavering.
Thalen's jaw tightened. "You're not alone in this."
"Feels like I am," Zyren said. "I see it coming. They don't. You won't."
The king's voice lowered. "You're not wrong. But charging into fire won't stop it from spreading."
Silence settled over them like ash.
Then—for a heartbeat—the mask slipped. The king's shoulders sagged, just slightly.
And Zyren saw it.
Fear.
Not for the kingdom.
For him.
His words were soft, raw. "I know you want to protect me," Zyren said, voice low. "But you can't do that by keeping me caged."
Thalen's eyes hardened. "I protect the realm," Thalen said. "Not just you."
Zyren stood, grimacing through the pain. "Then stop forcing me to choose between them."
Thalen didn't answer. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then—
A softer knock.
"Zyren?"
It was Lira—his nine-year-old sister. Her small form appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide with concern. They mirrored his own—gray like a storm waiting to break.
"Lira," Zyren said softly.
"I heard you got hurt."
"I'm fine," Zyren said, forcing a smile.
She padded in barefoot and held up a book. "I drew the Chamber of Memories. Mama's in it."
Zyren took it gently. The lines were rough, the love unmistakable. His chest ached.
"I miss her," Lira whispered. "I see her in dreams sometimes. Is that weird?"
Zyren knelt, pain flaring. He touched her cheek. "No. It means you're still hers. Always."
Lira smiled. But she looked past him—at Thalen.
"You should tell him," Lira said. "You dream about her too. But he thinks he's the only one who remembers."
Thalen blinked. His face cracked—just a little.
"She was the brave one," he murmured.
"No," Zyren said. "She made us brave. You only forgot."
Lira's small hand slipped into Zyren's, her grip warm and comforting.
Thalen watched. Silent.
Then turned and left.
—
That night, Zyren stood on the highest balcony. The wind stirred his hair. Below, Rithaleon slept—vast, glittering, unaware.
The moonstone at his chest pulsed like a heartbeat.
The city dreamed in peace.
But the shadows had already begun to move.
And he would not face it blindly.
He would face it burning.
---
**End of Chapter Three**