The roar of the Black Host faded into silence, yet the echo clung to the hall like smoke. One by one, courtiers slipped away, cowed, until only the chosen remained: Malphor the Iron Juggernaut, Serath the Masked Blade, the Veiled Seer, and a few captains whose faces were carved by war.
The Sovereign leaned back upon the obsidian throne, eyes gleaming like twin voids.
"Speak, then. Behind closed doors, your tongues are looser. Tell me your truths."
Malphor stepped forward, his armored boots striking sparks against the black stone floor. His voice thundered.
"The boy is untested. His companions weaker still. Do not waste our blades with assassins' games. Give me leave, and I will crush his bones beneath the Host's march."
A hiss of silk answered him. Serath lounged against a pillar, mask grinning.
"Ah, Malphor. Always hammer, never needle. If you crush him, what is proven? If you bleed his trust, his friends, his heart—then he dies twice. Once as a boy, once as a myth."
The Juggernaut's helm turned, iron jaws clenching.
"You are a snake. I deal in wars, not whispers."
"Wars are built on whispers, dear brute," Serath replied, voice soft as poison.
The tension bristled until the Sovereign raised a single finger. Silence snapped shut like a jaw.
From the shadows, the Veiled Seer spoke, their words faltering as though each was pulled from fire.
"The Marked one… is not as he seems. The Crimson Spark is not new flame, but old… very old. I have seen it. When it grows, it will not burn alone. It will call."
A murmur spread among the captains. Even Serath tilted their head with curiosity.
"Call what, prophet?"
The Seer's veils trembled as if from a phantom wind.
"The Sovereign knows. As did those before. The Spark was chained once, for fear of what it summoned."
For the first time, the Sovereign's stillness cracked. Their knuckles whitened upon the throne's arms. The chamber felt colder.
Malphor rumbled, "If this fire is so cursed, why not snuff it now?"
The Sovereign's gaze struck him like a blade.
"Because fire spreads, Juggernaut. Kill him too soon, and others will rise in his stead. Let him burn just long enough for the world to see… before I smother him in the ashes of his own legend."
Serath laughed softly, bowing mockingly.
"A cruel poetry, Majesty. I approve."
But in the Sovereign's eyes, there was no poetry—only calculation, and something darker. Fear, buried so deep it resembled wrath.
The council dissolved slowly, each commander leaving with their own hunger. Yet whispers lingered: Malphor hungering for war, Serath scheming in shadows, the Seer trembling at visions they dared not fully name.
When the hall stood empty, the Sovereign alone remained, staring into the dark.
"Crimson Mark…" they murmured.
"I buried you once. I will bury you again."
And in the silence that followed, the great braziers flickered—not from wind, but from something deeper, as if the stones themselves remembered the last time that cursed flame had burned.