One week after the birth of Prince Elion, the streets of Eldhaven still smelled of smoke and celebration. Banners of crimson and gold lined every arch. The people called him many things—"the Flameborn," "Son of Storm and Steel," "Hope Reborn."
But Uthred saw something else when he looked at his son.
A future he might not live to see.
He stood in the royal solar, the baby wrapped in a firecloth, Vale asleep nearby. Outside, the city buzzed. But in this room, silence reigned.
Uthred turned to the old map of Eldhame, tracing the old borders—the lost provinces, the broken roads, the ancient ruins where the gods once whispered.
They had won a battle.
But the war had only begun.
The royal council gathered in the Flamekeep Hall, each member seated beneath the great dome of hammered bronze. Light flickered across their faces as a fire blazed in the central hearth.
Maera, ever the strategist, opened first. "We still have half a kingdom that does not kneel. The Northern Lords wait behind stone walls. The Western cities remember the old faith. If unity is our goal, we must speak to them in the language they understand."
"Steel?" said Jorlan.
"No," she replied, casting a glance toward Uthred. "Symbol."
Eamon unrolled a scroll. "We send emissaries. Nobles loyal to the Flame. They carry your decree and your child's name. A new age is born—let them see the fire and know it will not fade."
Uthred nodded slowly. "I want peace. But if peace is refused, I will not beg for it."
He rose.
"Summon the banners. Rally the lost. Rebuild the roads. We do not just reclaim Eldhame—we restore it."
That night, as the plans of state turned to logistics, another shadow moved in the halls.
Ser Emric, Lord of Thornvale, walked with silent purpose toward the west tower. A scroll hidden in his sleeve, his eyes flicking left and right.
He had served Uthred's father once. And betrayed him.
Now, he had hoped the past would die in fire.
But it had not.
Maera caught him beneath the arch of the tower stairs.
"Running again, Emric?"
He turned, startled.
"I walk where I please."
She drew her dagger. "You've walked too far."
"Think carefully," he warned. "If I die, the West burns."
Maera stepped closer. "It already burns. But you won't be there to see it."
One strike. Silent. Final.
The traitor fell.
She dragged the body to the cellar and lit the torch herself.
Uthred did not sleep.
When he did, his dreams twisted. The gods of old, long silent, now murmured again.
He saw Elion walking a path of ash.
He saw Vale crowned in light, holding the broken sword of the last king.
He saw fire rising from the ruins of a temple.
And a voice:
> "You have lit the spark. But only your blood can carry it."
He woke at dawn, cold sweat down his spine.
On the highest tower of Eldhaven, Uthred stood with his son in his arms.
Vale joined him, her cloak dancing in the wind.
He raised the child to the wind.
"I name him Elion, heir of Eldhame. Let all who hear this know—the crown is flame, and it endures."
From the valley, horns answered. Banners rose. The city awoke to promise.
The war was not over.
But a legacy had begun.