Volume 2 – Inheritance of Fire
Chapter 4 – The Summit: Day One
Part 1 - Ezra Arrives
The Grand Hall of Hollowreach brimmed with tension barely concealed beneath silk and smiles. Banners hung from vaulted ceilings, the colors of distant cities and rival domains arrayed like chess pieces around long feasting tables. There were too many eyes, too many ambitions stitched into every cloak and toast.
Nobles postured, generals sized up their counterparts, and emissaries whispered behind jeweled fans. But it was all ritual. They had come expecting theater, power displays, ceremonial praise.
Instead, I gave them a feast.
Roasted wyvern haunch lay beneath golden crusts, jeweled goblets brimmed with chilled elixirs, and spell-music drifted from unseen choirs. No speeches. No decrees. Just wine, laughter, and the hum of false security.
Ezra had finally arrived during the second course, cloak dusted from the road, eyes sharp despite the miles.
"You're late," I murmured with a grin as he stepped beside me.
"I came the moment I heard."
I handed him a goblet without looking away from the crowd. "We need you watching. Quietly. I want to know who these people really are—what they fear, what they want, what they'll resist."
He nodded once. "Consider it done."
By the time he slipped into the crowd, I was already seated with Lord Verent of Ironpass. He was old nobility, dressed in velvet the color of coal.
"You honor us, Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly. "This hall... it has not looked so regal in an age."
"It's only the start," I replied. "Regalia feeds pride. I'm here to feed hope."
He blinked, unsure whether to be flattered or wary.
At another table, Tyla debated the price of mage-blood ink with a scribe-lord from Nareth. Joric dined with a trio of beastkin ambassadors. Even Rowen had loosened his usual scowl and shared a tale of border patrols gone awry, earning a round of laughter.
As the plates cleared and glasses refilled, I rose—not to speak, but to signal. A steward moved through the room, distributing scrolls.
Inside: the summit's true purpose. The reforms. The mandates. The expectation of unity.
Trade regulation. Infrastructure overhaul. New roadway systems. Compulsory education. Magic licensing. Civil rights for all. Military restructuring. Kingdom-wide census.
The room shifted. Forks paused mid-air. Murmurs rippled like distant thunder.
One noble—young, sharp-eyed—read the scroll twice and leaned to whisper, "Is he mad?"
Another, a city-stateswoman from the southern coast, laughed beneath her breath. "Finally. Someone with teeth."
Ezra returned to my side as I moved back toward the dais. "Some are eager. Others are sharpening their knives."
"Good," I said. "Let them all come hungry. Tomorrow, we feed them change."
Day One ended with music, dancing, and cordial conversations. But beneath every cordial word pulsed the same question:
What kind of king is he becoming?
They would find out soon enough.
The Grand Hall had fallen silent.
The music had long since faded, the laughter buried beneath the echoes of emptied chairs and shuffled footsteps. The hearth still crackled, casting gold light across the long, abandoned tables. What had earlier been a theater of diplomacy now resembled a battlefield after banners had fallen—only the scent of wine and roasted meats remained.
Ezra sat across from me, boots propped on a silver-inlaid bench, tunic unbuttoned at the neck. He looked like he belonged in every world and none at all—faded noble, wandering spy, scholar of human nature.
He swirled the wine in his glass, studying me over the rim. "You've grown sharper," he said. "Colder, maybe. But not dull. That was quite a performance."
I leaned back, watching the shadows dance across the high stone walls. "And you haven't changed at all. You still show up late and expect to catch up without missing a beat."
Ezra grinned. "I've got good ears. And better eyes."
We sat in silence for a while, the quiet not awkward but earned. Finally, he pulled a small leather-bound folio from inside his cloak and set it on the table between us.