Kaelen did not sleep. He had not in days. Perhaps not in years. Sleep was for men who trusted tomorrow to come; Kaelen only trusted fire.
Within the shattered Court hall, the air was still choked with soot. The corpses of the Sovereign's loyalists had been cleared, but the smell lingered—a reminder that power always required kindling. Kaelen stood over a blackened table where he had laid fragments of ancient glyphs, piecing together patterns that the Council of Velaryn once forbade him to even whisper.
Serenya entered, her armor half-broken but her stride sure. She carried the sword of a fallen Executioner, its edge still humming faintly with Sovereign-forged steel.
"You've gathered quite the flock," she said, casting her eyes over the kneeling remnants of soldiers and magisters outside the hall. "But fear will only hold them so long."
Kaelen didn't look up. His fingers dragged over a glyph fragment, sparks of red flickering in its grooves. "Fear is enough. Faith is dangerous. Hope is poison. Fear binds. It endures."
Serenya leaned on the stolen sword, smirking. "And yet you'll need more than fear to march armies across kingdoms. Men don't bleed for fire unless they believe it burns for them."
At that, Kaelen finally turned, his crimson gaze sharp as blades. "They will believe. Because I will show them the fire's hunger—and how it spares only those who feed it."
He raised his staff, and the blood-forged markings across the hall surged with light. From the lines of crimson flame rose shapes—armored silhouettes made of smoke and ash. They knelt before him, phantoms of warriors long dead, bound to his will. Gasps and cries came from outside as his new followers witnessed the conjuring.
Serenya's smirk widened. "So you'll give them ghosts to worship."
"Not ghosts," Kaelen said coldly. "A promise."
By dusk, the ruined city was alive with preparation. Kaelen's chosen lieutenants moved through the ranks, branding those who swore loyalty with marks of ash and flame—temporary bindings of his craft. Soldiers once sworn to the Sovereign now bore Kaelen's sigil upon their skin, and those who hesitated were dragged screaming into the fire pits.
Kaelen walked among them like a priest among his flock. No crown. No throne. Only presence. His crimson eyes burned brighter than any jewel of kingship.
He stopped before a boy—barely old enough to hold a blade, his hands trembling as the brand neared his arm. The boy's eyes brimmed with terror.
Kaelen knelt. "What is your name?"
The boy stammered. "T-Tavren."
Kaelen studied him for a long moment, then raised his staff. A spark leapt from the tip, searing the brand onto Tavren's arm in a single flash. The boy winced, but did not scream.
Kaelen's voice cut the silence. "Then you live, Tavren. Serve, and fear nothing but me."
The boy's trembling stilled. The terror did not vanish, but it became something else—something harder, sharper.
The soldiers around them watched, and for the first time, murmurs rose not of fear, but of awe.
That night, Serenya found Kaelen alone atop the highest spire still standing. He stared into the storm, the ruins of the Court below lit with scattered fires. His new army moved like ants, rebuilding, reforging, reshaping.
"You've forged them in a day," she said quietly. "But where do you send them?"
Kaelen did not answer at first. Then his staff flared, and the storm parted just enough to reveal the shadow of the Ashen Marches far to the east.
"Toward the fire," he said. "Toward the boy."
Serenya tilted her head. "Kael."
Kaelen's lips curved into the faintest trace of something not quite a smile.
"The Sovereign chose him. The Mark chose him. I chose him. But if he cannot bear it…" His voice sank into a growl. "…then I will burn it from his flesh and take it back myself."
The storm sealed the horizon once more, but the direction had been set.