The clearing behind Seethar’s house had been hollowed out long ago—half-nature, half-purpose. Flattened stone rings lay underfoot, worn smooth by years of ritual, training, and maybe the occasional fistfight. The trees stood close, but not suffocating. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, breaking apart on drifting leaves and quiet birdsong.

  Karin stood at the center, breath ragged, sweat clinging to her collar. One arm lifted, fingers curled tight. Flame licked up her wrist—wild, unstable, powerful. A beast without rhythm.

  Ishtania watched from a flat stone at the edge. Calm. Patient. A shallow bowl of water rested in her lap, untouched.

  Seethar leaned against a tree, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  Above them, Elkinu sprawled on a low branch, one leg dangling, hands behind his head.

  “Again,” Ishtania said.

  Karin inhaled through her nose and focused.

  The flame surged upward.

  Too much.

  It lashed toward the sky, towering and shapeless—then collapsed. Karin stumbled, fell hard to one knee.

  Ishtania didn’t flinch. “Again. You held it back.”

  “What else should I do?” Karin snapped. “Let it burn me?”

  “It’s like sneezing,” Ishtania replied. “Hold it in, and it tears something. You need to let it out right.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “It’s the only way you’ll survive it.”

  “She won’t,” came a voice—rough, dry, curling from deep inside her.

  Aftree.

  Seethar groaned. “Still lingering, my dead brother?”

  “Ignore him,” Ishtania said, eyes still on Karin. “Focus.”

  “You will fail, little girl.”

  Karin summoned again—smaller this time. A cautious spark, thin and controlled. It struck a rock across the clearing and fizzled. No mark.

  Ishtania shook her head. “Too little. Don’t starve it. Let it move.”

  “I’m trying,” Karin muttered, shaking out her hand.

  “See?” Aftree said, voice sharp. “Failure.”

  Karin’s jaw clenched.

  On his branch, Elkinu munched on something overripe. “I’d give that a six. But hey, at least your ass stayed up this time.”

  “It doesn’t listen,” Karin growled.

  “No,” Seethar said, watching her closely. “It doesn’t obey. It follows. There’s a difference.”

  Ishtania stood, stepping closer with quiet grace. “It’s part of you now. You need to feel it—not command it. Understandit.”

  “It isn’t that easy.”

  “You’re going to burn,” Aftree said again.

  She ignored him. Or tried.

  “Again?” she asked aloud.

  Ishtania nodded once. “But don’t shape it. Just feel it first.”

  Karin steadied her breath. Raised her hand.

  The heat bloomed—low in her ribs, then rising up her chest, flowing into her arm. Not fire yet. Not form.

  Just pressure.

  Aftree laughed. “Cute trick.”

  But something answered within the flame.

  A pulse.

  She leaned into it.

  A single line of fire curled from her palm—tight, deliberate, like a needle pulling thread. It shimmered—almost elegant.

  Then it snapped.

  BOOM.

  The ground scorched. Dust and embers flared wide. Less than before, but still wrong.

  Karin staggered back, coughing.

  Seethar sighed. “Still too much.”

  Ishtania’s voice shifted—firmer now. “You’re not just wielding god’s flame. You’re tangled in divine problem. Rowana, Laoh, Lucian’s schemes, if you don’t master the flame, you won’t last long.”

  Karin wiped sweat from her brow, eyes narrowing. “I never asked for this.”

  “No one does,” Seethar muttered.

  “But here you are now,” Ishtania continued. “You want to protect people? then stop pretending this is just about mastering magic.”

  Karin didn’t speak. Not at first.

  But the fire around her hand flickered—tightened.

  She thought of Kivas falling, of the ruin that followed. Of Elsha’s still body. Of Zafran shouting her name, blood on his jaw. Of what she couldn’t save.

  She didn’t say any of it.

  She just breathed.

  From above, Elkinu called lazily, “Or seduce it. That’s how I solve most of my problems.”

  “Don’t help,” Ishtania said.

  “Wasn’t.”

