Lucien Virell stood barefoot on the black sands of a forgotten shore. Behind him, a circle of Thorn agents bowed silently, their masks carved from roots and bone.
A shadow approached—hooded, quiet, carrying the scent of ink and power.
"He refused the Council," the figure said. "He stood. He spoke fire."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Then he grows faster than they feared."
He turned toward the restless waves.
"And our friend in the chamber?"
"Still loyal. Still afraid."
Lucien's voice hardened. "Good. Fear is fertile soil."
He turned sharply. "Tell our agent this: If the boy will not kneel… make him bleed."
---
Aaron sat in a chamber lined with ancient scrolls, reading by the soft glow of a mage lantern.
The door opened silently.
Councilor Sereth entered—her presence cold and sharp as silver, her eyes flickering with calculating light.
"You surprised them," she said softly. "Especially the cracked mask."
Aaron did not look up. "Was that your plan?"
"My plan is survival. And today, survival means understanding you."
She circled him like a hawk—serene, deadly.
Suddenly, a heat surged in Aaron's chest—foreign, unnatural.
His veins flared with burning pressure.
"Poisoned ink," she whispered. "The Thorn's signature. Quick. Painless. Symbolic."
---
But Aaron did not fall.
The pressure within met something deeper.
Not rage. Not pain.
Memory.
His flame erupted—not outward, but inward—scorching the poison clean in a wave of brilliant blue light.
Sereth stumbled back, eyes wide with shock.
Aaron rose slowly, eyes blazing.
"Tell Lucien," he said quietly, "the fire doesn't kneel. And it doesn't forget."
He raised his hand—
But she vanished in a blink, a glowing glyph shimmering on her wrist before she disappeared.
---
Frankfurt watched from above, unseen.
"So," he whispered, "the Thorn has roots in the Council after all."
Kain appeared silently behind him.
"What shall we do?"
Frankfurt's eyes gleamed with cold fire.
"We don't burn the Council."
"We let Aaron do it."