Zafran woke to stillness.

  The kind that felt wrong after so many nights filled with flame and thunder. His old room—spacious, high-ceilinged, with cracked beams and a long-forgotten coat of arms above the hearth—felt more like a stranger’s memory than home. The bedding was clean, but the air still smelled of dust and age.

  He sat up, silence pressing heavier than armor.

  Below, a faint sound. Movement. Deliberate.

  Zafran found Isolde in the main hall, sleeves rolled, sweeping dust and broken twigs from the stone floor.

  “You… shouldn’t be doing that,” he muttered, still hoarse with sleep.

  She didn’t look up. “The staff aren’t here yet. And it’s filthy.”

  “They’ll be here soon.”

  “It’s still filthy.”

  He leaned against the doorframe. “You’re a court guest now. Pretty sure sweeping’s not in the role.”

  “I’m not royalty,” she said flatly. “And I don’t like stepping on beetles.”

  A pause.

  Zafran almost smiled. Almost.

  Then: “We should talk. About what’s next.”

  She set the broom aside with a faint clack. “Lucian’s not going to stop. That much is obvious.”

  He said nothing.

  She rested a hand on the old banister, not looking at him. “Ocean Tide’s bleeding. People need leadership, walls, medicine—anything. If they ask, I’ll stay. Help where I can. I’d like to put a sword through Lucian anyway.”

  Zafran watched her. Quiet. Tired.

  “And Karin’s out there,” he said. “Ysar too.”

  Isolde nodded. “Somewhere.”

  “If we stay here… we lose the trail.”

  “Then you lose it,” she said. “Pick what you’re willing to lose.”

  Zafran didn’t speak.

  She stepped closer, voice steady—softer, but not gentle.

  “I’m not going to pretend I knew them. Or cared like you did. But think of it, Ocean Tide—Karin, Ysar… they went different ways. Days ago. You don’t even know where to start.”

  She paused.

  “If you want to go, then go. No one’s stopping you. Just—pick your choice.”

  Zafran’s jaw tightened. His eyes dropped. Silence hung between them.

  “You can’t fix everything,” she added. “Not alone.”

  “I’m not trying to fix everything,” he said quietly. “But I…”

  She held his gaze, unreadable.

  “Good,” she said. “Then don’t.”

  A long pause followed. Zafran turned toward the window, watching the rooftops catch the pale morning light.

  “I don’t know what’s right anymore.”

  Isolde didn’t move. Her voice came low, dry:

  “Then start with polishing that dining table.”

  The stones beneath Karin’s boots still smoked.

  She stood alone in the charred hollow where fire had swallowed everything. Her coat was scorched at the hem, her hands faintly glowing—gold light pulsing just beneath the skin.

  The voice coiled through her thoughts like smoke.

  “Look at you. Ash-blooded girl. Playing with divinity.”

  She clenched her fists. Flame flared at her knuckles.

  “You think you’re in control?” Aftree’s voice thickened. “You’re a flicker in the dark. A breath. I burned empires. I was worshipped in screams.”

  “I didn’t ask for you.”

  “And yet here I am—bleeding through your veins. Isn’t that funny?”

  The fire flared again—unstable, too hot.

  Karin breathed in hard. “You’re not alive.”

  “Neither are you. Not truly. Not after what you did.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did. You burned them. And for a moment… you liked it.”

  “I didn’t mean to!”

  “Meaning dies in fire.”

  The flame curled tighter around her shoulders, alive with anger.

  Then—

  A breeze. Sudden. Cold.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The flame vanished.

  Like someone had snapped their fingers and stolen it from the world.

  Karin gasped.

  A figure leaned against a twisted tree just behind her—arms folded, wind in his hair, a crooked grin on his face like he’d been watching for a while.

  Short cloak. Loose collar. Barefoot.

  Light. Too light.

  “You again,” Aftree muttered, voice sour. “Trouble.”

  The man smiled. “You always talk too much for a dead thing.”

  A beat passed.

  “She’s not ready.”

  “She’s not yours.”