  “She couldn’t seduce a candle,” Aftree said.

  Seethar shook his head. “He’s been poking around all morning. Try muting him.”

  “I was,” Karin muttered.

  “Tragic,” Elkinu added. “He’s such good company.”

  “Better than your riddles and wine breath,” Aftree snapped.

  Ishtania dipped her fingers into the bowl, drawing slow circles. “If you two are done waving your egos, she’s still trying not to burn down the forest.”

  Aftree laughed. “Let her burn it. Pain teaches better than lectures.”

  Karin’s eyes narrowed. “You think this is about power?”

  “It’s always about power.”

  The flames flared up both arms—high, reckless.

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  “I’m not your vessel.”

  “No,” Aftree whispered, closer now. “You’re my afterlife’s entertainment. A flicker clinging to something greater than yourself.”

  She turned. Nothing there.

  But she spoke to it anyway.

  “You’re dead. You’re a whisper. A fragment that couldn’t even hold itself together.”

  The flame pulsed in her hand—hot, angry.

  “You don’t control this anymore. You’re not the fire. I am.”

  Silence.

  Then—

  “Careful, girl. You speak with power you haven’t earned.”

  “And you,” Karin stepped forward, fire coiling tight around her arm, “can’t even spark a cinder without me. So sit back. Watch. And shut. The fuck. Up.”

  The clearing went still.

  Even Elkinu straightened.

  The flame along her arm didn’t vanish.

  It simmered.

  Held.

  Not calm—just focused. Like a beast crouching, not sleeping.

  Ishtania’s lips curved faintly. “Good.”

  Seethar tilted his head. “Anger suits you.”

  Karin didn’t smile.

  She let the fire slide down her arm, slow and hot, her breath still hard.

  “Again?” she asked.

  Ishtania raised the bowl. “If you can stand it.”

  Karin turned back toward the circle, flame already rising again.

  Not mastered.

  Just momentarily willing to follow the heat of her fury.

  The courtyard rang with the clash of wood-on-wood and the steady rhythm of bootfalls. Morning sun caught in the stone arches of Zafran’s manor, casting long shadows over the worn training circle. Isolde moved with precision and fury, her wooden blade slicing through the air in smooth arcs.

  Roland staggered back, raising his own sword to parry, but she was faster. A sweep to his thigh. A jab to his ribs. Another twist and he was flat on his back, staring up at the blue sky.

  Zafran sat on the edge of the low wall, arms crossed, watching with a neutral expression. He hadn’t spoken once.

  Roland groaned. “Sir Zafran... why is Lady Isolde the one training me?”

  Zafran raised a brow. “Because she volunteered.”

  Isolde stepped over Roland, jabbing the tip of her training sword at his chest. “Get up.”

  Roland scrambled to his feet, panting. “She’s not holding back. I—I thought squires were supposed to survive the first week.”

  Zafran smiled slightly. “She’s going easy on you.”

  Roland gave him a stricken look, but didn’t argue. He turned back toward Isolde, who was already circling him again.

  They sparred for another ten minutes. Isolde corrected every misstep with the edge of her blade and the blunt edge of her words. Roland was fast, but too flashy. His stance lacked grounding. His footwork drifted. She dismantled each error with surgical precision.

  Then, as Roland lifted his blade again, The gate creaked open.

  A soldier stepped in—tall, armored, bearing Ocean Tide’s crest. He stopped a few paces from the circle and saluted sharply.

  “Sir Zafran. Knight-Commander Ealden requests your presence. Urgent war council. You’re to come at once.”

  Zafran stood immediately, already setting his gloves aside. “Understood.” He looked toward Roland. “You’re coming too.”

  Roland blinked. “Me? I—I’ve only been your squire for days.”

  Zafran didn’t slow. “And you’ll be one in a war.”

  He turned toward Isolde. “You coming?”

  She looked up from binding the tip of her training sword, lips pressing into a flat line.

  Zafran gave a shrug. “Come on. Just once.”

