The throne room of Sapphire had grown colder since King Cael Daemon seized it. The light that once warmed its golden halls now flickered behind high glass and iron. The dais where King Levi once passed judgment was now bathed in shadows, its marble stained with the old king's blood.
Cael sat upon the obsidian throne with clenched fists, his jaw stiff. The news had arrived not long ago: Falstone had fallen.
And worse—it had fallen to Marcus Daemon.
The bastard. The hidden ember. The child of a concubine.
"What's more insulting than defeat," Cael hissed, "is that they cheer him."
Across from him stood Prince Alric of Velmora, his violet cloak trimmed in wolf fur, his expression unreadable. Alric had been patient, watching as Marcus's legend grew, but now his tone was sharpened.
"If we wait," Alric said, "he'll take Velmora next. Then Ironholde. Then the rest. We strike now."
Cael rose from the throne. "And if we burn half the realm doing it?"
Alric stepped closer, voice lowering. "Then let it burn."
---
Later that night, in a hidden crypt beneath Sapphire Castle, Cael and Alric stood before a circle of cloaked warlocks—The Oathbound, an ancient order once loyal to the throne before being outlawed.
They had returned at Alric's command, and now Cael, in desperation, offered them a pact of blood.
"With this pact," intoned the lead warlock, "you awaken power buried for centuries. But it has a price, Your Grace."
Cael didn't flinch. "Then I'll pay it."
They slit his palm. Blood dripped into a silver basin carved with dragon runes. The fire flared. In the smoke, a vision formed—Marcus, on a black steed, flame behind him, armies at his back.
---
Meanwhile, in Falstone, Marcus stood over a newly drawn war map in the reclaimed council hall. The room buzzed with preparation—messengers, scouts, and lords moving in all directions. The kingdom had declared for him.
Princess Zira, flint-eyed and quick-tongued, pointed at Velmora's borders. "We take the mountain pass next. If Velmora falls, Sapphire is boxed in."
Prince Darian added, "Velmora has legions, but their loyalty lies with Alric. He rules through fear. Break that, and we gain their soldiers."
Ingrid of Zar-Khalan slammed her gauntlet onto the table. "Let me send my Flameborn ahead. They'll burn Alric's wolves to bone."
Marcus nodded but stayed silent.
He looked down at the piece on the board that bore Velmora's sigil. Then at the one marked Sapphire.
"I want the throne," he said. "But I want Cael to look me in the eye when I take it."
Nyxarion growled softly from beyond the window, curled around a broken tower. The city had accepted him. The people had begun to chant his name. His allies believed in him.
And yet—this was only the beginning.
---
In the east, rumors spread: Velmora was mustering troops.
In the north, Ironholde had gone quiet.
And in the west, Drel'thar and Zar-Khalan, though still embattled, stirred with rebellion.
The kingdoms were choosing sides.
The realm was shifting again.
The flame had returned—but so had the blood.