The Tower does not sleep that night. Not after what they saw.
The Council
The Council chamber is a furnace of voices. Shadows flicker across obsidian walls etched with ward-light as the ten councilors argue, their words clashing like steel.
"She is a danger to us all.""She is the key to victory.""Victory? Or ruin?""She must be contained—""—she must be harnessed—""—she must be killed."
The eldest sits unmoving in his throne, cloak heavy with runes that glow like dying embers. He lets the chaos unfold, his expression unreadable.
The winter-haired Arcanist steps forward, staff rings spinning with a hum. His smile is faint, almost amused. "You argue as if the decision is ours. It is not. The Abyss has already chosen her. Our only choice is whether Bastion bends with the tide… or drowns in it."
That silences the room for a breath. Then the onyx-eyed councilor leans forward, her voice silk and steel. "So we direct the tide. Use her. Point her at our enemies. Let her devour them before they ever reach our gates."
The eldest finally raises a hand. "Enough." His voice cracks like stone under pressure, but it carries absolute weight. "She will not be caged. Not yet. She will be tested again. Watched. If she proves uncontrollable, we end her. Until then, fear will temper her chains."
The others bow their heads, though many lips still move with whispers. Fear and greed coil together, wrapping the chamber tight.
Darius
In the Kael stronghold, scarlet torchlight paints long shadows across carved stone. Darius Kael sits at the head of a long table, posture relaxed but golden eyes sharp. His followers—noble heirs, hardened warriors, Arcanists bearing silver insignias—lean forward, hungry for his words.
"You all saw her," Darius begins, lifting a cup of dark wine. The gold rim catches firelight. "The Abyssal vessel. Shadows, flame, raw hunger. Strong, yes." He sips, then sets the cup down deliberately. "But raw strength without discipline is chaos. Bastion has no place for chaos."
One of his men scoffs. "SSS+… how do we fight that?"
Darius smiles thinly. "You don't fight it. You shape it. Control it. Or if you cannot—" His finger taps the map of Bastion spread across the table. "—you bury it before it devours the city."
Murmurs ripple, some uneasy, some eager. Darius leans forward, his voice lowering but carrying sharp as a blade.
"She thinks herself already crowned. But Bastion remembers the Kael line. We have carried this city through every war. And I will not yield our throne to a stray child of shadows."
His hand clenches into a fist on the map. The room answers with quiet assent, like soldiers awaiting orders.
Plans are born in the firelight.
Veyra
The chamber they gave me is small, cold, walls carved with weak wards that buzz faintly whenever I move. They watch me through them, thinking the etchings will hold me if I break. The shadows laugh at their arrogance.
I sit on the edge of the narrow bed, the trial still burning in my veins. The shadows coil and twist around my arms, restless, their whispers brushing against my ears like silk threads.
Every word from today plays back in my head. The Council's threats. The crowd's awe. Darius's challenge. My own vow.
Climb? No. I will devour.
The thought feeds the fire inside me until my pulse races.
The candle on the table flickers. The shadows in the corners stretch longer, darker, swallowing the faint glow. The air chills.
And then—her.
Little ember.
The voice slides into the room, not through air but through me. Familiar. Seductive. Infinite.
The shadows rise around me, wrapping my arms like a lover's embrace. My breath catches.
"You," I whisper.
The laugh that answers is low, layered with a thousand echoes. You carry my mark well. Already they fear you. Already they whisper your name. Empress.
The word trembles inside me. Empress. The crowd had whispered it. Darius had spat it. But from her lips—it feels real.
My chest tightens. "What do you want from me?"
The shadows tighten, almost possessive. Want? Nothing. I have given. And what I give cannot be taken back. But fear… fear is a seed. Feed it, and it grows into worship. Or into war.
Her tone softens, almost intimate. Choose carefully, little ember. For once you bloom, there will be no undoing.
The shadows brush against my cheek like a caress. My pulse races faster, heat and chill tangling until I can't tell them apart. It feels like temptation. Like power. Like promise.
Then she's gone. The candle burns steady again. Only silence remains.
I press a hand to my chest, breath sharp, shadows still curled tight around me.
Fear is a seed.
And tomorrow, Bastion will water it.