  A breath. Then she sighed, slow and long. “Fine. Just once.”

  He nodded, satisfied—then added, almost casually, “Want to wear my crest?”

  Isolde paused mid-step. “Seriously? You barbarian. You haven’t even formally married me, and now you want me walking into a war council wearing your colors?”

  Zafran gave a half-smile. “That way, they’ll know who owns me.”

  Roland made a confused sound in the back of his throat, trying not to look directly at either of them.

  Isolde brushed past both men. “Fine. But I’m not curtsying.”

  Zafran followed, glancing briefly back at the empty circle.

  “Didn’t think you would,” he said.

  The soldier waited at the gate, helm tucked under one arm.

  And then they were gone—squire, knight, and warrior woman in tow.

  The courtyard quieted.

  But war was no longer still.

  The Council Hall of Ocean Tide was colder than usual.

  Not by temperature—but by the way silence settled in early, like frost before a storm.

  This time, there were no overlapping voices. No petty jabs. The nobles were quiet.

  Because this time, they knew.

  The doors opened. Ealden entered with heavy steps, armor muted by the velvet runners laid down for war council. Zafran followed, his crest visible, expression set. Behind them, Isolde moved like a shadow. Even Roland kept still.

  Princess Seren was already seated at the head. No mantle. No ceremony. Just steel in her eyes and a sealed scroll on the table.

  Vaelion sat across from her—not lounging, but upright. Focused. Listening.

  Ealden didn’t wait for invitation. He dropped the map scroll onto the center of the stone table and unrolled it with a single push.

  “Velgrath is gone.”

  Gasps. Murmurs. Then panic.

  “What?”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

  “That’s impossible—Velgrath is fortified—”

  “Fyonar wouldn’t dare—”

  Ealden raised a hand. “We had scouts near the ridgeline. Velgrath fell in one night.”

  “One night?”

  “There are walls—armored lines—”

  “There were.” Ealden’s voice cut through the rising noise. “Scouts report Lucian’s army leads with thousands of Hollowbound. And behind them—”

  He pointed to a sketch—rough lines drawn in haste.

  “Something new. Mechanized armor. Large. Rune-etched. Impervious to standard spellwork. They call it divine-forged. One scout saw a ballista bolt bounce off its plating.”

  More murmurs. Fear this time, not confusion.

  Vaelion raised his hand—not high. Just enough.

  Silence fell.

  Ealden’s jaw was tight. “We must assume Ocean Tide is next.”

  A noble broke the quiet, voice cracking. “We must raise the ward. Call every banner.”

  Another followed. “We’re not ready—”

  “Did Fyonar just declare war on the entire continent?”

  “What about Jadinthar and Goldburge?”

  “We don’t know,” Ealden said. “But if they’ve heard what we have, they’re panicking harder than we are.”

  A pause. Then:

  “What of the Academia? Have they complied with the court?”

  All eyes turned to Vaelion.

  He exhaled slowly. “I’ve spoken with them. No answer yet. Moving the Academia in one direction is not something I’ve managed in decades—certainly not in a week.”

  Ealden leaned forward. “If they stay silent while fire licks at our gates, I’ll force them myself.”

  Gasps erupted.

  “Marching on the Academia? That’s—”

  “No one survives this by sitting idle.”

  “They’ll fracture—”

  Before the room could erupt, a cold voice cut through:

  “If Ocean Tide falls, we won’t be arguing over territory. We’ll be corpses with excellent bloodlines.”

  Heads turned.

  Isolde stood tall. No ceremonial armor. Just a black coat bearing Zafran’s crest—a sword and winged whale.

  A noble blinked. “Pardon? What’s a Fyonari noble doing in this room?”

  “She’s with me,” Zafran said evenly.

  “But she’s from Fyonar—the enemy—”

  “She lost her family to Lucian,” Seren interjected. “She knows what he’s capable of.”

  Isolde’s tone was steel. “I have more reason to spit on that bastard than anyone here. I know what he’ll do next. If the Academia won’t act, there’s only one path forward.”

