Volunteers and Ghosts
Renn stood in the courtyard as afternoon sunlight streamed through walls broken, his voice ringing across the assembled Flamebound.
"Twelve," he said flatly. "Swift, silent, expendable. We depart in an hour."
Silence greeted him. Men looked at each other, balancing life against shame. The woman's corpse still rested beyond the gate, arrows protruding from her back like accusing fingers.
Last of all, a young man came forward—nearly as young as Renn, with a scar cutting his left eyebrow. "I'll do it. My sister was taken by soldiers once. I won't let it happen to someone else's."
Someone else stepped forward. And someone else. Fifteen had volunteered in a matter of minutes.
Lioran stood in the tower, Kyrris curled at his feet. The dragon's breathing had stabilized, but its wing still rested at an awkward angle. Golden eyes followed each volunteer with calculating hunger.
"They go to die," Kyrris growled.
"Perhaps."
"You send them away. Split your power. The ember will not excuse weakness."
Lioran's hand clamped on his chest, feeling the warmth beneath flesh. The ember throbbed irately, like a second heart struggling to supplant the first. "Then it won't forgive me."
"You can't fight it forever." The dragon's voice contained something very like concern. "I've watched what happens to mortals who fight their own power. They shatter. Or worse—they incinerate from the inside out."
"I'm already incinerating." Lioran gazed at his bound hands, at the faintly glowing material that showed through the bandages. "The question is whether I incinerate alone, or take the world with me."
Below, Mira went to the volunteers, pushing small packets into their hands—dried meat, pure water, pieces of cloth. She talked quietly to each of them, words Lioran couldn't catch. But he noticed how they stood taller after, how their fear was replaced by something more solid.
Purpose, maybe. Or just the satisfaction of being noticed.
Renn nodded at him from below once. A promise and a question both.
Lioran nodded.
....
The Blackwood Path
They departed as shadows lengthened, disappearing through a gap in the north wall which gave onto rocky hillsides. Thirteen of them in the end—Renn had demanded to come, and Lioran hadn't the heart to say no.
The old soldier who had proposed the scheme was dead, arrow-pierced throat, so a veteran scout named Jarek took charge instead. Gray-bearded, unobtrusive, he moved across the country like smoke, the others trailing behind him.
The Blackwood towered in front, ancient oaks and heavy underbrush that devoured light. An hour passed, and they'd vanished into emerald shadows, and Blackspire could no longer see them.
Lioran remained at the breach well after they'd left, staring at the treeline.
"Second thoughts?" Mira's voice sounded behind him.
He didn't turn. "Too late for those."
She stepped alongside him, shawl drawn close against the chill air. Neither of them said anything for a moment. The silence between them had become prickly with all the things they could not say.
"That woman," Mira said at last. "The one they murdered. She had your eyes."
Lioran's jaw clenched. "I don't—"
"Not color. Expression. The way she looked when she begged." Mira's voice broke. "Desperate. Willing to do anything, promise anything, just to save what she loved. That's how you look now. When you think nobody's looking."
He pushed himself to look at her. "And what do I look desperate to save?"
"I don't know anymore." Her eyes shone. "That's what scares me."
Before he could answer, a horn blew from the duke's camp. Three short blows—a signal. Men were on the move, falling into ranks, banners unfurling.
The ember ignited. *They know. The trap springs early.*
"Get in," Lioran said, already heading for the wall. "Now."
.....
The Duke's Countermove
In the war pavilion, Kaelen pored over the map with satisfaction. Small markers indicated where scouts had seen the rescue party enter the Blackwood.
"Predictable," he muttered. "The lad believes he's so smart, dividing his men."
Rhaemond stood at his shoulder, armor already in place, the black antlers of his helm casting unnatural shadows. "How much time until your men catch up to them?"
"They're on the move already. Twenty of my finest—full plate, trained trackers. The Flamebound won't even notice them until it's too late." Kaelen drew a line on the map. "We'll strike them here, where they're crossing the river. Catch them against the water."
