The cavern of the Ashen Covenant was a cathedral of fire and shadow, a place where silence felt heavy enough to smother sound. Seven braziers lined the obsidian floor, each one a symbol of the seven Princes of Hell. Only two burned with life — one for the Fourth Prince, one for the Seventh — their infernal light bathing the chamber in a sinister glow.
Then, with a sound like a gasp of the earth itself, the first brazier roared to life.
Ashes scattered into the air as tongues of black flame surged upward. The members of the Ashen Covenant, gathered in a loose circle, fell to their knees in unison. A low, reverent chant filled the chamber.
"The First Prince rises."
At the far end of the hall, Ashlord Malrek rose from his throne of black stone, his crimson ceremonial robes dragging across the floor like spilled blood. His iron mask reflected the glow of the braziers, making him look more like a spirit than a man.
"Rejoice," he said, his voice resonating like a drumbeat. "The highest of the Seven has returned to the mortal plane. The chains of Heaven no longer bind him."
The Embersworn — the Covenant's inner circle — pressed their palms to the floor in obeisance. "Glory to the First Prince," they intoned as one.
Malrek spread his hands toward the newly lit brazier. "Prepare the rite. We will summon him here, that we may kneel before him."
The Embersworn moved quickly, forming a circle around the brazier. They placed relics of bone, shards of obsidian, and scrolls inked in blood upon the ground, whispering words of ancient power. The brazier's flame pulsed brighter as the air grew hot and thick, a storm of energy gathering in the cavern.
And then — nothing.
The fire dimmed. The circle broke. The cavern grew cold.
A tense silence followed. Even the lesser acolytes dared not breathe too loudly.
Malrek's mask tilted slightly, as though he were listening to something beyond mortal hearing. "The rite has failed."
"Impossible," one of the Embersworn whispered. "The brazier burns — he should be here."
The Ashlord did not turn. "Two reasons may explain this. Either the Prince himself rejects our call…" His voice deepened, his gloved hands curling into fists. "…or his tether to the Morningstar has been severed."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. The lesser members of the Covenant crossed their chests with ash-marked fingers. To lose Lucifer's favor was a fate worse than damnation.
"Rise," Malrek commanded, his voice cutting through their fear. "We will wait. The First Prince will make himself known in time — and when he does, we shall see where his loyalty lies. Until then, the Covenant stands ready."
He turned back to the brazier, its flames still dancing defiantly. For a moment, Malrek imagined what it would mean if Belphegor — the First Prince, the second in command to Lucifer — had truly turned from them.
And though no one could see his face beneath the iron mask, Ashlord Malrek smiled faintly.
"If he has strayed…" Malrek murmured softly, "then Hell itself will call him home."
****
The council chamber was unusually tense that morning. Sunlight streamed through narrow slits in the stone walls, casting long, accusing beams across the polished obsidian table. The King sat at its head, draped in a mantle of midnight blue, his iron crown weighing heavy upon his brow. His hand tapped the armrest of his chair in slow, measured beats — not impatient, but watchful. He was a man who had seen too many crises to be easily ruffled, but the look in his eyes warned the council: they were here to solve problems, not to waste words.
Arrayed around the table were the kingdom's most powerful men and women. The Chancellor, lean and sharp as a quill, adjusted his rings with nervous precision. Beside him sat the High Seer, hooded and serene, the faint smell of incense clinging to his robes. The Treasurer, round as a wine cask, kept dabbing sweat from his forehead despite the morning's cool air. Across from him was the Lord General, all scarred jaw and stiff posture, wearing his ceremonial breastplate as if to remind the council that he, not they, commanded the swords of the realm.
The King's voice cut through the silence.
"Begin," he said simply.
The Chancellor cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty, the situation in the western marches has worsened overnight. The tax collectors were driven from three villages, their ledgers burned. The local militia cannot contain the unrest — and…" he glanced at the Treasurer, "coin is not being gathered."
The Treasurer let out an indignant huff.
"I warned this council that raising the harvest tithe so soon after the drought would breed rebellion. But no — we needed gold for the new garrisons, didn't we?" He shot a glance at the Lord General.
The General's scarred lip curled into something between a sneer and a smile.
"Without those garrisons, the southern border would already be crawling with enemy steel. You can count your coins all you like, Treasurer, but they won't hold a wall when it's breached."
Before the Treasurer could reply, the High Seer lifted a single hand.
"This strife is no mere rebellion," the Seer said softly. "The omens are clear — a great shadow stirs across the land. Violence spreads not because of coin or hunger alone, but because the people sense that change is coming. They fear it."
The King's eyes narrowed. "Prophecy?"
The Seer inclined his head. "A storm of iron and fire approaches. It will scour the weak from the strong. The kingdom must be ready, lest it be swept away."
"Prophecies don't fill granaries," the Treasurer muttered, earning a sharp look from the Chancellor.
