The council ring went silent after Rose's declaration, her words hanging like smoke between the obsidian pillars. The first torch blazed as the lead councilor stepped forward and dropped a searing coal into the ceremonial brazier. A green flame erupted, signaling a vote in favor.
"One for the pact," he said, voice steady.
The second councilor approached. She wore a hood of ash-feathers and eyes that flickered with ancient weariness. Her fingers trembled as she dropped her coal.
Another green flame.
"Two," she whispered. "For the storm and the fire."
Rose didn't allow herself to breathe yet. Two wasn't five.
The third councilor stepped forward. He hesitated, glancing at Mortain. "I remember what you did in the Drought Years," he said. "When the skies were sealed."
Mortain didn't flinch. "I remember too."
The councilor's coal sparked gold. A neutral flame.
"A flame of caution," he said. "Neither for nor against."
Basil muttered, "Great, fence-sitters in hellfire robes. Just what we needed."
Nimbus was less subtle. "Three coins and a limping vote. This is going swimmingly."
The fourth councilor stepped up—a hunched man with iron brands up his arms and a voice like anvil grating.
"I have buried sons," he rasped, "because of gods who claimed they knew best."
He dropped his coal.
Red fire. Against.
Rose clenched her jaw.
Mortain shifted beside her but didn't speak.
The fifth stepped forward, young, barely more than a girl, with hair braided in emberglass.
"I wasn't there when the old gods fell," she said, "but I've read the tales. And I'd rather face a storm that chose us than a god who claims dominion."
Green flame.
Three for. One against. One neutral.
Rose's pulse raced.
The sixth councilor was a mystery wrapped in black silk. No face visible. No voice offered. Only a hand, dark and smooth as stone, dropping the coal.
Green flame.
Four.
Basil let out a slow whistle. "We're one away."
The seventh did not vote. A ceremonial placeholder, said to only cast in times of tie. That meant it came down to the eighth, ninth, and tenth—three votes, one chance.
The eighth stepped forward.
Red flame.
Ninth.
Gold.
A tie.
All eyes turned to the final councilor—the seventh, the tie-breaker.
The figure removed her hood slowly, revealing a face Rose recognized.
"Mother Flame," Rose breathed.
The legendary elder looked older than myth, her eyes the color of hearths gone cold.
"You've grown, girl," she said softly. "Grown wild. Grown loud."
Rose didn't speak.
Mother Flame looked to Mortain. "And you—stormbreaker, god-fallen. I remember when your thunder silenced my prayers."
Mortain bowed his head. "I would undo it, if I could."
Mother Flame walked to the brazier. Her hand hovered over the coals.
"Then prove it," she said.
She dropped the coal.
Green.
The brazier burst into emerald light, roaring upward in a pillar that seared the air.
The pact was sealed.
"Then rise," Mother Flame declared, "as allies of the Emberfen."
Rose felt her knees almost give out—not in submission, but in relief.
Nimbus buzzed. "Well, we didn't die. That's new."