Dawn's Ledger
Morning descended upon Blackspire like a thief, stealing the night but leaving all else in its trail.
The sun rose over the blackened field, unveiling in cruel detail what the night had mercifully concealed. The depth of the ruin was worse than Lioran had dreaded in those black hours before morning. Whole areas of the field had been reduced to glass by the ferocity of the flames. Bodies were strewn in patterns that implied the last moments of chaos—clumps of men who'd bunched together for mutual comfort in the presence of death, lines of men who'd attempted to run away, rows of neat corpses where the priests had fallen.
Lioran was in the courtyard of Blackspire, observing survivors working through their terrible task.
They were burying their own.
The grave had expanded overnight. There were ten new bodies they'd brought down from the tower where they'd lain—wounded Flamebound who hadn't made it through the night despite Mira's gentle nursing. Old men and women who'd fought anyway despite knowing they probably wouldn't make another dawn.
Lioran should have felt something. Something like grief or guilt or shame. But the ember kept those feelings at arm's length, smooth and distant like seeing the world through glass.
Instead, he only had the burden of responsibility.
The fortress was already operating as a seat of power. Rhaemond family soldiers were filtering in from surrounding settlements, seeking leadership, seeking direction. The administrative machinery of the duchy was breaking apart without the guiding presence of the duke, and into that power vacuum, something had to fill.
That something was Lioran Vale.
"My lord." The voice was behind him—one of the remaining captains, a veteran named Torven who'd fought since before Lioran was born. He had a bandaged left arm, charred black at the edges, but his right hand held a sword with the easy assurance of a man who'd murdered a thousand foes. "The prisoners in the lower cells are requesting guidance. Some want to swear allegiance. Others insist that they be freed."
Lioran spun to confront him. The captain recoiled at the sight of his shining eyes.
"How many?" Lioran inquired.
"Two hundred souls. Troops of the old regime, ordinary criminals, political prisoners—a mixed bag." Torven set his jaw. "The soldiers would be good troops. The criminals are questionable. The political prisoners would be trouble no matter what we do."
This was the unspoken part when people spoke of conquest and domination. The actual work. The bureaucratic hell of governing, not merely annihilating.
"Free the political prisoners," Lioran stated. "Provide them with horses and provisions. Send them away and let them tell of what occurred here."
Torven's brow furrowed. "My lord, they will report to your foes. They will tell every realm from here to the shore that—"
"That a boy incinerated an entire army? That dragons exist? That I'm evolving into something other than human?" Lioran's laughter was acidic. "They'll tell those tales anyway, Torven. Rumors are already in the air. It's better to manage the tale by being merciful than to make martyrs by jailing them."
"And the soldiers?"
"Give them a choice. Fight for me, or depart. No coercion. No enforced oaths." Lioran hesitated. "Anyone remaining dies with me if things go that far. Ensure they know the price."
Torven bowed and left, leaving Lioran alone again in the courtyard.
.
The Council of Ashes
Lioran sat in what used to be the duke's war room by midday.
The table was huge—made from one block of black stone that had somehow been shipped in from some faraway quarry by Rhaemond. Maps blanketed its surface, annotated with the dispositions of armies, with the wherefore of supply depots, with the routes of trade. It was a kingdom's map, and now that kingdom had but a single true master.
Mira stood at the room's edge, observing. She'd hardly uttered a word to him since yesterday. There was a wariness in her eyes that shattered something in Lioran every time he caught it in their depths.
Renn was absent.
The young man had vanished into the depths of the fortress following their clash, and no amount of searching had found him. Some of the last Flamebound would whisper that he'd departed altogether, escaped in the darkness. Others believed he'd gone to the Blackwood to bring back Sera's body.
Lioran prayed it was the latter.
"The kingdom is in disarray," said Torven, standing at attention. "The nobles are splitting into factions. Some demand peace with your armies. Others are arming to fight. The Church has issued a holy crusade against you."
"The Church was bound to issue a crusade," replied Lioran. "That was inevitable."
"Inevitable, yes, but not immediate. You have perhaps two weeks before you can organize resistance." Torven leaned forward, drawing a map towards them. "Your current holding encompasses the northern duchy and whatever settlements the armies we routed were defending. That provides you with approximately thirty thousand square miles and perhaps a hundred thousand civilians."
