Three days had passed since Ashen's meeting with Lord Elias Ironcrest. Nothing appeared to shift on the surface—no declarations were made, no alliances proclaimed. But among circles of nobles, silence carried weight. And inaction tended to be louder than action.
The Flameborn manor was peaceful, as it tended to be when a successful negotiation had returned home. Servants moved about in subdued purpose, and the familiar early morning clank of armor in the yard came back like clockwork.
Ashen stayed in the higher gallery, gazing down over the training grounds below. Two of the household knights sparred beneath him, their swords clashing out in rhythmic beat. But his mind was elsewhere—on the meeting with Lord Elias, the cryptic terms spoken, and more to the point, the fallout of that meeting.
He hadn't mentioned it to anyone. Not technically, anyway. Only his father and Sir Verrin knew the exact extent of what had transpired. To everyone else, it was a courtesy visit.
But gossip there would still be.
This kingdom always took care of it.
A Visitor for the Heir
"Ash—my lord Ashen, you have a visitor."
It was Mirth, a young servant, who approached him with wide eyes and an apologetic tone. Ashen shifted his gaze from the practice grounds and nodded. "Who is it?"
"A carriage with the Crestlyn crest came to the gate an hour ago. Lady Sylva Crestlyn has asked to see you."
Ashen's eyebrows went up a little. "Sylva…?"
Mirth nodded. "She awaits in the north salon."
Ashen did not move immediately. The Crestlyns were known to be cunning—never openly hostile, never idle. House Crestlyn had survived across generations not through brute force, but through negotiation, social pressure, and fostered friendships.
For Lord Helren Crestlyn's only daughter, Sylva, to summon them uninvited?
This was a message.
The North Salon
The north salon was one of the more refined rooms in the manor, lined with high, arched windows and sweet with the scent of polished wood and ancient books. Sylva sat in one of the armchairs, a tea cup resting delicately between her fingers as if she belonged there.
She looked up at Ashen, her face peaceful and unwavering. "Lord Ashen. It's been an eternity."
Ashen nodded politely. "Lady Sylva. I did not expect a visit to your home."
Her smile was not in her eyes. "No, I think not. But your recent travels have stirred the stagnant air, and I am. curious."
Ashen sat down slowly, pouring himself a cup of tea before sitting across from her. "Curiosity usually has motive behind it."
"Indeed. As does silence."
There it was.
Ashen tilted his head. "You're speaking of Stonehall."
"Surely. You visited the Ironcrests in the midst of rumors that they've overstepped. And now they're silent. You return, and Flameborn's silent. Silence like that rings out loud enough to reach even my father's ear.".
He met her gaze evenly. "If you're here to ask what passed between us, I'll offer only this—nothing that shifts the balance of the realm. Yet."
Sylva's smile turned more genuine. "Spoken like a true noble."
A brief pause passed between them, filled only by the ticking of a nearby clock and the soft breeze tapping at the windowpanes.
Then she said, "I am here because I believe that House Crestlyn and House Flameborn have more in common than our ancestors would admit."
Ashen leaned back in his chair. "Do we?"
Sylva sipped her tea. "We're both watching. Both waiting. Both underestimated."
It was true only.
"And then what do you propose?" he asked.
"Nothing, not yet. This is only a… prelude.".
Her subsequent visit was short thereafter. She didn't push the matter, and he didn't either. But as her carriage drove out of the gates of Flameborn, Ashen remained on the threshold of the manor for a considerable period, observing the dust cloud fade into the road beyond.
Another piece had been created.
And he knew there would be more.
In the Courtyard
In the afternoon, Ashen practiced out in the courtyard. Not merely to sharpen his skills, but to be seen. To permit the retainers, the squires, the house knights to watch him move—not as the frail heir who hid behind books and diplomacy, but as a Flameborn.
He fought Sir Caldus in a contest of cautious combat. The grizzled knight gave it his best, beating him with tremendous blows and skilled shifts of stance intended to test his sensitivity. Ashen answered him with agility and focus, not overpowering, but precise.
He lost, of course.
But not easily.
Not like the time before.
And that was what mattered.
Brushing sweat from his forehead, he spotted a group of servants in low-toned conversation near the barracks—glances flicking to him, then quickly away.
He didn't need ears to hear their words.
"Did you hear? He's seen Lord Elias. And Lady Crestlyn's been here now."
"They say he's making his move. But quietly. As his father did not."
"Perhaps he will. Or perhaps the other families will bury him for it."
Ashen didn't turn, didn't say a word. He just continued to practice with his sword again and returned to the center of the yard.
Let them talk.
That, too, was in the game.
At the Heart of Flameborn
That evening, as twilight bled across the sky, Ashen dined with his father and sister, Lady Elira. The dining hall was quiet, the table long and mostly empty save for the three of them.
Elira was the first to speak. "You've caused quite the stir, Ashen."
He glanced up from his plate. "I did what needed doing."
She smiled, eyes glinting with sharpness. "You always do. But do you know what you've started?"
"I know it's begun."
Orin Flameborn, who had remained silent at dinner, now spoke. "Crestlyn's focus is dangerous. They don't play a part lightly. And if they catch wind of something, others will too."
"I invite it," Ashen said.
Orin's expression was unreadable. "You shouldn't. Not yet."
Elira watched her brother for a moment. "If you wish to rise, you'll need to do better than gain attention. You'll need allies. Real ones. Individuals who will stand for you when the swords are unsheathed. And they will be, Ashen. They always are."
Ashen glared back at her. "Then I'll know who stands with me."
"And who does not," she added.
There was a toast that night, but it was silent. Not a cup one, but a glance one. With understood silences. In a home long believed to be asleep, the ember had started to re-kindle.
And the winds were changing.