It had been eight moons since the child was born. The cries of celebration had long faded, and with them, the music and wine of that sacred seven-day festival. The boy, named Ashen Reuben, had already begun to show signs of strength in his grip and fire in his eyes. Many swore he looked like the king in his younger years, though older nobles whispered that the fire he bore was something... ancient. Beyond the bloodline.
But the king—King Edric—held fast to one decision.
"The boy will not be revealed," he had declared in the council chamber more than once. "Not until he can think and speak for himself. A man, not a child, will carry the weight of Valeria."
It angered some. Confused others. But none dared challenge it outright. Not yet.
The days of unity after the heir's birth had begun to erode. The six houses were growing restless. Whispers had returned—whispers of another child born in the palace, one not celebrated beneath banners, but hidden in shadow. A second cry heard the day Ashen was born. But there had been no confirmation. No proof. Only silence and locked doors. Only Diego, the lone knight, had dared stand between the rumors and the truth.
And the king… the king said nothing. He'd become colder in council, more silent in the royal halls. Even his wives noticed his changed demeanor.
Gold is the core of a woman, he often muttered to himself now. Not one of them could be trusted. Not even the mother of Ashen. He watched how they gazed upon the boy, not with love, but with hunger. For power. For legacy. Every smile was calculated. Every compliment, veiled.
His seer had warned him the day Ashen was born. Her words haunted him:
"All shall betray the crown and he who wears it."
He had asked, "Even blood?"
She had simply stared into the fire and said nothing.
So he waited. And watched.
But that morning, as dawn broke like blood over the Ember Spires, a chill silence fell over the castle. The jury had come.
Their entrance was as always—wordless, barefoot, cloaked in coarse sackcloth that clung to their pale forms. No eyes were visible beneath their hoods. Their hands were marked in ashes and wax. They moved without sound through the outer court, past the Royal Guard, straight into the king's chamber.
They sat. He did not rise to greet them.
The room stilled. Every breath was held.
Finally, the tallest among them spoke, his voice like dried leaves scraping over stone.
"We ask again, Your Grace. The Jaka'ar captives must be released to our tribunal for judgment. Their presence here defies the balance."
King Edric leaned forward, hands clasped.
"They remain in my care."
"It is not your right to hoard enemies of the realm."
"They are not enemies," Edric replied, calm but firm. "They are tools. And tools are not discarded until they have served their purpose."
The air grew tense. The jury did not argue. They never did. They merely stood and left in silence, like ghosts. But their message was clear—they would return. And when they did, they would not ask again.
When the great doors closed behind them, Lord Alric Grivorne stood up sharply, his grey cloak rustling like thunderclouds.
"You risk the wrath of the sacred tribunal for a few savage captives?" he spat. "For what purpose?"
The king rose now too. He walked past the others, hand on the back of his throne, and looked out the tall window toward the distant horizon.
He didn't answer at first. Then, in a low voice: "Because no one controls what i fought for. Not even those dressed in sackcloth."
Grivorne narrowed his eyes. "And what of the other rumor? That another child was born that day, not of your blood?"
Heads turned, whispers fluttered like moths. The king turned back to face them all.
"I am not the creator...Lord Alric.Any child could've been born during my son's moment."
"So the rumor is wrong your grace?"Lady lysia requests.
"Rumors are for the weak and spread by faint hearts." he replied ."I fathered a son of fire. That is the truth."
"But if another lives—"
"—Then it is the fate of the flame. " His voice boomed. "You forget yourselves and your purpose,my friends. There has only been one flame reborn since the Age of flame… .my son is chosen by the flame itself and unless you doubt my blood would you raise accusations."
Lady Lysia Vaelor, in her blue cloak, smiled softly from her corner seat. She did not speak, but her eyes gleamed. She knew the king was unraveling. And unraveling kings made poor decisions.
The room fell into a long silence.
Lord Varek Blackhall stood then, folding his arms across his white and black chestplate.
"If you claim to hold them as tools,then use them. Crush their spirit. Break their will. Or soothe them and be done with it. A king who hesitates becomes prey."
The King turned sharply.
"I do not hesitate.I explore possibilities before actions."
"Your grace.."Sir Varek Blackhall intervened.".....as your general commander,I propose ….that the captives are approached through the law of this very nation."
"The law I am very well aware of but i think beyond measures of death and fun,I want what no other king has ever tried to do." The king elaborates, grabs a goblet as his maiden filled it with wine.
"And what is this thing you seek, my King? Lady Thalira finally spoke,her voice soothing through the council room itself.
"What made me brought about this very kingdom into one...Unity."
"Unity relies on cooperation, one I believe this very house lacks."Lady Lysia retorted.
"Irrespective…they're prisoners who should be locked up my king."Lady Nymera cautioned,her voice as calm as always.
A flicker of tension passed through the room.
Lord Caelum Drayke glanced between them, his red cloak coiled at his boots.
"Enough, Let's not poison wounds with aggressive words.The king's child is the flame born. Let us not argue over old wars and shadows. The future lies ahead, not behind."
Nysha Nymera laughed softly behind her veil. "The future is always birthed in shadow, Lord Drayke. And this realm has many."
"The captives serves a purpose…that's all.This gathering is dismissed."
The king lifted his goblet and drank deeply. He wiped his lips and said nothing more. The meeting dissolved with tension unspoken.
But later that night, Daemar sat alone in his chamber. The fire burned low and so did his heart. He rubbed his temple with weary fingers,his system had started to fail him.
"You should've left when the child cried," he whispered to himself.
He thought of Kha'al—the other boy. Diego's report had returned. The child was healthy. Quiet. Strange. The woman barely spoke, but the child looked at people like he understood more than a baby should.
And that name… Kha'al. Flame.
He tossed his goblet aside and stood.
No matter what it meant—prophecy, betrayal, fate—he would not let this realm slip from his grip. Not while he still breathed.
He looked at the flame burning in the hearth. His reflection danced in the blade mounted over the mantel.
The seer's voice returned once again:
"A king shall die, for another king to rise, for another king to die."
He gritted his teeth.
"Let them come," he muttered. "Let the traitors move. Let the jury plot. Let the six houses watch. When the fire rises, only one name will remain."
He stared into the flame until sleep overtook him, and the fire burned low into the cold breath of dawn.