The Hall of Flame, seated at the highest ridge of the Baishen Palace, sprawled like the spine of a sleeping beast, ancient and warm with breath of fire. Crimson columns, lacquered to shine like blood beneath sun, stretched toward the rafters. There, phoenixes spread golden wings across the ceiling, and lotus blossoms of flame unfurled among clouds carved from sandalwood. Lanterns swayed gently, their amber light casting slow waves upon the polished black stone floor. Within the veined marble, gold threads shimmered like rivers of molten dawn.
Incense drifted from bronze braziers, winding into the upper beams like ancestral spirits called home. The air was sweet with sandalwood, sharp with clove, and layered with a breath of smoke.
Upon the dais of three shallow steps stood the crimson throne of Yanhuang, not a gift from the emperor, but the ancient seat of fire kings. Its wood was carved from the tree said to have burned in the sacred fire and survived, reforged by holy rites. Its roots, it was said, once drank the blood of gods.
King Baishen Rongxu sat on that throne, one hand resting on the lion-carved arm, the other laid open upon his lap. At fifty-three, he remained a figure of fire and stone. His shoulders had not stooped, his chest had not narrowed. His face bore no lines from age, but instead the silence of burdens too long endured. His long black hair, streaked with gray near the temples, was bound high with a red iron crown, forged by the priests of Huoshen in the last decade of war. His robes were dyed the color of blood just before it dries, with embroidery that curled like embers caught in wind.
He was a warlord first, then a king. Strategic, superstitious, and seduced more often by omens than reason. In court, he ruled with clarity, but in his dreams he still heard the weeping of a child who should have died. A child who bore his name, but not his place.
The ministers below spoke in careful tones. Each one presented scrolls, folded maps, and stamped decrees. They spoke of the rising drought in Meilin, the border disputes in the north, and unrest among the salt miners of Dazhou. The room hummed with measured urgency, and yet the king's attention drifted.
His eyes, often, returned to the brazier at his feet.
It was there, as though summoned by that silence, that Minister Gao Liansheng stepped forward. Thin and tall, with robes crisp in ceremonial weight, his silver beard curled beneath a narrow mouth. He bowed, then raised his voice.
"Your Majesty, there remains a matter yet unspoken, though its hour draws near."
The king did not stir. "Speak it."
"The boy."
The brazier hissed. A coal cracked.
A breath of stillness passed over the chamber. Even the shuffling of feet and parchment ceased.
"You speak of Qigai," the king said, his voice flat.
Gao lowered his head. "The cursed child. By order of the Emperor, he was to remain in the Fire Shrine until the day of his fifteenth year. That day is tomorrow. It is time to prepare the delegation to bring him back."
One of the younger ministers scoffed. "Bring him here? After all these years?"
"He is exiled for cause," said another. "Why test misfortune again?"
"He lives by divine order," Gao replied. "It is not our place to question it. The Churning is sacred. Should he possess the flame, then the god has spoken. And if not, the fire shall consume him."
The king's eyes flicked toward the smoke.
Another voice rose. "Even if he lives, he is unfit. No record, no title, no rite."
"And yet the Emperor chose not to kill him," said Gao. "And we all know who cast the vote that spared him."
The king did not answer. He studied the fire.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke.
"I swore to uphold the Emperor's will. That vow shall not be broken. Prepare the delegation. Let him return. Whether he bears the flame or not, we shall see."
Gao bowed low, his hands pressed together. "Yes, my king."
With no more words, he turned and departed, his steps swift and straight as a blade drawn across silk.
He passed through the southern corridor, where white curtains danced in the mountain breeze. At last he reached the private wing of the second wife.
Lady Baishen Meiyin's chambers were quiet and cold, adorned in the style of her homeland. The floors were stone, swept clean to shining. The walls bore no paintings, only iron screens shaped like lightning bolts. Wind passed freely through open slats, filling the air with the scent of distant rain.
Meiyin sat on a cushioned dais, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched and tended to by a silent maid. Her hair, long and black as river shadow, was swept up and fastened by jade pins. Her robes were violet, with edges embroidered in silver lines shaped like twin spears. She read from an open scroll of Leiting's war doctrines, her expression unreadable.
When Gao entered and bowed, she did not rise.
"Speak."
"The king has agreed. The boy shall return for the Churning."
Meiyin closed the scroll and rose. Her presence filled the room with weight. "So it begins."
At that moment, two men entered without warning.
The first was Baishen Lieyan,"The Ember Strategist", tall and lean, with a face like fire pressed into stone. He is a cold, brilliant tactician who commands armies from his study and even rivals Huali in mind, though not in physical strength and rarely shows emotion, he is rumored to manipulate from the shadows.
His dark eyes held the calm of a blade before the draw. He wore simple robes, crimson with no trim, as if decoration offended him. At twenty, he was already a general in all but name, feared and praised by the soldiers of Yanhuang.
The second was his older brother, Baishen Hongjian. twenty-five, sharp-tongued, clever, and proud. He was a genius weapon craftsman — forged the sword Tianfen, "Skyburn", heis respected across kingdoms, often quiet, seen as a craftsman more than warrior
He dressed with care, gold rings on his fingers and his belt fastened with jade shaped like tiger fangs. His smile often concealed a dagger's thought.
"Mother," Lieyan said, his voice steady. "Is it true? The cursed child returns?"
"Yes," she said. "Qigai will return to the capital."
Hongjian crossed his arms. "He should never have been allowed to live."
Lieyan said nothing. He watched her.
"I remember," he said after a moment. "Years ago. rumour has it the priest wanted to kill him but someone saved him, was it you?"
She turned to them both. "I did."
"Why?" Hongjian asked, frowning.
Meiyin stepped to the window, where clouds gathered in the distance. "Because the boy is not useless. He is feared. That is a different thing."
Lieyan's voice was low and sharp. "You called him cursed."
"I did," she replied. "And I meant it. But curses can be useful."
Hongjian narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you plan?"
She turned from the window and faced them.
"You, Hongjian, as my first born son, will sit on that throne one day. And when that time comes, the boy will serve you. He will owe you his life. If the fire god claims him, then let the heavens make their choice. Until then, he is a coal. And coals can still start fires."
Her smile was thin and cold.
"Let him burn for us."
No one answered. Not Lieyan. Not Hongjian. Not even the wind.
The storm was not far now. And in its shadow, the future took its first breath.