Our northern Emperor, Soren of Nevareth, woke to the sound of bells. A hundred of them, chiming from the temple towers and echoing over the crimson roofs. Sleep had not been kind to him, no, his thoughts had wandered the entire night, circling the same flame: her. The woman of Solmire. The Queen of Fire.
He had dreamed of molten gold and the taste of heat upon his tongue, and when dawn came, he found that even ice-born emperors could wake sweating.
The courtiers were already assembled in his hall, arrayed in their crisp blues and silver whites, speaking of treaties and timetables. The renewal of peace between their countries, an event older than any of them, steeped in blood and history was set to be sealed beneath the Ascendant Flame that very night.
But dear reader, Soren could hardly keep his mind on politics.
