Night had fallen over Aurealis, and yet the capital did not sleep. The council's judgment echoed through taverns, marketplaces, barracks, whispered and distorted, fed by rumor like dry wood catching flame. Some said Lysander had been condemned, others that the Empress herself had chosen him as consort. Fear thickened the air; hope, too, though fragile, glimmered like sparks adrift in a storm.
Lysander walked the silent corridors of the lower palace, the child bundled in his arms. Her skin was still cold, her breath shallow but steady. Every time her chest rose, relief loosened the knot in his throat. He had seen many fall to the Fog's touch—never had one awakened again. Yet she lived. For how long, he could not say.
The guards who flanked the hall studied him with veiled suspicion. Word of her prophecy had already spread among them; some crossed themselves when their eyes brushed the child, others glared as if she were a weapon smuggled into the heart of the Empire.
At the far end, the doors of the chamber opened. The Empress awaited.
No court surrounded her now, no banners or scribes, only a brazier casting coils of flame across the marble floor. She dismissed the guards with a gesture, and the great doors closed with a hush. For a moment, it was only them: sovereign, healer, and the trembling child.
"You defied them," she said at last, voice low. "And yet you swayed them. You are a strange man, Lysander. Most plead for mercy when accused. You argued for necessity instead."
Lysander lowered the child onto a couch of velvet, tucking the blanket tighter around her frail form. He did not look at the Empress when he answered. "Mercy is a luxury. Survival is not."
Her smile was sharp, but not unkind. She circled him as if studying a rare beast brought into her menagerie. "Do you know why I did not let them condemn you?"
He straightened, meeting her gaze. "Because you need me."
The admission did not offend her. She seemed almost amused. "Yes. The Empire is brittle. The nobles squabble, the priests cling to relics, the generals grow old. But the Fog cares nothing for titles. It only devours. And in you I see… a man who does not flinch before that truth."
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could see the reflection of the brazier's fire in her eyes. "But necessity alone is not enough. The Empire needs more than a surgeon's blade. It needs a spark. A symbol. Something—or someone—to bind fear into resolve."
Her meaning was clear. Lysander shook his head. "I am no symbol. I am a man. Flesh, blood, and too many mistakes."
"Exactly," she whispered. "That is why you are dangerous. And why I will keep you close."
The child stirred, whimpering. Lysander turned instantly, crouching beside her. The Empress watched him, expression unreadable. "You care for her."
"She is innocent," he said. "A voice I cannot yet understand, but not an enemy. She has seen more than any of us."
"Or less," the Empress countered. "Children dream. Dreams turn to omens when desperate ears listen."
But even as she said it, her eyes lingered on the girl with something like fascination.
The brazier cracked, sparks spiraling upward. The Empress's tone softened, though steel ran beneath. "If this Heart exists, if the Breath will judge as she claims, then Aurealis cannot wait. We must ignite first. Strike before the enemy is fully born. Will you help me light that fire, Lysander?"
He studied her. To refuse was to risk exile, perhaps execution. To agree was to bind himself to her ambition, a flame that could as easily consume as protect. He thought of the dying he had failed to save, of sanctuaries collapsing under Fog's weight. He thought, too, of the girl's voice, strange and sure: The Heart awakens.
At last, he bowed—not deeply, but enough. "I will help. But not as your weapon. As your physician. As the guardian of what remains human in this Empire."
She tilted her head, considering. Then, with a quiet laugh, she extended her hand. "Very well. Physician or not, you are mine now. And together we will set the world alight."
When dawn rose, rumors swept the capital like wildfire. Some swore Lysander had been elevated, others that he had been bound in chains of gold. The truth lay somewhere between. Already, riders carried the Empress's command to the provinces: the Empire would not cower. Troops would muster, laboratories expand, resources drawn from every corner of her realm.
And in the sanctuaries, whispers spread faster than proclamations: that the Empress had chosen a healer of ash and blood as her spark, that prophecy stirred in the mouth of a child, and that judgment—whether salvation or damnation—was close at hand.