The embers still clung to Kael's cloak when he returned to the keep. He could feel them—tiny, burning motes—drifting from the folds like silent witnesses to what he had done. No one spoke as he passed through the torch-lit corridor, though the soldiers' eyes followed him with a mixture of awe and unease. It was not the awe of victory. It was the awe reserved for storms—beautiful, devastating, and utterly beyond control.
The Council Chamber was quiet save for the faint scratch of quill on parchment. Lord Verrin sat at the far end of the long oak table, the heavy seal of the High Council resting by his hand. His eyes narrowed when Kael stepped inside.
"You went too far," Verrin said without preamble.
Kael ignored the accusation and poured himself a cup of dark wine from the table. The liquid trembled slightly in the goblet. My hands… still shaking? He clenched his fist around the stem until the tremor stilled.
"They were traitors," Kael replied. "Their crimes warranted—"
"Their crimes warranted justice, not annihilation," Verrin cut in sharply. "You burned them to ash in front of their families. Do you think the city will not remember?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "Let them remember."
A silence fell, heavy as the stone walls around them. Kael had always known the Sovereign Flame was dangerous, but the ease with which it had consumed those men had unsettled him. It had been too easy—like striking a spark in dry tinder.
That night, sleep refused to claim him. When it finally did, it brought no peace.
He dreamed of a sea of blackened bones stretching into the horizon, each skull crowned with a flicker of fire. A woman stood among them, her gown woven from night itself, her eyes two cold embers.
"You are the fire that burns the rot," she whispered, her voice like smoke curling through his mind. "But all fire consumes. Even the hand that wields it."
He tried to speak, but ash filled his mouth. He awoke with the taste of it still lingering on his tongue.
The next morning, Kael descended into the training yard. His soldiers were there—those loyal to him above the council. Jorah, his second-in-command, approached with a grim look.
"We've found something," Jorah said, glancing around before lowering his voice. "A letter, intercepted from one of the merchant guildmasters. Someone inside the keep has been selling information to our enemies."
Kael's stomach knotted. "Who?"
Jorah hesitated. "We're still tracing it. But… Kael, the seal on the letter—it was the council's own."
The weight of ash settled heavier on his shoulders. It was one thing to burn enemies in the streets; it was another to realize the fire might have to be turned inward.
That evening, a messenger arrived—a girl no older than sixteen, mud-smeared and out of breath. She carried a strip of scorched parchment.
Kael unrolled it, reading the jagged scrawl: The Feast of Daggers. Beware the wine.
It was unsigned.
He looked up at Jorah. "There's a banquet tomorrow night."
Jorah's brow furrowed. "For the visiting lords? The ones negotiating the grain shipments?"
Kael nodded slowly. "Yes. Which means if this warning is true, someone intends to spill more than wine."
The girl shifted nervously. "The man who gave me the message… he said if you ignored it, the city would drown in blood before the new moon."
Kael dismissed her with a coin and a silent prayer she would survive the streets that night.
For hours after, he stood by the balcony, staring at the city lights below. In the darkened corners of the alleys, the flames of rebellion—or something far worse—were already flickering.
The Sovereign Flame was a gift. But as the woman in his vision had said, all fire consumes.
Tomorrow, he would walk into the Feast of Daggers.
And perhaps not walk out.