The night pressed against the palace walls like a living thing. Beyond the high windows, the city's torchlight flickered in restless patches, swallowed by alleys that no patrol dared to enter. Kael sat alone in the war chamber, its long oak table littered with scrolls, reports, and half-burnt missives. The Sovereign Flame curled faintly around his fingers, restless, whispering in tones he could not translate.
It had been two days since the Feast of Daggers. Two days since steel flashed under candlelight and the assassin's eyes locked with his—black pits that reflected no fear, no soul. The court whispered behind closed doors. Some claimed it was an omen, others a declaration of war. Kael knew better. It was a warning.
The door groaned open. Commander Veylen stepped in, his armor half-unbuckled, eyes rimmed with fatigue. "Sire. The outer districts are… unsettled. The guildmasters convened without sanction. Someone's funding grain hoarders."
Kael's gaze slid to the map pinned against the wall. "The Crimson Concord," he said quietly.
Veylen frowned. "You have proof?"
"I have the scent of them." Kael's hand tightened on the table. The Flame flared, gold deepening to scarlet. "They move like rot—silent, patient, always beneath the surface."
Before Veylen could respond, the chamber darkened, as though the torches themselves bowed to a deeper shadow. Kael heard it again: the voices. Not one, not two—dozens. Layered. Singing in a language that bled into his bones. His vision blurred, the table before him flickering into a different place: a desert of black ash, a sun of molten glass, and a tower that bled light from its seams.
"…Find the Veil-Breaker…" the chorus murmured. "…or burn with us…"
The vision shattered. Kael's knuckles were white against the table edge. Veylen stared at him, wary. "You heard them again."
"Yes," Kael said. His voice was low, almost reverent. "And they are growing louder."
An hour later, cloaked and hooded, Kael slipped through the undercity's forgotten passages. He had agreed to meet the informant in the Silt Market—a place where stolen relics and lost names were traded in whispers.
The informant appeared as promised: a woman draped in moth-eaten silks, face veiled, fingers stained with ink. "You carry the Flame," she said without greeting. "It is… not what you think."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Speak."
"The Crimson Concord are older than your throne. They hunt what you hold—not because they fear it, but because they want it to awaken."
The words sank into him like cold water. "Awaken?"
She stepped closer, and for the briefest instant, her veil fluttered to reveal eyes entirely silver. "Your fire sleeps, Sovereign. When it wakes, the city will not survive it."
Before he could demand more, the sound of steel rang out—too close. Figures emerged from the market's shadows, their armor lacquered crimson.
Crimson Concord.
Kael's Flame roared to life. The nearest assassin lunged, blade arcing toward his ribs. Kael caught it with his bare hand, metal screaming as the Flame ate through it. The air thickened with heat, shouts echoing off stone walls.
The informant was gone.
When the last body fell smoking to the ground, Kael stood alone under the dying light of the market's torches, chest heaving.
He realized then that the voices in the Flame were still singing—soft, coaxing, and unmistakably pleased.