The priest raised an eyebrow from his corner. "You risk revealing the prisoners."
"No risk." Rhaemond's smile cut sharp. "The prisoners are dead. We executed them this morning. The boy's sending men to rescue corpses."
There was silence in the tent.
Even Kaelen looked taken aback for a moment. "My lord, if they find—"
"They won't live long enough to report back." The duke motioned toward the entrance of the pavilion. "And while the boy's distracted, mourning his failed mercy, we drive Blackspire with all our might. He'll be bereft on those walls, his followers' faith broken, seeing his compassion reduced to ashes."
The priest's smile came back, cold and pleased. "Elegant."
Kaelen drew his blade. "I'll command the assault myself."
"No." Rhaemond's hand caught his shoulder. "You'll hunt the rescue party. I want the boy to know his mercy cost lives. When you return with their heads, I'll give you his."
Kaelen hesitated, then nodded. "As you command."
He left the tent, and within minutes, armored men were mounting horses, steel glinting as they rode toward the Blackwood.
...
Fire and Choice
On Blackspire walls, Lioran sensed the wind changing. Something was amiss—the ember howled warnings, his flesh crawling with a chill.
Kyrris raised its head, nostrils flaring wide. "Blood. I scent blood on the wind."
"Whose?"
"Too far away to say. But plenty of blood. Old blood."
Lioran's fists gripped the parapet. The prisoners. They're already dead.
The truth hit like a dagger between the ribs. He'd sent thirteen—good men, men who'd decided to stand with him—to save cadavers. The duke had never planned to hold any agreement. This was playacting from the beginning.
And he'd been taken in.
The spark flared, fury and vindication tangled: *See? Compassion is weakness. Flame understands better. Flame always understands.*
"No," Lioran breathed.
"What?" Mira had followed him up.
"They're walking into a trap." His voice was empty. "The prisoners are dead. Renn and the others—they're going to die for nothing."
Mira's hand went over her mouth. "Can you warn them?"
"Not from here. Not in time." He swung around to face her, and she winced at what she saw in his eyes. "But I can make them pay for it."
"Lioran—"
"The duke craves theater? Fine. I'll provide him with a spectacle."
He jumped the parapet, landing with a crunch of stone in the courtyard below. Kyrris leapt after him, wings wide despite the hurt, agony evident in each movement.
The rest of the Flamebound converged, feeling the change in their lord.
"Prepare to arm yourselves," Lioran ordered, his voice vibrating with authority that made the air ripple. "All men who are capable of wielding steel. We're not going to wait for them to find us."
"Suicide!" shouted someone. "We can't battle their entire army!"
"We won't." Flame flickered along Lioran's arms, hot and eager. "I will. You'll distract them while I sear the head off the serpent."
Mira elbowed her way through the crowd. "You'll be killed!"
"Perhaps." He locked eyes with her, and for an instant, she glimpsed her son again—scared, resolute, unpossibly young. "But at least I'll die trying to save them, instead of cowering while they get slaughtered."
"This isn't saving them! This is rage!"
"It's all I have left!" The words ripped from him, raw and truthful. "Fire or mercy—each time I choose mercy, people die anyway. Fire at least gives them a chance. Fire at least does *something*. "
The ember flared, and he gasped, doubling over. When he stood up, his eyes glowed pale red.
"Open the gates," he whispered.
No one stirred.
"I said *open them*. "
The gates creaked apart.
Outside, the duke's forces waited, thousands of them, steel and flesh laid out for slaughter.
And from Blackspire stepped the Dragon Lord, dragon beside him, twenty desperate warriors behind.
Mira wept on the wall.
In the Blackwood, Renn heard the distant horns and set off running.
In the duke's camp, Rhaemond smiled and commanded: "Kill them all."
The battle to decide everything started.
Not with strategy. Not with mercy.
With fire, and the awful cost it extracted.
The sunset drew near.
And the world waited.