The high hall of the Sovereign Court was carved from marble and obsidian, pillars rising like blackened spears toward a ceiling of silver inlay. Every noble seat was filled, silks and steel gleaming beneath the torchlight. Yet for all the grandeur, the air carried a sharp edge of fear.
Messengers had arrived breathless. Their words spread like fire through dry grass:
The summoning at Cindermoor failed.
The Crimson-haired boy unleashed power not seen in an age.
The Crimson Spark is real.
At the dais, Sovereign Arcturus leaned forward on his throne of blackened gold. His face was carved in stone, but his eyes burned. "Repeat it," he commanded, voice low, dangerous.
The kneeling messenger swallowed hard. "The circle was broken, my lord. Our chosen collapsed in fire and ash. And… the boy, Kael Rivenhart—"
"Speak the name again," the Sovereign interrupted.
The messenger trembled. "…Kael Rivenhart. He… he wielded fire not of this world. The Crimson Spark. The spawn fled from him. Even the rift recoiled."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Nobles shifted, some pale, some trembling with a hunger that was almost worse.
High Chancellor Veyra rose from her seat, robes flowing. "Then it is true. The old prophecies stir. A child born of blood and ash. Sovereign… this cannot be ignored."
From the shadows of the chamber, General Kaelor slammed a gauntleted fist to his chest. "If he wields such fire, he is a weapon. Nothing more. We will seize him and bend him to the Sovereign's will. Or break him if he refuses."
A hiss of dissent answered. Lady Seliora, her voice sharp as a dagger: "Fool. Do you not see? A power that breaks the veil itself cannot be shackled. If you push, it will burn you alive."
The court erupted into shouts. Some cried for Kael's execution. Others for his capture. Some whispered of using him as a herald, a living banner for war.
The Sovereign let them bark and bicker, his silence heavier than their noise. Finally, he rose. The chamber fell instantly quiet.
His voice rolled like thunder.
"Whether weapon, omen, or curse, this Kael Rivenhart carries the spark. That makes him mine."
The words echoed, sealing into stone.
And in the shadows behind the throne, where most pretended not to look, the robed figure of Kaelen—once high sorcerer, now heretic in whispered legend—watched with eyes that glimmered faintly violet. His lips curled, unreadable.