The bells of Aeloria tolled through a kingdom that no longer knew how to listen.
Their slow, mournful chime echoed across the marble terraces, the sound carrying down to the crowded streets below where nobles, merchants, and beggars all paused to bow their heads. It was not grief that silenced them—it was uncertainty. The old king was gone. The prince refused the crown. And the realm, like a wounded animal, waited to see which hand would strike or soothe next.
From the high balcony of the Citadel, Kael looked down at the restless city. The spires of Aeloria, once white as bone, were streaked with soot from the pyres that had burned since the day of his return. The fires of victory had turned to fires of fear.
Behind him, the council's banners hung limp in the still air—black silk bearing the sigil of the crescent flame. It had once been a symbol of unity. Now, even that emblem seemed to smolder at the edges.
"Your silence is louder than their prayers," Lady Elira said softly, stepping up beside him.
Kael's hands rested on the cold railing. The silver ring on his thumb—the last relic of his father—glinted faintly. "They pray for peace," he murmured. "But peace doesn't come from words. It comes from truth."
Elira's expression tightened. "And which truth would you have them hear? That their king is dead? That the Shadow King still breathes in the dark? Or that the prince who saved them refuses to rule them?"
Kael's jaw clenched. "I didn't fight to trade one crown for another."
"No," she said, her gaze heavy, "but you fought for something. And they'll twist that meaning if you don't name it yourself."
He turned to face her then—his eyes shadowed, his armor still faintly scarred from battle. "You sound like the council."
Elira gave a weary smile. "Perhaps I do. But only because I've seen what happens when silence becomes law."
Before Kael could reply, a knock echoed from the chamber doors. A guard entered, bowing low.
"My lord, the council requests your presence in the Hall of Cinders."
Kael exhaled slowly. "Of course they do."
---
The Hall of Cinders was a place built to remember fire—and to control it. The torches burned with silver light, the air thick with incense meant to ward off evil. But today, the hall smelled of politics.
Lady Seris sat at the table's head, her rings flashing as she gestured for Kael to approach. Around her, the nobles murmured like crows, their silks rustling, their eyes bright with hunger.
"Your Highness," Seris began, her tone honeyed, "the people grow restless. The crown cannot remain empty. Tradition demands a ruler, and the council must act before unrest breeds rebellion."
Kael's voice was even. "You want a king. You want control. And you want me to bless it."
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the table, quickly stilled by Seris's cool smile. "The realm needs stability, my prince. You are a symbol. Even a reluctant one."
He leaned forward, both hands on the table. "I will not wear a crown forged from my father's ashes. Nor will I let you use Isolde as your scapegoat."
Seris's expression didn't flicker. "Then perhaps she shouldn't give them reason to fear."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying?"
The noblewoman folded her hands neatly. "Three nights past, a fire broke out in the lower quarter. Entire homes reduced to ash. Witnesses spoke of golden light. They say the Flame-Bearer walks again."
Kael's heart dropped. "That's a lie."
"Is it?" Seris asked softly. "Or is it the same fire that once consumed the Hollow now returning to finish what it began?"
Elira, who stood silently near the back, stepped forward. "Enough. The fire that saved this kingdom should not be turned against it."
Seris's smile sharpened. "Even salvation can burn, Lady Elira. You, of all people, should remember that."
Kael's voice turned cold. "If you think I'll stand by while you turn fear into power, you're mistaken."
He turned sharply, striding from the hall before the council could respond. The heavy doors shut behind him with a clang that echoed like judgment.
---
He found Isolde in the gardens—if they could still be called that. The once-blooming hedges were half-charred, the roses gray with ash. She sat beneath a dead tree, her cloak drawn close, her eyes closed as though listening to something distant.
When she heard him, she looked up, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. "They summoned you."
"They want me crowned."
Her smile faded. "And you refused."
"I always will."
She studied him, her gaze unreadable. "The kingdom needs a ruler, Kael. Someone they can trust."
"They don't trust me," he said. "They fear you."
"Then maybe they deserve both."
He frowned. "Don't say that."
She rose slowly, brushing the ash from her cloak. The light caught her hair, glinting faintly like flame. "You can't protect me from what I am."
"I can try."
"Then you'll die trying."
For a long moment, they stood there in silence. The wind stirred the ashes around them, swirling faintly like a whisper.
Kael reached out, brushing his fingers against her hand. The mark on her wrist pulsed faintly at his touch, gold light flickering beneath her skin.
"Your fire saved this world," he said quietly. "Don't let them convince you it damned it."
Her eyes softened, but her voice was distant. "And if they're right? If the Hollow didn't end—if it only moved inside me?"
Kael's reply was steady. "Then we'll face it together."
But somewhere, far beneath the city, the ember in the ruins pulsed again—slow and steady, like a heartbeat waiting to return.
---
That night, as Kael walked the palace halls, he heard it: a faint hum coming from the Moonsilver Sword. He drew it slowly, the blade gleaming in the dim torchlight. The runes flickered—not silver, not gold, but black.
And then, faintly, a voice whispered through the steel.
Flame remains flame.
Kael froze, every muscle tensing. "Who's there?"
The whisper faded, but the light remained.
He turned sharply, scanning the corridor—empty. Silent.
But when he looked down, his shadow stretched unnaturally long behind him, moving even when he stood still.