The throne room of Emberhive Castle, known colloquially as the Hall of Fire, felt less like a regal chamber and more like a fortified cavern wrenched from the earth. Thick, crudely carved stone pillars rose like the jagged teeth of some primordial beast toward the ceiling, etched with ancient, tribal markings of the Ashfang clan. The cold, damp stone floor was partially covered by the pelts and furs of hunted beasts—practical for warmth, but equally serving as grim decoration.
The only illumination came from a pair of massive braziers, which devoured sap-rich wood. Their restless flames licked the air, casting dancing shadows and filling the cavernous space with the sharp, resinous scent of pine smoke and burned earth.
On the throne, a rough-hewn seat of obsidian-black stone, sat Yajin Ashfang, Lord of Emberhive Castle. His presence alone seemed to command the temperature of the room. He was broad-shouldered, his skin a deep, fiery red, and his long, silver-white hair cascaded over the immense white wolf-fur cloak draped across him like a mantle of winter. From his golden eyes, a gaze colder than the deepest underground glacier swept over the assembled Antmen.
The family heads of the Ashfang clan lined the perimeter of the hall, their red skin and protruding tusks gleaming dully in the firelight. Some were clad in heavy, battle-scarred armor, while others wore elaborate robes and fur cloaks. Every single one of them—powerful, proud warriors—stared with undisguised contempt at the figure standing silently before the throne: the Lord's bastard son.
The air was tight, heavy, and thick with unspoken judgment. None of the Antmen dared to murmur; they stood still, waiting for either the Lord or the disgraced son to make the first move.
Finally, the silence shattered as Yajin spoke, his voice surprisingly low, yet resonating perfectly through the deep hall:
"I am glad to see that you are unharmed, my son." He paused, the cold golden gaze momentarily softening, though it quickly hardened again. "Any trouble on the surface?"
Yanrid, a striking figure whose posture betrayed no weakness, moved only to withdraw a sealed parchment from beneath his cloak. He gestured to a nearby servant, handing over the detailed expedition report.
"The routes to Stagfall Forest and Boarback Meadow are secure. We have successfully stockpiled the required wood and meat," Yanrid reported, his tone flat and professional.
"Casualties?" Yajin asked, the single word hanging heavy in the smoky air.
Yanrid's composure faltered slightly, a flicker of pained gravity crossing his face. "Two hundred warriors died during the attacks of wild beasts, and six hundred foragers were lost during the expeditions into Stagfall Forest... A total of a thousand souls lost." His tone was heavy and pained with the burden of loss. "Still, we succeeded. We reached our quota, regardless of the staggering losses."
"You have done well, my son," Yajin replied, rising slowly from his throne. The movement instantly revealed his imposing, eight-foot height and bulging muscles that seemed to ache for the taste of battle long denied.
"We shall organize a cremation ceremony for the dead," Yajin declared, sweeping his cold gaze across the family leaders. "Console their families with an abundance of whatever they lack. It is the only way we can lessen their pain."
The family heads bowed low in unison. "It will be done," they affirmed.
"Anything else?" Yajin asked, sitting back down and staring straight at Yanrid.
"Apart from a sharp increase in the number of attacks from demon wolves, there is nothing else worth mentioning," Yanrid stated blankly.
Yajin stared at his son, his expression a complicated mask of pride and frustration. He sighed heavily, a rumbling sound, clearly wrestling with how to handle this competent but emotionally distant kin.
He then turned his attention to the clan leaders. "The rest of you can leave. I would like to speak privately with my son."
Swiftly and silently, the family heads of the Ashfang clan filed out, their heavy steps echoing into the stone corridors, leaving only Yajin and Yanrid in the vast, firelit chamber.
Yajin stood from the throne again and descended, his heavy steps measured and echoing in the sudden quiet of the Hall. Yanrid met his approach, his gaze steady, neither defiant nor submissive—just the same unwavering composure he had shown on the deadly surface.
When Yajin stopped before him, the Lord's stern expression softened just enough. He couldn't help but see the haunting resemblance his son bore to his deceased mother, who had tragically died giving birth to Yanrid.
"You have done well, Yanrid, my son. Many leaders fail at these tasks, even those of pure blood," Yajin said, his voice dropping now, speaking not as the Lord of Emberhive or the Patriarch, but simply as a father.
A faint, subtle flicker of warmth—the closest thing to a smile—crossed Yanrid's face before he instantly masked it, locking his emotions away again. Seeing this, Yajin could only sigh. It seemed his son would remain cold to him. He walked to one of the braziers, adding more resinous wood to the flames, then stared into the dancing heart of the fire.
"We have been called," he finally said, his tone turning serious and grave, laden with destiny. "His Majesty the King is awake, and he calls for us."
"What will you do?" Yanrid asked.
Yajin did not look away from the fire. He had fought side-by-side with the current King's father during the devastating attacks of the goblins. While his Lord had lost his life, Yajin had returned to the ant tribe on the brink of death with a defeated, broken army. No amount of apology or penance had ever been able to erase the shame he felt.
But now, this was it. This was the moment—the one opportunity he needed to redeem his honor and erase his long-held shame.
Yajin turned, his golden eyes blazing with renewed conviction, reflecting the firelight.
"We have been called," he stated, his voice ringing with absolute finality. "We must answer."