Chapter 22: The Age Before Flame
The gods weren't fallen yet. But they were already gone.
High upon the pinnacles of Valtharos, the City of Prayer, golden bells chimed over ivory rooftops, ringing out from temples once which resonated with the power of the gods. Now, they hummed with something else more frantic — remembrance.
Aeren Thorne crouched on the floor of the Temple of Gilean, wet quill, ink-stained fingers trembling. The air about him wavered — not with magic, but with absence.
"He didn't respond," he gasped.
The high priest beside him also did not answer, gazing up at the statue of Gilean with haunted eyes. "He hasn't answered for months."
Aeren rose incrementally. His ink journal — so hallowed in the past — was heavier today. Each page now a list of unanswered prayers.
"They are retreating," the priest breathed. "One at a time. Like stars that rise. We called it a silence. But it is forsaking."
"No," Aeren said softly. "Not all of them."
The priest gazed at him. "You've been hearing dreams again, haven't you?"
Aeren did not reply.
He had. Night after night. A voice that spoke from beyond a veil of flame, whispering secrets no mortal scribe should know.
And last night, it had spoken:
> "The seal grows weak. The Balance falls. The First Flame awakens. Record this.
Before the world forgets that it once did burn."
---
Far to the west, in Vorraska's fortress, the forges sang.
Seyra Vael growled as sword met sword in practice ground. Her opponent — an obnoxious young knight — staggered, and she knocked him to the ground with a swipe of her shield.
"Yield," she instructed him.
The knight coughed dust. "Only to Solamnia."
"That is me," she said, offering her hand.
She took off her helm, wiping sweat from her bronze skin, white hair braided back.
From the stone archway above, a voice called down: "Commander Vael. A rider approaches from Valtharos."
Seyra's heart sank. That meant only one thing.
More omens.
—
The rider arrived by nightfall. Not a knight — a scribe.
Aeren.
Seyra recognized him instantly. They'd trained in the same halls once, though his path had led to parchment instead of blade.
"I need to speak with you," he said breathlessly.
"You're two days out of your way."
"I know. That's how far the dreams went."
That halted her.
He pulled out his journal. "Listen to this: 'When the First Flame rises, the gods will retreat. When the Balance cracks, the Silence will speak.'"
She frowninged. "That's dragon-priest rubbish. Lost prophecy. Heresy."
"It's recurring. The same words. Every evening. Every temple. Even in places where the gods have never been heard."
Seyra gazed up at the dark sky.
"What do you think?" she asked.
Aeren hesitated. Then pressed a sealed scroll into her palm. Waxed over with silver. Sealed with the emblem of Gilean.
"I want you to come with me. To the ruins beneath the Ashfold Peaks. To retrieve the seal."
She frowned. "There is no seal beneath the Ashfold."
"There wasn't," he said. "Until last week."
—
Far beneath the earth, in a cavern that even the dragons had forgotten, something stirred.
One flame flickered to life in utter darkness — pale blue, ancient, alive.
It did not ignite.
It recalled.
And among the rubble on which it rested, a shadow watched it. and smiled.