Part VI – Ashes of the Crown
The rain had stopped by morning, but Westernlight still smelled of smoke. The bells had not stopped tolling. Their sound crawled over the rooftops and through the narrow streets, too slow to be alarm, too steady to be comfort.
In the throne room, torches guttered in their sconces, smoke trailing into the vaulted dark. The King lay on the dais where he had fallen, shrouded in the same banner that once hung above his throne.
Commander Delun stood beside the body, helm under one arm, his eyes red from more than fatigue. His armor had been wiped clean of blood, but the smell of iron clung to him. Around him, councilmen argued in hushed, venomous voices.
"The people will riot if they see him like this," said one. "We must show strength. We must name his successor before dusk."
"Successor?" spat another. "There is no successor. His son's still in the North, and the road's been cut by raiders. You'd crown a rumor?"
"Then name a regent," the first shot back. "Before the guilds do."
Their words clanged like dull metal in Delun's skull. He turned toward them, voice even and cold. "You'll name no one until the body is cold and buried. Until then, this city answers to me."
The council fell silent.
"You?" one ventured finally. "You're a soldier, not a statesman."
Delun met his gaze. "Today, that's all that's left."
–––
Outside the keep, the courtyard had turned to mud. Soldiers moved like ghosts through the drizzle, hanging black cloth from the walls. Market carts lay overturned in the streets, their wares soaked and trampled.
Valen stood among them, still in his dented armor. His sword hand was bandaged where the assassin's blade had glanced him, but his mind replayed the moment again and again — the sound of steel through flesh, the King's eyes gone wide with disbelief.
"Ser Valen."
He turned. A young page stood there, pale and trembling. "The council requests your presence at the High Chamber."
Valen looked toward the keep, its towers swallowed by fog. "Tell them I'll come when I can stand the sight of them."
The boy hesitated. "They say the commander's taken control."
Valen's eyes flicked toward the banners dripping black in the rain. "Then the city might survive the night."
He started walking — not toward the keep, but toward the temple. His boots left dark prints in the mud.
–––
Inside the temple, the air was thick with incense and whispered prayers. The seer Chaste sat on the steps before the altar, a blanket around her shoulders, her gaze unfocused. Every priest kept a careful distance.
When Valen entered, the sound of his armor drew her eyes. For a moment she seemed to see through him — through the man, through the guilt, into something deeper.
"You were there," she said softly.
He knelt beside her. "I should have stopped it."
"No," she whispered. "You couldn't. It was already written."
"Then tell me what else is written."
Her eyes flickered, pale as stormlight. "Fire beneath the crown. Blood that isn't royal. A city that burns from within before the war without begins."
Valen's throat tightened. "You're speaking in riddles again."
"Not riddles," she said. "Memory."
Her gaze turned distant. "He's not gone, you know. The King. He still walks in the dream, trapped between the gates. I saw him standing on a bridge of light, and beyond it the shadow that wears his face."
Valen rose abruptly. "Enough."
But she caught his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "They'll come for you next, knight of light. The shadow remembers who drew his blood."
He pulled away, the weight of her words following him out into the rain.
–––
By midday, Westernlight had become a city of whispers. The news of the King's death spread faster than the smoke still curling from the palace roof. In taverns, men drank to the commander. In alleys, others spat his name.
The guilds moved before sunset. Rasclaw patrols appeared at the southern gates "for protection," and Lostgrace blades shadowed the councilmen through the market quarter.
At the Lionroar barracks, Delun stood over a map of the city. "They'll move on the treasury by dawn," he said. "Rasclaw first, then Lostgrace. We'll cut them at the bridge before they unite."
A captain hesitated. "And if they don't take the bait?"
Delun's mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "Then we burn the bridge."
–––
Night fell like a slow exhale.
From the palace tower, the city stretched below — lanterns glowing dimly through fog, rivers of light flowing between rooftops. Somewhere in that maze, a thousand loyalties were shifting, snapping, reforming.
Valen climbed the last step of the tower, his cloak soaked, his face drawn. Delun was already there, staring east toward the dark horizon.
"Was it one of hers?" Valen asked.
Delun didn't turn. "Lostgrace? Likely. But they don't kill kings without payment."
"Then who paid them?"
"Ask Elvenhelm," Delun said. "Their letter warned him of a red moon. Perhaps they wanted to make sure he saw it."
Valen frowned. "You think the elves had a hand in this?"
"I think politics smells worse than any battlefield."
They stood in silence for a long while, the wind snapping the black banners around them. Below, the drums of patrols echoed through the lower wards.
Valen finally said, "He trusted you."
Delun's jaw clenched. "And I'll honor that trust the only way I know — by keeping the living alive."
He turned, heading down the stairs. Valen stayed behind, looking toward the east.
Through the thinning clouds, the moon had begun to rise. It was not white. It burned red, bright enough to stain the mist.
–––
In the temple below, Chaste woke up screaming again.
Her voice filled the rafters, carried out through the rain, through the city, to the open fields beyond.
In her mind's eye, she saw two infants under that same red moon — their skin faintly gleaming, as though light itself had remembered them.
She gasped one final word before darkness took her again.
"Awaken."