The fields beyond Valehold were silent now. No banners flew. No drums beat. The army of the Dust Empire had retreated beyond the hills, dragging their dead and their shame with them.
Uthred stood alone on the charred stone of the courtyard where the Hand had fallen. His armor was dented, his shoulder wrapped in bandages, his face marked with soot and pain.
But he stood.
Behind him, the bells of Eldhaven rang.
For victory.
For the King.
The ride back to the capital was long, but the road was lined with people—peasants, merchants, former rebels—cheering, throwing petals, shouting his name.
"Uthred the Flame King!"
"Long live the Lion's blood!"
He rode at a steady pace, flanked by Maera, Jorlan, and a column of battle-worn Flame Guards. Behind them trailed prisoners, broken siege weapons, and wagons filled with the armor of the fallen Hand's elite.
When the gates of Eldhaven opened, Vale was waiting.
She stood beneath a red banner bearing the lion and flame.
She walked to him, slow and radiant despite the exhaustion clinging to her limbs.
"You kept your promise," she said.
Uthred dismounted. "You kept the city."
They kissed—quiet, powerful.
The city roared.
The next day, the council chamber overflowed.
Lords and leaders filled every bench. Captains and scribes leaned against stone walls. The great bell of the Flamekeep tolled eight times—once for each war since Uthred's father's fall.
Maera stood before them.
"He has led us through storm. He has bled where many ran. And he has broken the Hand of the greatest Empire the world has seen."
She turned.
"Rise, Uthred of the Lion. Son of Eldhame. The throne is yours."
Uthred stepped forward.
"I did not come to rule," he said. "I came to fight. To free. To survive. But if a crown is the weight of peace—then I will carry it."
Jorlan placed the circlet upon his brow.
The throne, black stone and flame-veined gold, accepted its heir.
Uthred sat.
The court knelt.
That night, as the fires burned in celebration, a shadow slipped through the eastern wing of the palace.
A masked figure moved with practiced ease, bypassing guards, disabling locks, and entering the Queen's quarters.
Vale lay asleep. Her handmaidens dozed beside the hearth.
The assassin drew a thin, curved blade—a Dust Empire style.
He stepped toward the bed.
A whisper of steel.
Maera struck from behind the curtain, her dagger biting deep.
The assassin fell with a gurgle, his blade clattering to the stone.
Vale awoke with a gasp.
Maera stood over the corpse. "They'll never stop. Not until they believe you've won."
Vale placed a hand on her belly. "Then let's give them a reason to believe."
Three days later, thunder rolled again across Eldhaven—but this time, it came from the cries of new life.
Vale labored through the night, flames kept low, healers tending her with hushed prayers.
Uthred never left her side.
When the dawn broke, so did the silence.
A son.
Strong. Loud. Fierce.
Eyes like his mother. Jaw like his father.
Maera placed him in Uthred's arms. "The kingdom has its flame."
Uthred held the child high.
Outside, the people gathered. Bells rang. Fires were lit in every district.
They chanted a new name:
"Prince Elion. Flameborn of Eldhame!"
And so, in blood, fire, and storm, the crown endured.