I turn my back on them—not out of trust, but out of confidence—and stride up to the throne. The carved obsidian chair looms behind me, but I don’t sit yet.
Instead, I face them with the Great Flame roaring high at my back.
“Now,” I say. “We speak of what matters.”
The camp representatives straighten, their expressions sobering.
“The SoulTakers have tried to advance,” I continue. “I have found evidence of tunneling attempts beneath the lower wards of The Ember Vein. Dagan, Kael, Alaric, and I have reinforced the protections, but that is only the first step.”
I let my gaze pin each of them in turn.
“We will increase guard rotations. We will implement the emergency response unit my viyella has designed with Healer Withers. We will train more healers, more first responders, from among your people. From your families.”
A murmur ripples through the room—uncertain, hopeful, fearful.
“Nightfall does not have the luxury of your complacency anymore,” I say. “You will adapt. You will accept her help. You will obey my commands.”
I let my fire flare once more, a warning and a promise.
“Because I swear this to you by the Great Flame and by the crown that still sits empty—so long as I breathe, The Ember Vein will not fall. My people will not be abandoned. And anyone who stands between me and that vow…”
I smile again, all teeth and heat.
“…will learn just how little of me has gone soft.”
The chamber is silent.
Then, one by one, they bow. Low. Deeper than before.
“By your flame, my Lord,” Gorran Flint says hoarsely from the back, thumping a fist to his chest.
I finally sit on the throne, leaning back as the fire settles into a steady roar behind me.
For the first time in a very long time, I do not feel alone on it.
Somewhere above, in our chambers, Delia sleeps.
Or perhaps she is awake now, talking the healer into revolutionizing the entire medical system of my mines.
Either way, she is mine.
And gods help anyone who underestimates what that means—for me, for Ashfell, for Nightfall—ever again.
The scent of scorched fear is just starting to fade from the throne room when Xavier appears at the edge of my vision, hovering in the shadows like a well-trained ghost.
He clears his throat once. Quiet. Respectful. Urgent.
“My Lord,” he says, bowing. “There is an urgent missive from the Lord of Air. Alaric requests yours and Lady Delia’s presence.”
Alaric needs us?
The fire in my chest tightens.
“Bring it,” I command, holding out a hand.
Xavier crosses the room quickly, placing the folded sheet of flame-sealed vellum into my palm. Alaric’s sigil—dragon wings and storm—glows faintly in silver across the wax.
I break it with my thumb.
