The palace slept, but the walls listened.
Moonlight spilled through the stained glass of the Citadel's upper hall, painting shifting colors across marble floors. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of incense and iron. Beneath that silence, something darker moved — soft footsteps, a whisper too faint to catch, like breath brushing against stone.
In the Hall of Cinders, the council convened again, cloaked not in silk but in secrecy. Only four attended this meeting: Lady Seris, Lord Varyn, High Seer Merel, and the captain of the city guard. Candles burned low between them, the wax pooling into dark circles on the table.
Lady Seris broke the silence first. "The prince refuses the crown. The flame-bearer refuses reason. Tell me, my lords, how long before the people refuse their silence?"
Merel's blind eyes gleamed faintly in the candlelight. "The omens shift. The stars burn too bright; the waters run thin. The Hollow's pulse can be felt even here. The prince carries the shadow now, whether he knows it or not."
Lord Varyn frowned. "You speak as though the war were not finished."
"It isn't," Seris said. Her tone was calm, but her hands gripped the edge of the table. "Elira returned from the ruins pale as a ghost. She hides something — and the Flame-Bearer walks with fire still in her veins. The prophecy did not end; it changed shape."
The captain stirred. "Then what do you suggest?"
Seris leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "Control, Captain. The same tool that built this kingdom. If the prince will not take the crown, we will rule through the council. And if the girl's fire cannot be contained…"
Her voice trailed off, a smile curving at the edge of her lips.
Merel's fingers traced symbols into the air. "The flame feeds on what it loves. The girl must be separated from the prince. If her heart turns cold, her fire will sleep."
Seris nodded slowly. "Then let her heart be caged."
The candlelight flickered, and for a moment the shadows on the wall shifted — twisting into something that looked almost like a face. Watching. Smiling.
---
Far above, Kael stood on the ramparts, his cloak snapping in the night wind. The broken hilt of the Moonsilver Sword hung at his side, now bound in leather and silence. The moonlight touched the shards still embedded in its grip, and faint whispers coiled through the air.
You cannot destroy what you are.
He pressed his fist against the cold stone, forcing the voice away.
Behind him, footsteps approached — soft, deliberate. He turned, hand instinctively falling to the useless hilt.
Elira emerged from the shadows, her cloak trailing frost. Her eyes were weary, but clear.
"You haven't slept," she said quietly.
"Neither have you."
She joined him at the edge, her gaze sweeping over the city below. "Aeloria breathes wrong. The wind carries whispers from the Hollow. I fear we've only wounded it, not killed it."
Kael's expression darkened. "Then we'll finish what we started."
Elira's voice softened. "You can't fight what you don't understand. The Shadow King was more than a man. He was a vessel — a bridge between flame and void. And Isolde…" She hesitated. "She may be the other half of that bridge."
Kael turned sharply. "Don't say that."
"She feels him still, doesn't she? In dreams? In moments when her fire turns cold?"
He said nothing.
Elira exhaled, her breath misting in the night air. "There's something I never told you. When we first bound him, centuries ago, it wasn't by fire or steel. It was through love. Someone gave their heart to him — willingly. That bond held him for an age. When that love was broken, his chains shattered."
Kael's voice dropped. "You were there."
She met his gaze, pain flickering across her face. "Yes. And I carry the mark of it still."
Silence fell between them.
Then, faintly, from the lower courts, came the distant sound of screaming.
Kael and Elira raced down the corridors, the cold wind chasing their heels. They reached the courtyard to find guards gathered, torches blazing. A body lay on the stones — a servant, pale, eyes burned black.
Elira knelt beside him, her hands trembling. "The mark again."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Another?"
She nodded. "The same as Lord Teren. The same as the Hollow."
Isolde appeared at the far end of the courtyard, her face pale in the firelight. "What's happening?"
Kael turned to her, his voice low but firm. "Stay back."
Her gaze fell on the body — and then on the faint wisp of smoke that rose from its lips. It wasn't gray. It was gold and black.
Her pulse stuttered. "That's… my flame."
"No," Kael said quickly. "It's trying to mimic you. To turn them against you."
But the guards were already whispering, fear spreading like frost. The captain of the guard stepped forward, his voice shaking. "My prince, with respect — the people are terrified. If this continues, they'll demand justice. They'll demand her."
Kael's voice cut through the murmur like a blade. "Anyone who touches her answers to me."
He took Isolde's arm, leading her away before the whispers could grow teeth.
As they vanished into the halls, Elira rose slowly, her eyes fixed on the rising smoke that lingered in the air. She could almost hear it forming words.
The flame feeds on what it loves.
She turned toward the shadows beyond the torches — and for an instant, saw a figure standing at the edge of the courtyard. Cloaked, motionless, watching. The same amber eyes as before.
When she blinked, he was gone.
---
Deep beneath the Citadel, in a chamber long forgotten, the raven roosted on a broken throne of stone. Around it, the air pulsed with dim black fire.
The ember had begun to grow.
And from the darkness came a whisper — faint, cold, and patient.
The king is dead. Long live the fire.