The Council Hall was silent now.
Its once-golden banners lay in tatters across the blackened floor. The pillars stood cracked and scorched, monuments to a firestorm that had passed—but left something behind: a kingdom without a voice.
Aaron stood at the center of the ruin, surrounded by ash and broken masks. His hand still smoked faintly, marked by a memory—not of anger, but of necessity.
Far away, a bell tolled. The sound was hollow, fractured. It echoed through the air like a city trying to remember its wounds.
A cough broke the silence, emerging from behind a collapsed column. A figure stepped into view—Councilor Eldryn, the eldest of the Twelve. His robes were scorched at the sleeves, his steps unsteady. Yet his eyes remained sharp, filled with an age older than war, older than any crown.
Aaron turned toward him, his flame still flickering in his palm, ready.
Eldryn wheezed out a dry laugh and raised a hand.
"Relax, boy. I'm not here to stop you. I'm here to ask you one question."
Aaron didn't lower his hand. "Then ask."
The old man sank slowly onto a half-shattered throne, its gold edge blackened by fire.
"You burn beautifully," Eldryn said. "But do you know what you're burning?"
Aaron didn't respond.
"We built this council on the bones of an empire. Every lie we told… was to keep worse truths buried." His voice grew softer. "You think flame is a tool. But it's not. It's a verdict. It ends what can't be fixed."
Aaron stepped forward. "And you think this kingdom can be fixed?"
Eldryn's gaze dropped to the blue flame flickering in Aaron's palm.
"No," he admitted. "But I don't think you want to rule it either."
A quiet pause passed between them.
"So what then, Skyborn?" Eldryn asked. "You'll burn it all… and walk away?"
The flame in Aaron's hand dimmed, casting a softer glow.
"I was born in exile," he said quietly. "I don't want a throne. I want the lies buried under it."
Eldryn let out a hollow, bitter laugh. Not cruel—just tired.
"Then let me leave you with this: If you burn everything broken… what will you stand on to rebuild?"
Aaron opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed it again.
The flame curled around his fingers, wavering—searching. But it offered no answer. And in the stillness, he understood something he hadn't before:
Even fire has its silences.
---
Far from the ruin, on a rooftop overlooking the burning streets, Lucien Virell stood motionless. Below him, the people were rising—not for Aaron, and not for Lucien—but for themselves.
"He's asking the wrong questions," Lucien murmured.
A woman in crimson stepped beside him, her face hidden behind a mask.
"That's dangerous," she said.
Lucien's mouth curved into a quiet smile.
"No. That means he's almost ready."
---
Back in the shattered Council Hall, Aaron stood alone beneath an open sky where once there had been a ceiling.
Ash clung to his boots. His breath steamed into the cold air.
He looked down at his hands—burned, trembling, and glowing faintly.
Then, to no one at all, he whispered:
"I don't want to be fire. I want to be the one who remembers what fire forgets."