"We can restore order," the Chancellor interjected, smoothing the argument. "Send emissaries with grain and reduced levies. Win the people back before we spend blood on the problem."
"Emissaries?" The General barked a laugh. "Those villages are in open defiance of the Crown. You do not win back a wolf by feeding it scraps — you break its spine before it spreads its hunger to the pack."
"And pay for another campaign?" the Treasurer snapped. "With what? The coffers are already strained. The eastern ports refuse to pay tariffs, trade is trickling to our rivals, and you would spend what little we have crushing peasants with soldiers who demand wages we cannot afford?"
"Better broke and obeyed," the General growled, "than rich and overrun."
The argument swelled until the King raised his hand, silencing them all.
"You speak as though this kingdom is a feast to be divided among you," he said, his tone icy. "It is not. It is my charge, and it will not fall while I wear this crown. We will not starve our people into loyalty, nor will we let rebellion go unpunished."
He turned to the Chancellor. "Prepare a message of clemency — those who lay down arms will be spared."
Then to the General: "But muster two companies and send them to the marches. If the rebels refuse mercy, crush them quickly and burn no more than you must."
The General bowed stiffly, hiding his satisfaction. The Chancellor looked equally pleased — for now. The Treasurer, however, still fumed quietly, tallying up imaginary expenses in his mind.
It was then that the heavy doors of the chamber burst open.
A courier stumbled inside, mud-stained and out of breath, his tabard torn at the shoulder. Guards moved to restrain him until the King raised a hand.
"Speak," the King commanded.
The courier dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty… rebels attacked the western road patrol near Dathran's Cross. But—" He swallowed hard, eyes wide. "They were slaughtered. Not by your men — by a single man."
The council exchanged sharp glances.
"Explain yourself," the King said.
The courier swallowed again, still kneeling.
"He fought like nothing I have ever seen. Ten men tried to rob travelers near Dathran's Cross — he struck them down before they could harm a soul. The people who witnessed it…" The courier hesitated.
"Speak plainly," the King ordered.
"They are calling him a guardian spirit," the courier said at last. "Some knelt to him in the road, saying he was sent by the gods. Others simply fled, afraid to meet his eyes."
The council chamber fell silent.
"A hero, then," the Chancellor said with a faint smile. "And heroes have a way of stirring the hearts of the common folk. Too much admiration for one man can be dangerous."
"Or useful," the General countered, leaning forward. "The people are ready to follow someone. Better they follow a man we control than some rebel who promises them freedom."
The Treasurer frowned. "Control? What if he refuses? What if he has ambitions of his own?"
The High Seer's voice was barely above a whisper.
"The omens spoke of a shadow who would turn the tides of the realm. If this is that man, then destiny will not wait for us to decide what to do with him. The longer we delay, the stronger his legend grows."
The King was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the distant window where dusk light pooled like blood on the marble.
"Find him," the King said finally. "If he is a hero, we will offer him a place of honor. If he is merely a man, we will make him a sword for the Crown."
"And if he refuses?" asked the Chancellor.
The King's expression did not change.
"Then we will remind him that heroes who defy the throne are quickly forgotten."
A cold silence followed. Each advisor bowed their head, but none missed the deeper meaning of the order — recruit him if you can, remove him if you must.
And already, behind their bowed heads, each member of the council was plotting how they would be the first to reach the mysterious stranger — to claim him as an ally, or to turn him into a pawn in their own game for power.
The King dismissed the council, the lords and advisors rose from their seats, bowing stiffly before filing out. The air was still thick with unspoken words — schemes, bargains, and grudges that would outlive the meeting.
Chancellor Vorath lingered near the doorway, watching the others go with a foxlike smile. "Your Majesty," he said smoothly, "if this man proves useful, it would be wise to bring him under a hand that can guide him… carefully."
The King regarded him for a long, silent moment. "Guide him," he repeated. "Or control him?"
Vorath inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying. "Whichever serves the realm best."
When the King finally waved him away, Vorath left with his usual measured grace. But in the shadow of the council chamber's columns, General Kaelmar waited, his jaw set like stone.
"You plan to make him yours," Kaelmar said flatly.
Vorath didn't bother denying it. "Better mine than yours, General. At least I know how to keep such men loyal."
Kaelmar stepped closer, his height casting a long shadow over the chancellor. "Your methods of loyalty involve knives in the dark. Don't think I won't know if one of yours moves against him before the King decides."
Vorath's smile never wavered. "Then you'd better be faster than me, soldier."
He left, his boots echoing down the marble corridor.
Kaelmar's fist tightened at his side. The man Vorath wanted to claim might not even know that powerful men now debated his fate like he was a coin to be won.
The general turned to his adjutant, who had been waiting silently near the doors.
"Send scouts to the southern district," Kaelmar ordered. "Discreetly. If Vorath's agents find this man first, we'll be too late."