The Capital
Valorian's capital, Hearthholm, rose from the plains like a crown of stone and ambition.
Seven days of hard riding had brought Lioran's small party to the gates of the continent's most powerful neutral kingdom. The city sprawled for miles, its white marble walls gleaming in the afternoon sun, five great towers reaching toward the sky like fingers grasping at heaven itself.
"I'd forgotten how overwhelming it is," Duke Aldren said quietly, his first words in hours. The closer they'd come to the capital, the more withdrawn he'd become—a man approaching his potential execution.
Guards at the gate wore the Heartland colors—gold and white, with the crowned sun emblazoned on their chests. They watched Lioran's party approach with hands on sword hilts, clearly having been warned.
"State your business," the captain demanded as they reached the gate.
"Duke Aldren, answering summons to trial," Aldren said formally. "And companions traveling under safe conduct to the Continental Council."
The captain's eyes fixed on Lioran. "The Dragon Lord." Not a question.
"Lioran Vale," Lioran corrected. "Here to speak truth at Duke Aldren's trial, by right of safe conduct granted to all Continental Council invitees."
"Your safe conduct doesn't apply until the Council convenes," the captain said. "Until then, you're just another fire mage in a city that doesn't want you."
The ember pulsed, responding to the hostility. Lioran felt heat building in his chest, felt fire wanting to answer disrespect with demonstration. But he breathed through it, using Evelina's techniques.
"Then I'll wait peacefully until the Council begins," Lioran said. "Cause no trouble.
Harm no one. Simply exist until I'm granted the audience King Valorian promised."
The captain studied him for a long moment, clearly disappointed not to have an excuse for violence. "Fine. But you're under watch. One spark, one flame, one hint of magic, and guards will be on you faster than you can burn."
"Understood."
They were allowed through, but a squad of twenty soldiers immediately formed an escort—ostensibly for their protection, actually for surveillance.
Hearthholm's streets were a revelation. Lioran had thought Thornhaven impressive in its desperate organization, but this was order on a scale he'd never imagined. Paved roads wide enough for three wagons abreast. Buildings reaching four and five stories, their architecture speaking of centuries of accumulated wealth. Markets where goods from across the continent changed hands. Universities where scholars in robes debated philosophy. Temples—not just Church, but a dozen different faiths—coexisting in uneasy proximity.
This was what civilization looked like when it wasn't constantly at war with itself.
"Overwhelming, isn't it?" Mira said, riding beside him. "Makes Thornhaven look like a child's fort made of sticks."
"Different," Lioran said. "Not better. Just... different." He watched a street performer juggling fire—real flames, not magic—for a crowd of laughing children. "They have stability. We have purpose."
"Stability is worth something," Kaelen observed. "People can plan futures when they're not worried about surviving the present."
They were taken to an inn near the palace—The Crown and Chalice, establishment expensive enough to keep riffraff away but not so luxurious as to seem threatening.
Their rooms were comfortable but clearly searched before their arrival. Guards posted themselves at entrances and exits.
"Welcome to house arrest," Renn muttered, testing his door and finding it unlocked but watched.
That night, as Lioran tried to sleep in a bed too soft after months of military cots, a knock came at his door.
He opened it to find not guards, but a young woman in servant's clothes carrying a sealed message.
"From His Majesty," she whispered. "He requests your presence. Alone. Tonight."
"King Valorian wants to see me?"
"Yes. And quickly, my lord. He... doesn't have much time." Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. "Please. He's been asking for you since word arrived that you entered the city."
...
The Dying King's Chamber
The servant led Lioran through hidden passages that bypassed guard posts and official corridors. Palace secrets, known only to those who'd served for generations.
They emerged in a tower suite that smelled of sickness and medicine. Healers hovered near the edges, their faces grave. And in a bed that seemed far too large for its occupant lay King Valorian III.
The king had been legendary once—a warrior-philosopher who'd united three fractious territories through marriage, conquest, and shrewd diplomacy. Now he was a wasted shell, his skin gray, his breathing labored. But his eyes were still sharp when they fixed on Lioran.
"Leave us," Valorian commanded, his voice a rasping whisper. The healers hesitated. "I said leave. If the Dragon Lord wanted me dead, I'd already be ash."
Once alone, the king gestured weakly to a chair beside his bed. Lioran sat, feeling awkward in the presence of this dying legend.
"You're younger than I expected," Valorian said. "Smaller too. The reports made you sound like some ancient being reborn in dragon fire."
"I'm just a boy who got unlucky with his second chance at life," Lioran replied.
Valorian's laugh turned into a coughing fit that lasted nearly a minute. When he recovered, blood flecked his lips. "Magical plague. The healers call it Void Rot—a curse that consumes life force directly. No cure. No treatment. Just... gradual dissolution."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm seventy-three. I've ruled for forty-two years. Most men don't get half that." Valorian's eyes studied Lioran intently. "But I didn't summon you here for pity. I summoned you because I'm dying, and before I do, I need to know: are you what this continent needs, or another disaster waiting to burn?"
The ember pulsed at the directness, but Lioran appreciated the honesty. "I don't know.
Some days I think I'm building something better. Other days I think I'm just delaying inevitable destruction."
