The Dawnflame Cathedral rose like a colossus in the center of Drakensport, its black spires piercing the overcast sky. The walls were not the pale stone of most temples but veined obsidian, polished to a mirror's sheen so that the clouds themselves seemed trapped in its surface.
Every step toward its great bronze doors was a climb into shadow, the street narrowing between statues of long-dead saints whose eyes were carved to follow the supplicant's approach.
Banners hung from the buttresses—deep crimson silk stitched with the sunburst sigil of the Faith in gold thread. The wind toyed with their edges, making the golden threads shimmer as if aflame.
Kaelen had been summoned. He was not requested, nor invited but summoned.
The square before the Cathedral was already thick with people. Nobles in fur-lined cloaks stood shoulder to shoulder with smiths and dockhands. The smell of wet wool and horse dung clung to the air, mixed with the heavier scent of incense spilling from the half-open doors. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Kaelen dismounted, his guards forming a steel-edged ring around him.
Some faces turned away. Others glared openly. But a few, just a few, met his gaze with something almost like hope.
The interior of the Dawnflame Cathedral was a world of its own. The floor was a sea of black marble streaked with gold veins, polished until it shone like still water. Towering columns rose to a ceiling lost in shadow, each carved with reliefs of wars fought in the name of the Faith — angels striding over battlefields, suns breaking through clouds, demons cast into pits of fire.
The air was thick with the scent of burning myrrh and rosewood, the smoke drifting in lazy spirals toward the unseen rafters. Every sound — the scrape of a boot, the faint jingle of Kaelen's sword belt — echoed a hundredfold, as though the stone itself listened.
At the far end, upon a dais of twelve steps, sat High Priest Veythran.
He was draped in ceremonial robes of layered gold and white, embroidered so heavily they seemed more armor than cloth. A great sunburst of hammered gold framed his head, its rays catching the torchlight so that he seemed wreathed in fire. His face was lean, ascetic, the skin drawn tight over high cheekbones. His eyes were sharp, the pale gray of ice on a river.
The benches to either side were crowded with lesser priests, their faces impassive, and behind them, rows of layfolk and courtiers craned for a better view.
When Kaelen reached the foot of the dais, Veythran rose.
His voice, when it came, was rich and resonant — the voice of a man used to being heard by thousands.
"Kaelen of House Draven," he said, letting the name ring out across the hall, "you come to this city as its king, yet your crown is newly forged, and your right to shape the realm is unproven."
A ripple of whispers swept the benches.
The High Priest's gaze did not waver. "You speak of reforms — of changing the order of things long held sacred. But a ruler's worth is not proven by words in the Council Hall. It is proven by what he can build, what he can shield, and what he will sacrifice."
He spread his arms wide, the golden sunburst halo catching the light.
"Before this city and before the Dawnflame itself, I challenge you, King Kaelen, to prove your strength before you seek to alter the pillars of our Faith. Do something worthy of your title. Then… and only then… shall your voice carry weight in matters divine."
The hall fell into a tense hush.
Kaelen stood very still, the heat of dozens of gazes pressing against him. His heart beat slow, deliberate, though the edges of his vision seemed sharpened by the weight of the moment.
He thought of the crumbling eastern wall — the part of the city's defenses left to rot for two decades, its stones split by frost, its towers leaning like old men. That wall was more than stone; it was the spine of the kingdom's eastern flank, the first barrier against the wild steppe clans and, in darker years, the first line against demon incursions.
When he finally spoke, his voice was level, but it carried.
"You would have me prove myself, High Priest? Very well. I will rebuild the eastern defense wall — every tower, every gatehouse, every parapet. And I will not stop until it is stronger than it ever was."
A murmur of surprise passed through the crowd.
Veythran's expression did not soften. If anything, the faintest curl of a smile touched his lips — though whether it was amusement or calculation, Kaelen could not tell.
"An ambitious promise," the High Priest said. "One that will drain your coffers and test your people's patience."
Kaelen took a step forward, his boots ringing against the marble. "Then it will test us together. And when it is done, this city will stand unbroken before any foe."
For a heartbeat, the two men simply held each other's gaze — king and priest, steel and faith, the air between them charged like the moment before a lightning strike.
Then Veythran inclined his head the barest fraction. "So be it. Let all here bear witness to the king's vow."
The High Priest sat once more, signaling the end of the exchange, but the crowd did not immediately disperse.
Kaelen turned to leave, and as he walked down the aisle, the faces he passed were changed. Some still looked at him with suspicion, but others — merchants, soldiers, even a few priests — regarded him with new respect. A blacksmith with a soot-stained face gave a curt nod. A boy in a patched tunic grinned openly.
By the time he stepped back into the square, the air outside seemed fresher, the overcast sky a little less heavy. His vow had not won the city's love — not yet. But it had struck a spark.
As Kaelen mounted his horse, Renic leaned close. "A dangerous game, Majesty. That wall will cost more than gold. It will cost time. And enemies will not wait for us to finish it."
Kaelen's gaze lifted toward the eastern horizon, where the mountains gave way to the rolling steppe beyond. "Then we will build it faster than they can march."
The hooves of his escort clattered on the cobblestones as they rode away from the Cathedral, the murmur of the crowd fading behind them.
But in the great Hall of the Dawnflame, the echo of his vow still lingered — a challenge thrown, a gauntlet accepted.
To be continued…