House Moriba's halls stretched like a fever dream—gold melting off the walls, torchlight twitching like it was afraid. Everything here smelled too sweet. Perfume with a corpse buried beneath it. Velvet shadows. Sugar-crusted rot. Lies wrapped in silk.
Solric's armor whispered behind me. Metal over muscle. Tension. That grinding? His jaw. Always did that when we were about to step into hell.
"This reeks worse than a corpse cart," he muttered. Just for me.
I didn't answer. My hand slid to the dagger beneath my cloak. Cold steel. Still there. Still waiting. Like me.
The servant led us deeper. No footsteps. No voice. Just a flicker of shadow that peeled away from the wall and moved like sin. Every turn was a promise of betrayal. Every step a dare.
Then—her.
Lady Syrene. Draped across a throne that could've fed a city for a year. Gold eyes gleaming, smile like a blade dipped in wine. She looked at me like I was meat—and she liked hers screaming.
"Well," she purred, voice smooth as silk drawn across skin, "the runaway wolf."
My spine straightened. "Princess."
She laughed, slow and poisonous. "Seeking shelter, or just looking to die with flair?"
I didn't blink. "Allies."
"Cubs shouldn't play with foxes, little wolf."
I stepped closer. "Depends how hungry the fox is."
The chamber smelled wrong. Like someone poured honey over a battlefield. Thick wine, rotting roses, and that quiet copper sting. Blood. Always blood.
Syrene poured two goblets. Didn't spill a drop. The wine shimmered like fresh blood.
"Drink."
I didn't touch mine.
"Smart girl." She smirked, swirling hers. "Dead ones rarely are."
Solric slammed a fist on the table. The goblets trembled. Candles flared like they were afraid.
"Enough games. Give us your answer."
Syrene examined her nails. Sharp. Polished. Predatory. "War drains coffers. Loyalty bleeds gold. What's your broken little crown worth, princess?"
I slammed the parchment down. The wax seal cracked like bone. A sound that silenced the air.
She read. Smiled. The kind of smile you see before your throat opens. "Desperation looks good on you."
My lungs burned. Words came slow. Measured. "Not. Enough."
Her dagger slid into her hand like it belonged there. Gold handle. Ruby glint. "Then let's play. First blood wins."
Solric's chair scraped back. "This is madness!"
"No," she said, twirling the blade. "This is survival. Weakness? That's fatal."
I took the blade. It was warm. From her. From blood. From promise.
--------
Silence. Thick. Heavy. Then—movement.
She struck like lightning dressed in lace. No warning. No breath.
Blade kissed air. I moved—half a second too slow.
Heat bloomed along my cheek. Not pain. Not yet. Just the knowledge of hurt. Real. Deep. Red.
Syrene licked the edge. "Your turn."
The steel felt heavier in my hand. Like it wanted blood. Like it remembered hers.
I stepped in close. She didn't flinch. Neither did I.
The blade hovered at her throat. Close enough to draw a single, waiting drop.
Her breath hitched. Only once. Then she smiled again. That same damn smile.
"You'll burn bright, won't you?" she whispered.
I dropped the dagger between us. It clattered. Final.
"Talk."
She leaned back like the queen of knives. "War is a dance, princess. The floor is yours."
-----
Later, alone with the blood and silence, I finally exhaled.
The torchlight flickered. The dagger still gleamed.
I won. Probably.
But Syrene's eyes—fox eyes, flame eyes—still lingered in the air. Watching.
I'd walked away.
But something in me whispered—
She let me.
—--------------------------------
(Kaelith emberclaw POV;)
The world? Black.
Not just dark—alive.
It pulsed. It breathed. Like a sleeping god on the edge of waking.
I looked at my hands. Flames curled over skin—not red. Not orange. Black. Deeper than void. Hungrier than death. And yet—mine.
Should've felt pain. Should've shattered from within. Bones snapped. Muscles torn.
Instead… power.
And beneath it—
Hunger.
A whisper slid through my skull. Smoke through a crack in the world.
"Reborn, Kaelith. Rebirth needs sacrifice."
Jaw clenched. "What are you?"
Laughter answered. Old as the first fire. Bone-deep.
"Not what. Who."
Memory surged—battlefield screams, my father's shadow, a buried name.
"And soon," the voice hissed, "you'll remember."
My hands burned brighter.
Black Flame twisted. Welcoming.
—
Princess zetulah viridian POV;
(Viridian Encampment, Midnight)
The Moriba pact pressed against my side. Safe in satchel. Not safe in soul.
No peace in me.
Solric's face—tight, unreadable. "Princess. Come. You need to see this."
I followed him past tents. Past half-sleeping guards. Into the trees.
There—
A soldier. Or what remained.
Tied to a tree. Armor scorched. Flesh like paper. Burned. Peeled.
One word carved into bark:
TRAITOR.
Air stank. Char. Blood. Fury.
My fists clenched. "Ours."
Solric nodded. Eyes dead. "Ragnis knows."
My chest thudded. Pact pulsed. Warline drawn.
Message sent.
Clear as flame.
This war—now personal.
---
(Kaelith emberclaw POV;)
Flames danced behind Ragnis Emberclaw like living serpents.
Warlords stood in a circle—wolves dressed as men.
"My son betrayed us."
His voice? Ice wrapped in fire. Enough to still blood.
One warlord—bold or stupid—spoke.
"My King, if Prince Kaelith lives—"
Flame shot out. Screams sliced short. The scent of burning flesh.
Ash drifted down. Like snow.
Ragnis turned to Vornar. Eyes lit with something inhuman.
"Kaelith is no son of mine."
Vornar bowed. Expression blank. "He won't live long."
"Good." Ragnis's voice cracked mountains. "Hunt him. Burn the earth. Black Flame dies."
The silence after was a grave.
And war? No longer politics. Now vengeance.
I stood on bones. On ash. On old rage.
Ruins stretched around me—familiar.
Father's first war. Where blood made him King.
Now it's mine.
The voice returned.
"Your father's fire? Kindling next to what sleeps beneath."
I dropped to my knees.
Hand touched soil. Something ancient stirred.
Black fire erupted.
Ground cracked. Air screamed. The ruins burned again—this time from within.
Flame became beast. A thing of heat and hunger.
And in its heart—
A memory flared. A face. A name. Mi
ne. All mine.
The voice again. A storm whisper.
"Black Flame doesn't die."
Far away—in a throne wreathed in fire—
My father shivered.
First time in decades—
The Fire King felt fear.