The Ashborn council chamber was a scar of black stone, carved into the heart of a mountain long ago when fire still bled beneath it. Smoke from half-burned torches curled in the air, thick with the scent of pitch and charred pine. The circle of seats, rough-hewn thrones cut for warriors, sat in a ring around a basin of glowing embers. The fire was meant to symbolize unity: flame feeding flame, none burning brighter than the other.
Tonight, it sputtered low, barely alive.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the circle, shadows stirring faintly around his boots. His wrists ached with phantom fire where the shard had pulsed during the chaos outside. He kept his hands folded, knuckles white, so no one would see the tremor.
Serenya Flameborn leaned on her seat's armrest, scarred fingers drumming against the wood. Her gaze was hard as hammered iron. "The boy has proved he can fight," she said, voice roughened by smoke. "But what he carries is not only his own. That shard bleeds into him, and into us."
Murmurs rippled across the circle.
"Poison," one councilor hissed.
"Or power," another countered.
"He draws shadows when the Ashborn are sworn to fire—how can we trust him?"
Kaelen felt every word like flint striking against his chest. He had known distrust would follow him, but hearing it laid bare before the council made his jaw tighten. His shadow twitched along the stone floor, restless, and he forced it still.
Serenya raised her hand and silence fell. Her eyes locked on Kaelen. "Tell them, shard-bearer. Tell them why you would walk with us when your soul already bends to another god."
The chamber darkened, as if the torches themselves bent toward Kaelen's silence. He met their gazes one by one, unflinching.
"I don't walk with gods," he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "The shard whispers, yes. It offers hunger, death, ruin. I refuse it. Every moment, I refuse it. That is my strength, not its."
The embers cracked. Some councilors shifted uncomfortably.
An older warrior spat on the floor. "Refusal is weakness. Fire does not refuse—it consumes. If you were one of us, you would bend the shard to your will, not tremble like a child before it."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. He thought of his sister's screams as the altar flames devoured her, of the shard's endless promise to make him the pyre that burned worlds. "And how many innocents would you burn proving that point?"
The words cut deeper than he intended. For a heartbeat, the chamber went still.
Then Seryn rose. His armor glinted red in the firelight, his smirk sharp as a blade. "Listen to him. He speaks like a Hollow Crown rat—pretending mercy makes him strong. But the shard sings to him. I heard it myself, during the trial. He is not our ally. He is a weapon waiting to turn on us."
Kaelen's shadow flickered. He steadied it. "Better a weapon turned inward than one unleashed on children."
Seryn's smirk vanished. He took a step forward, hand on the hilt of his blade. "Say that again."
Serenya's voice cracked like a whip. "Enough." She rose, her presence filling the chamber. "You both forget yourselves. The Ashborn do not squabble like carrion crows." She looked at Kaelen, then Seryn. "We have enemies beyond these walls who will gladly bury us while you measure who pisses hotter."
A councilor leaned forward, voice low. "Enemies that gather even now. Scouts whisper of Hollow Crown patrols near the river crossings. And shadows—deeper shadows—stirring in the north. The Shroudbound march."
The embers hissed as if the words themselves carried weight.
Kaelen's stomach turned. The Hollow Crown he expected, their banners like chains across the land. But the Shroudbound? He remembered the whispers in the fog, the way their presence bent the air itself. They were not an army— they were a sickness that walked like men.
Seryn seized the moment, turning toward the council. "See? This is the time we need fire, not doubt. And what do we have instead? A shadow-cloaked stranger, sworn to nothing, feeding off a shard that should be ours."
Kaelen clenched his jaw. The shard pulsed faintly, savoring the strife, and he forced it down.
Serenya studied him with eyes that weighed steel and ash. At last she spoke. "The boy stays." Her voice cut through the chamber, final and immovable. "He has shown he will bleed for us. Doubt his choices if you must, but not his courage."
Half the council murmured protest, the other half grudging assent. Seryn's glare lingered on Kaelen like a blade pressed to his throat.
Serenya turned toward the ember basin. She lifted a coal-blackened brand and pressed it into the fire until it glowed. The smoke curled upward, bitter and sharp.
"We face war on two fronts," she said, her voice carrying the weight of command. "The Hollow Crown would chain us. The Shroudbound would unmake us. If the shard-bearer holds back the tide, he may stay. But if his shadow turns on us, I will burn him myself."
Her gaze locked with Kaelen's, and he saw no lie there. Only fire, merciless and unyielding.
Kaelen bowed his head slightly. "Then may your fire judge me true."
The shard pulsed, a beat like a second heart. Yes… let them burn you. Let them see what you really are.
He shut his eyes and smothered the voice. For now.
That night, as Kaelen left the council hall, he found Lira waiting in the torchlight outside, her red cloak bright against the dark. Her eyes glimmered with something between pity and warning.
"You think you've won their trust," she said softly. "But every ember in that chamber is waiting for the moment you falter."
"I know," Kaelen said. The wind tugged at his cloak. His shadow stretched long and restless across the stone. "But I will not give the shard what it wants. No matter what it costs."
Lira's smile was faint, sad. "Then you'll need more than will, Kaelen. You'll need to decide who you'll burn to keep that vow."
The wind died. The mountains loomed, black against the stars. And somewhere beyond them, the Hollow Crown marched, while shadows deeper than night stirred in the north.
The fire sputtered low in the council hall. The war had already begun.