Azarion Flameborne, Warden of Emberhold, sat behind a desk carved from obsidian and dark cedar, its surface etched with fire sigils that faintly glowed with warmth.
He was a man carved by power and ambition, his very presence like an ever-burning hearth....steady, commanding, and merciless.
Azarion was not a man to be mistaken for a mere ruler. He was the storm in a firestorm,
His beard was meticulously trimmed, a cascade of ash-gold streaked with red, like cooled magma. His eyes, however, were a searing bronze, ancient and dangerous, as if staring into a smoldering pit of embers.
Dressed in crimson robes lined with dragon-scale patterns and gold clasps that held the high collar firm around his neck, Azarion resembled the very fire he commanded.
Outside his tall arched windows, the perpetual glow of Emberhold's volcanic skies bathed the room in a golden haze. The ever-burning torches that clung to the stone walls flickered with magical flames that never consumed.
Across from him sat three envoys cloaked in thick winter furs. The room was too warm for such attire, but they did not remove them. It wasn't out of disrespect, but necessity...the cold they carried from the North was woven into their skin, into their bones. Their breaths still fogged in front of them, even in this inferno of a study.
Lord Azarion didn't offer them wine. Nor did he gesture for them to be comfortable. This was not a negotiation of equals.
The older of the two envoys stepped forward, chin lifted in cautious pride. His hair was white as bone, cropped short, with a glowing blue rune etched into his left cheek...a symbol of high rank among the Frostborne.
He held a sealed scroll delicately between gloved fingers.
"My lord," he said formally, bowing with a stiffness that bespoke discomfort.
"We come bearing a message from our sovereign, Lord Neris Winterbourne of the North."
He placed the scroll on the desk with great care. The seal...a snow lily encased in ice....remained unbroken.
Azarion did not reach for it.
"I received his letter yesterday," he said, his voice smooth, though it carried a timbre of restrained fire.
"And now you come in person to speak what should have been left unsaid."
"Our lord believes words left on parchment may be misread, or misunderstood. He thought it best that we carry his voice directly to you." the second envoy added. A woman this time, young, though her stare was hard and flinty.
Her hair, pale as driven snow, was tied in an intricate northern braid. "He does not wish to dishonor the alliance. Only to... amend its terms."
"Amend?" Azarion raised a brow, leaning forward, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
"You mean, to withdraw his proposal to marry my daughter."
There was a moment of silence before the first envoy spoke again. "We do not mean offense. But circumstances have changed."
Azarion's gaze hardened.
"The circumstances you speak of, of course, refer to my daughter's face."
No one answered.
The Lord of Flame stood. It was not sudden, not violent, but the crackle of fire beneath his boots intensified, reacting to his mood.
As he stepped from behind the desk, the torches flared brighter, mirroring his mood.
"My daughter," he said, walking slowly around the desk, "was struck by a curse while saving my life during the Siege of Ashmire. That scar is a mark of sacrifice, not shame."
"We understand," the woman said carefully.
"Do you?" he asked, pausing directly before them. "Then explain to me, in the tongue of your frozen land, how that understanding leads to a retraction of a sacred pact?"
The first envoy braced himself. "Lord Neris believes a marriage must be built on compatibility. Your daughter, by all reports, is... reclusive. Unwell. And there are whispers..."
"Whispers are for cowards," Azarion growled. "And lies for fools."
He stepped closer until the heat radiating from his body made the woman flinch ever so slightly.
Azarion let out a low laugh, devoid of humor. "Unwell? A convenient term. You mean unworthy."
The fire in the torches flared.
"My daughter was chosen because our union promised balance...fire and ice.
Passion and discipline.
A symbol for the fractured realms. Now your young lord trembles at the sight of flame."
"We only carry the message, my Lord," the woman said with the ghost of apology.
"My daughter, scarred though she may be, is stronger than your entire lineage of silk-tongued diplomats and ice-born princes.
She fought beside me when Ashmere fell, stood in the fire when others fled into the night.
You speak of instability? She carries more flame in her soul than your entire nation dares to hold."
"Tell your Lord that Emberhold does not bend to chill winds." He returned to his seat slowly, folding his hands.
"If he seeks to cancel the union, it must come from his lips, not through the mouths of his dogs.
If he is man enough to shatter a sacred alliance, let him come and do it with his own breath. Not through the mouths of ghosts sent to deliver his cowardice."
The room fell still. Even the torches dared not flicker.
"And if he does speak it himself?" asked the envoy, after a pause.
Azarion leaned back in his chair, an unreadable glint in his eye. "Then I will know where we stand. And I will act accordingly."
The envoys exchanged a look.
"We are not enemies, Lord Azarion. The North still desires peace."
"Peace and pride are not the same," he replied, then gestured for them to stand.
"You will stay the night. My steward will see to your needs. Tomorrow, return with this message: I am Flame. I do not fear melting the snow."
The envoys bowed stiffly and left, their heavy cloaks trailing behind them.
When the door closed, Azarion exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair. His jaw clenched.
A knock came minutes later.
"Enter," he barked.
Steven, the butler, stepped inside, bowing respectfully. "Forgive the intrusion, my Lord. But your daughter...the lady Aurelia came to see you."
Azarion blinked.
"She is waiting outside."
There was a long pause.
"And?"
Steven hesitated. "Would you receive her, my Lord?"
The Flame Lord looked toward the fire, expression unreadable.
"No. Not yet."
"Yes, my Lord."
As Steven bowed and retreated, Azarion stared at the flames. A flicker of something passed through his face.
Azarion stood still, unmoving.
In the fire's glow, he walked back to his desk and slowly picked up the sealed scroll left by the envoys.
He held it a moment, weighing it, before placing it into a drawer without breaking the seal.
Then, he opened the second drawer...a hidden compartment...and pulled out a worn piece of parchment far older, marked with symbols no modern tongue could speak.
He stared at it long.
At the prophecy.