"Civilians who despise me," Mira stated gently from her position by the wall.
Torven looked at her but did not dispute. "Most of them, yes. But the fear of your power will keep them in order at first. Fear is a more useful tool than loyalty for holding order, at least in the short term."
Lioran sensed the ember move at those words. It enjoyed the notion of ruling through fear. Of blind obedience forged in terror. It was effective. Efficient. Simple.
But it was also precisely the type of rule that had destroyed the original Dragon Lord.
"I want volunteers," Lioran stated. "Individuals who volunteer, not subjects coerced into obedience. Divide the civilians into useful labor—restoration, agriculture, healing. Compensate them reasonably. Treat them like people, not commodities."
"That's a great way to go broke," Torven said matter-of-factly.
"Then we'll be bankrupt," Lioran said. "I didn't incinerate this land to become another tyrant wringing every coin from cowering peasants. If I'm going to rule—and it appears that's what I'm doing—it will be different."
"_different how?" Mira asked. The first words she'd uttered to him since the battle.
Lioran glanced at her, and the fire in his eyes softened momentarily. "I have no idea yet. But I know I don't want to be something. Maybe that's a good enough beginning."
.
The Letter
That night, with darkness spreading across the fortress, there was a courier who arrived.
He was carrying a standard—white material with a silver stag in thread so thin it seemed to reflect light. The banner of the ancient duchy, still seen by enough people to earn its carrier a safe passage.
The fellow himself was gaunt, fidgety, obviously afraid of what he'd heard about the boy who ruled dragons.
"I bear a message," the messenger whispered, his voice shivering with a little fear. "From Ser Kaelen, Duke of Rhaemond by right of arms."
Lioran leaned forward. And so Kaelen had asserted the title. That was either courage or folly—likely both.
The messenger pulled out a sealed letter from his satchel. The wax did not have any seal Lioran knew, but the writing on the envelope was neat and careful.
Lioran broke the seal and read:
"To the Dragon Lord"
"You have conquered a battle. I commend you—it was fought well, and your strength is not to be denied. But battles are not wars, and winning one battle does not win the war."
"I shall be marching north in five days with an army of ten thousand well-trained men. This army is not larger than the one Rhaemond led, but more efficient and better armed. We shall assemble on the Plains of Ashenmere, ground midway between our lands."
"I do not aim to kill you or your kind unnecessarily. Rather, I offer we resolve this issue as warriors have resolved such issues since the beginning of time—by single combat. You against me. No magic. No dragons. No involvement of our respective armies."
"If you emerge victorious, my army will withdraw and accept your overlordship of the northlands. If I triumph, you will deliver yourself for trial by the Church on charges of heresy and mass murder."
'You have five days to make up your mind. A true opponent does not hide behind politics and mercenaries. A true opponent meets his challenger head-to-head.'
"I shall await your word."
"—Ser Kaelen"
Lioran read the letter twice, then put it down slowly.
The ember seethed. "It's a trap. He'll use magic. He'll break his promise. Kill him now, from afar, with flame."
But under the ember's wrath, Lioran heard another thing. Kaelen's words contained a challenge that spoke to something deep within him. The assurance of a fair fight. A battle settled by skill and determination instead of armies and politics.
"What is it?" Mira had asked. She'd inched closer, reading over his shoulder.
"An invitation," Lioran replied softly. "To make it end as it should."
"By dying?"
"By choice," Lioran reprimanded. "For once I get to decide my own destiny rather than having it decided for me by circumstance or prophecy or the voice in my chest."
He glanced over at his mother. "Kaelen is correct about one thing. I have been hiding—behind magic, behind dragons, behind armies. What if I met him face-to-face as he proposes? What if I could finally establish who among us is stronger?"
"You might lose," Mira told him. Her voice shook with fear but something in it had changed. She was talking to him like his mother again, not some stranger in his face.
"Yes," Lioran said. "I might lose. But at least there would be meaning in it. At least it would be real."
"And what if you win?"
"Then the north is mine, and I have five days to choose what sort of ruler I will be."
Lioran rose, the letter still clutched in his hand. Blackspire around him held its breath, waiting to see what the Dragon Lord would do next.
For the first time in weeks, Lioran smiled, and it was almost human.