"Also honest." Valorian reached for a cup of water with trembling hands. Lioran helped him drink. "Thank you. The plague makes simple acts impossible. Rather humbling for a man who once led armies." He settled back. "Tell me about Thornhaven. Not the propaganda, not the political necessity. The truth. What are you actually trying to create?"
So Lioran told him.
He spoke of refugees finding dignity in building their own shelters. Of former enemies working together because survival demanded cooperation. Of councils where power was distributed rather than hoarded. Of children being taught to question rather than obey. Of fire used to warm rather than destroy.
He also spoke of failures. Of people who'd died because he made wrong choices. Of the ember constantly demanding more violence. Of nights wondering if he was becoming the monster everyone feared.
Valorian listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable.
When Lioran finished, silence stretched between them, broken only by the king's labored breathing.
"You remind me of myself," Valorian said finally. "Forty years ago, when I was young and stupid enough to believe I could change everything. I tried to reform the Church, distribute power to common assemblies, break the stranglehold nobility had on land and law." His smile was bitter. "I failed. Not completely—some reforms stuck. But mostly, I learned that the world has momentum. Changing its course is like trying to redirect a river with your bare hands."
"So I should give up? Accept that nothing really changes?"
"No." Valorian's hand found Lioran's, the grip surprisingly strong for a dying man. "I'm telling you that changing the world is possible, but the cost is higher than you imagine. And the world will resist every step. Not because people are evil, but because change is terrifying. The known evil feels safer than the unknown good."
"Then how do I convince them? At the Continental Council, at Aldren's trial—how do I show them that Thornhaven is worth the risk?"
"You can't," Valorian said bluntly. "Not with words. Not with evidence. Not with testimonies or philosophy or brilliant arguments. You can only show them through sustained existence. By surviving. By proving over years, over decades, that your way actually works."
"I don't have years. I have weeks before the next crusade."
"I know." Valorian coughed again, more blood. "That's why I'm calling the Continental Council. That's why I'm using my death as leverage to force every power to the table.
I'm giving you a chance, Dragon Lord. One chance to speak before the rulers of the world and make your case."
"Why?" Lioran asked. "Why help me? What do you gain?"
"Peace," Valorian said simply. "My heir—my daughter Elena—is nineteen. Brilliant, but untested. If I die leaving the continent in chaos, leaving crusades and counter-crusades and escalating war, she won't survive her first year as queen. The wolves will tear her apart."
He squeezed Lioran's hand harder. "But if I can create one moment of forced negotiation, one gathering where everyone has to actually listen to each other instead of just drawing swords—maybe, maybe she inherits a continent that's starting to change. That's my legacy. That's what dying buys me."
"No pressure, then."
"Oh, tremendous pressure." Valorian smiled genuinely for the first time. "But I've read the testimonies from Thornhaven. I've spoken with refugees who found hope there.
I've seen Duke Aldren—a man I've known for thirty years—risk everything to defend something he believes in." His eyes held Lioran's. "So I'm betting my daughter's future on you being more than just fire in human shape. Don't make me regret it."
A healer entered, looking apologetic. "Your Majesty, you need rest. The strain—"
"Yes, yes, I'm dying. Thank you for the reminder." Valorian waved her off, then turned back to Lioran. "One more thing. At Aldren's trial tomorrow, they'll try to break you publicly. To prove you're unstable, dangerous, unfit for negotiation. You cannot use fire. Cannot threaten. Cannot give them any excuse to label you monster."
"I know."
"But—" Valorian's grip became vise-like, "—you also can't let them walk over you. Can't be so meek that they see you as weak. There's a balance. Firm but not aggressive.
Strong but not threatening. Human but not helpless."
"And if I can't find that balance?"
"Then we all burn, one way or another." Valorian released his hand. "Go. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow you face the first real test: standing before power without wielding it yourself."
Lioran stood to leave, but paused at the door. "If I succeed, if somehow I navigate all this and Thornhaven survives—what then? What comes after survival?"
Valorian's eyes glittered with something that might have been hope or might have been fever. "Then you change the world. Really change it. Not through fire, but through example. And maybe, just maybe, my daughter inherits a continent that's learning to be better."
.....
The Night Before
Lioran returned to his room to find Mira waiting.
"You snuck out," she said without accusation.
"I was summoned."
"By?"
"A dying king who's betting his daughter's future on me not being a monster." Lioran sat heavily on the bed. "No pressure."
Mira moved to sit beside him. "Tomorrow, at the trial—"
"I know. Don't use fire. Don't threaten. Don't give them ammunition. Balance strength and restraint. Somehow achieve the impossible while making it look easy."
"That about sums it up." She took his hand. "But remember: you're not alone. We're all there with you. And across the continent, thousands of people—refugees, former crusaders, northerners, believers—they're counting on you to prove that their faith wasn't misplaced."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No. It's supposed to remind you what you're fighting for. Not power. Not pride. But people who deserve better than what the world has given them."
The ember pulsed in Lioran's chest, restless and hungry.
Tomorrow, Duke Aldren faced charges that could end in execution.
Tomorrow, Lioran would stand before the powers of the world with only words as weapons.
Tomorrow, everything they'd built would be tested not by swords or magic, but by whether one boy could convince the powerful that change was possible.
He didn't sleep that night.
But when dawn came, Lioran Vale—the Dragon Lord, the boy from Ashvale, the ember's reluctant vessel—walked toward the courthouse with his head high.
The real battle was about to begin.