  Karin’s breath caught. Her hands were empty. Cool.

  She turned. “Who are you?”

  He tilted his head. “Just cleaning up ghosts.”

  Aftree hissed—deep, low, from inside her ribs. “Alright The dead should stay silent…”

  And then—

  Silence.

  Utter.

  The fire within her dimmed—not extinguished, but quiet. Contained.

  The man let out a breath. “That’s better.”

  Karin stared. Her heart thundered. “Who are you?”

  The grin stayed. “Call me a friend of the wind.”

  Then he turned, stepped lightly past her, like he barely touched the earth.

  “Maybe if you want answers,” he called over his shoulder, “you should follow.”

  With one light-footed leap, he was already halfway across the ruins, too fast, too far.

  “Wait!”

  She ran.

  Then—too far, too fast—she used her flame, launching herself forward in a burst of heat.

  Too hard.

  She overshot. Her landing would break something.

  But just before impact, the wind surged—caught her, slowed her, laid her down like a leaf on a current.

  She blinked. “What—”

  “Shouldn’t use what you can’t control,” the man said, suddenly standing beside her again.

  Karin scrambled to her feet, breath short.

  He smiled. “Alright. I’ll walk slower this time.”

  And then he moved again—gliding forward like the world bent around his stride.

  Karin followed.

  Not because she trusted him.

  But because whatever came next—he was already ahead.

  The chamber was silent.

  Not ruined—just empty. Stone walls, silver inlay, and the lingering scent of ash and old incense.

  Lucian sat at the far end of the war table. Alone.

  The Flame Ash was gone.

  Varzen was gone.

  And the weapon he’d spent years preparing had turned divine—and disappeared.

  A hollowbound shard lay in front of him, blackened and bent. He hadn’t moved it for hours.

  Every calculation had been precise.

  Every step aligned.

  Until she broke the script.

  Until the fire spoke back.

  His jaw locked. A glint of golden glyphlight flickered under his gauntlet—anger bleeding through his restraint.

  Then—

  The air shifted.

  No sound. Just a weight.

  Like a curtain drawn in reverse.

  “You’re quiet, this time,” a voice murmured.

  Lucian didn’t look up.

  “I warned you about trusting remnants,” she continued.

  She stood near the archway now, hands clasped, gown trailing behind like spilled ink. Her presence bent the room. Familiar. Unwelcome. And persistent.

  He finally spoke. “You didn’t warn me. You whispered. Like always.”

  Her smile was faint. “And you always listened. Like you are now.”

  Lucian leaned forward, resting elbows on the table.

  “You come when things fall apart. You never offer plans—just… options. Dangerous ones.”

  “Better than silence,” she said, stepping closer. “And now you need one.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  She circled the table slowly. Not touching. Just close enough for her voice to carry.

  “You chased fire and found wrath. But not all power screams. Some of it waits. Below. Behind. Beneath.”

  Lucian’s eyes met hers. Cold. Tired.

  “You talk like a god.”

  “I talk like someone who’s seen them die.”

  A pause.

  Then she added, softer:

  “You don’t need a vessel, Lucian. You need a claim. And I can show you how to make one.”

  He exhaled once, long. Controlled.

  “…What’s the cost?”

  Her grin widened. “You’ve already paid it. You just haven’t noticed what you lost yet.”

  Lucian stared.

  And said nothing.

  She turned, voice trailing:

  “I’ll be waiting. Like always.”

  Then she was gone.

  No door. No step.

  Just… absence.

  And Lucian sat alone again—except for the shard.

  Still warm.

  Still humming.

  The knock came just after dusk.

  Zafran opened the door to find Ealden on the step, half-armored and stiff from the cold. Beside him stood Seren, her cloak gathered in one hand, expression unreadable in the low light.

  Neither waited for invitation. They stepped inside as if they’d already crossed this threshold in thought long before.

  “You’re settling in,” Ealden said, glancing around. “Good.”

  “It’s quieter,” Zafran murmured. “Cleaner, too.”