  Murmurs rippled—quiet, uncertain.

  She stepped forward, gaze cutting. “Or wait. And see how Ocean Tide tastes in his teeth.”

  Even the murmurers went still.

  Roland, rigid beside Zafran, whispered, “She’s terrifying.”

  Zafran didn’t answer.

  Ealden nodded once. Then to Seren: “We don’t have weeks. Not even days.”

  Seren’s fingers folded. “The Academia?”

  Vaelion’s voice was calm. “I dislike threats. And blood where ink might suffice.” He turned to Zafran. “But perhaps I’m too entrenched. Perhaps they need someone new to tell them how dire this is.”

  Zafran’s eyes narrowed. “Are magi truly so blind they need a soldier to explain war?”

  Vaelion’s lips twitched. “Maybe. But a soldier with no stake in their games might be the only one they’ll hear.”

  His words landed like weight—not just on the absent Archmagi, but on the nobles, too.

  Zafran held his gaze. “You want me to speak to them?”

  “Yes. They might listen—for once.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  Vaelion turned to Ealden. “Then he does what he must. March if he must.”

  Seren’s voice softened. “The Academia may break.”

  Vaelion nodded. “Then let it. Break, or burn. Neither is kind.”

  He stood. “Give me one chance to open the doors with words. If that fails—” he looked to Ealden, “walk in with steel.”

  Ealden’s voice was steady. “And you?”

  Vaelion paused at the threshold.

  “If that day comes, Commander… I’ll stand beside you.”

  Then he vanished, glyphs trailing like smoke behind him.

  And the silence he left was heavier than before.

  The chamber beyond the Council Hall was quiet. Not silent—the echoes of bootsteps and murmurs still drifted down from higher balconies—but quieter. More private. The heat of politics had faded, but the chill that followed was no less sharp. Seren, Vaelion and all the nobles has already gone.

  Zafran stood near one of the narrow windows, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the sea. Isolde leaned beside him against the stone arch, arms crossed, her coat still bearing his crest. Ealden lingered just behind them, hands on his hips, while Roland stood further back, silent and stiff.

  "Well," Ealden said finally, voice gravel-low, "I think you made three enemies and a legend today."

  Zafran didn’t turn. "I wasn't trying for either."

  Ealden nodded. "Good. Means you’re still sane."

  Roland shifted his weight. "Sir… are we really going to march on the Academia? If they don’t listen?"

  Isolde snorted softly. "You think they’ll roll over because of words?"

  Zafran answered without looking away. "Only if we have to."

  Ealden moved to the table, resting one hand on the edge. "They won’t like being told what to do. Especially not by a knight who isn’t one of their own."

  "Then they should’ve listened before it came to this."

  Isolde pushed off the wall. "None of them have seen what Lucian’s done. What he is. They speak of war like it's still a game of banners. If they stall too long, there won’t be a kingdom left to debate."

  Roland blinked. "You really think he can destroy Ocean Tide?"

  She looked at him, not unkindly. Just honest. "He already has. Just not with fire. Yet."

  A beat passed.

  Then Ealden spoke again. "Zafran. Tomorrow, you go to the Circle. Vaelion may open the door, but the words… those are yours."

  Zafran finally looked away from the window. "Understood."

  "Don’t go alone," Ealden added.

  Isolde didn't hesitate. "I'll go."

  Zafran raised an eyebrow. "You’re not tired of fighting with me yet?"

  She smirked. "You talk less than nobles. Easier company."

  Ealden tilted his head slightly, eyes catching the stitched crest on her coat. “You’re wearing his mark now?”

  Zafran shrugged. “She gets angry when I follow Seren around. I figure — maybe this helps—”

  “You figured wrong,” Isolde cut in, eyes forward.

  Ealden snorted, clearly entertained. “Bold of you to think a crest solves that problem.”

  Zafran muttered something under his breath. Roland, wisely, said nothing.

  Then they turned, leaving the quiet behind.

  And walking straight toward the storm ahead.