  He didn’t elaborate, but the change was obvious: the stone floors swept, the hearth lit, the curtains drawn back. A faint scent of soap still lingered.

  “The staff arrived?” Ealden asked.

  “They did,” Zafran said.

  Seren took in the room, slow and measured. “It suits you. Heavy air. Empty corners. Like someone who came home by accident.”

  Zafran almost smiled. Almost.

  “We’re here with news,” Ealden said. “And a request.”

  Seren stepped forward. “The court wants to hold a ceremony.”

  Zafran blinked. “What kind?”

  “Your knighting,” Ealden said. “The one you were denied.”

  Zafran’s posture shifted, just slightly. “That was ten years ago.”

  “And it was wrong,” Seren said. Her voice didn’t rise. “You were exiled for politics, not for cause. My father intends to correct that. Publicly.”

  Zafran was quiet. “And I’d be knighted into… what, exactly?”

  Seren’s gaze didn’t flinch. “You’d be named my personal knight. Answering to me alone”.

  Zafran blinked, looked to Ealden.

  “Old ceremony, I only read about it once in history book,” the commander added.

  Zafran’s voice was dry. “And if I say no?”

  “Then we thank you,” Ealden said. “And walk out.”

  Seren’s reply was quieter. “And I worry more.”

  The silence lingered.

  Zafran turned slightly toward the hearth. “You’ll stay for tea?”

  Seren arched an eyebrow. “You drink tea this late?”

  “I’ve had worse things keeping me up.”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll try it.”

  Ealden limped to a chair by the fire. “I hope the flue’s still working.”

  “It is,” Zafran said. “Had to fix it myself.”

  Seren took the seat opposite, eyes scanning the beams and cracked crest above the mantle. “Feels like this place was waiting.”

  Zafran exhaled. “No. Just good at staying quiet.”

  Footsteps clicked from the hall.

  Isolde entered—neat as always, sleeves rolled, hair tied back. Her gaze flicked over them all, unreadable.

  “You’re still here,” Ealden noted.

  “I’m not a ghost,” she replied.

  She moved to the cabinet, pulled down a kettle, and with a flick of her palm, lit the stove. Fire flared, soft and precise.

  “I thought the staff were handling that,” Seren said.

  “They are,” Isolde replied. “But I don’t like waiting.”

  She worked quietly, fluidly—water poured, cups prepared, not rushed but with absolute certainty.

  “Three cups,” she said. “No sugar. The rest of them are either asleep or pretending.”

  Zafran raised a brow. “You serve tea now?”

  Isolde didn’t look at him. “No. But they weren’t going to do it right.”

  She set the cups down, took her seat—not deferentially, but deliberately.

  Seren accepted the cup with a slight nod. “Thank you.”

  Isolde didn’t answer.

  Ealden leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Three days. That’s when the court gathers.”

  Zafran stared into the fire. “That’s a long time to rehearse a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t your mistake,” Seren said. “It was ours.”

  Ealden added, “This isn’t duty. It’s a correction. You can still walk away.”

  Seren’s voice softened. “But I hope you won’t.”

  Zafran looked at the flame, as if it might hold the shape of an answer.

  “And after?”

  “As personal knight you only need to answer to me,” Seren said. “Not the court. Not the crown, and I won’t ever try to control you either.”

  Isolde’s voice cut in, cool and calm. “That’s a generous leash.”

  Seren met her eyes.

  Isolde didn’t blink. “But he’ll take it. Because he needs something to hold. And this place is too quiet.”

  A beat.

  Zafran muttered, “You always speak for me?”

  “Only when you hesitate.”

  That time, Seren smiled—for real, but only for a second.

  Ealden stood. “Three days. Rest while you can.”

  He moved to the door. Seren followed. But before stepping out, she looked back once more.

  “I hope we could correct this,” she said.

  Then they left.

  The door shut gently behind them.

  Zafran sat in the fire’s glow a moment longer.

  He didn’t look up when he said, “You could’ve let them make the tea.”

  Isolde leaned back, arms crossed, watching the coals burn low.

  “I didn’t stay to drink bad tea.”