Through Kailorien's connection to the Flaeme, he felt the fear of every single ravaged citizen. The terror of the unknown. These selfish fools could not imagine how it felt to sense a thousand lives being snuffed out in a single moment. And even if they'd stood among the rubble, they could never have empathized with the horror of losing one's purpose.
The People carried Batchers, and that honor guaranteed them assistance from the temples in times of strife. But the temples were overrun with the sick. The Pale Madness had claimed their halls in full, and more and more temples were targets for the Solutus to kidnap citizens. In the chaos, the rebels would no doubt use this opportunity to boost their ranks. Auryn had repeatedly questioned their purpose. Their methodologies. How they managed to turn dying child Apprentices and adults into zealots that would give their lives for the Solutus.
The Flaeme keeps the minds of the People calm and neutral. They are tethered to it at birth. Irreversibly.
How, then, are the Solutus breaking that connection?
By the Void, Auryn asked this a thousand times. And all one thousand, the Council dismissed her insight as softness.
Even I believed her questions stemmed from her natural kindness. I should have listened. Now, look at my city.
Burning. Eating itself alive from within.
All while the Council argues over Gleamspurses and influence.
And Auryn? What of my Sokâr? She could have been killed when the portals misfired, and whatever effect the explosion had on her body could have been fatal if I hadn't come to her side.
He was the Resh'Agar, and the Void was impartial. His heart was built to beat a steady rhythm even when it should have quaked. He could hardly feel the elements. Rarely needed sleep. Felt no hunger. His rage should have been leashed. Contained. But as the Council's voices rose in volume, the air around him thinned. A rumble started from the ground and moved upward to the walls.
The Councilors staggered. Stopped speaking. Not because they had nothing more to say, but because—one by one—the chokers on their necks grew dim. Kailorien stood, his thick cloak whispering at it settled against mirrored marble.
The Resh'Agar spoke, and the storm bent around his will.
"I will hear nothing more from this Council," he said, each word fogging in the air with azure steam. "Shelterswillbe raised before the next dusk. The woundedwillbe tended. The Deep Reserveswillbe opened. Reskala will patrol the Commons untileverydisplaced Crafter has a place to sleep beneath a roof."
He looked at each of them, and none dared to move.
"Your greed, your ignorance, has invited death and war into my city. Has endangered the safety of my Sokâr. The next time I hear a single argument that is not in favor of my People, I will Repurpose you where you stand. Rank, title, seniority be damned to the Void."
The walls shuddered, clouds of dust and debris falling from the roof like snow.
"The Han will be rebuilt. My People will not be abandoned."
The Circle yielded. How could it not? The Arm had spoken, and the threat of destruction hung heavy in the Councilors' minds long after theecho of the Resh'Agar's voice faded from the chamber. Their chokers did not light up again, but even if they had, none would have dared to speak against the Arm. They shuffled their papers, gathered the remnants of their greed, and retreated from the Axis Hall with their tails tucked between their legs.
Kailorien’s gaze drifted to the empty seat beside his.
Auryn’s chair was vacant.
Something in the blast had triggered a reaction in her body that neither of them had seen before. When the Blightsphere detonated, she had not burned the way she did during her Flares. She'd frozen instead. Not the simple chill of fatigue, but a deep, unnatural cold that seemed to draw the warmth from everything around her. Even in the hours after the attack, when the city trembled, and the wounded filled the temple halls, her skin had felt like ice beneath his hands.
Days had passed since the bombing.
The city had not yet recovered.
And neither had his Sokâr.
The divan in Kailorien’s sitting room had been piled high with cushions, its low frame drawn near the fluxhearth. Auryn sat curled against them, white healing robe loose over her shoulders and a fur-lined blanket covering her knees. Her tea—Lu’ma’s handiwork—steamed in her hands, and she held the cup with both palms for heat.
Even this close to the flames, her skin held a lingering chill, like stone at dawn. Her movements were sluggish. When she shifted, it was with the guarded pace of someone whose limbs remembered recent weakness.A faint tremor caught in her fingers as she set the cup down. Lu’ma adjusted the pillows behind her without a sound, then took a seat on a nearby stool, dark eyes never straying far from her Host.
Bootsteps sounded in the archway leading down to the sparring ring. A tall figure cloaked in dark browns and purples stepped past the wards. He removed his hood to reveal a scarred face marred with a frown. Kailorien, leaning against the divan’s arm, lifted his head and waved Zarrek in. The warrior stepped forward, his expression sober.
“Resh, you’re working me harder than when I was your Second. I didn’t sign up for reinstatement.”
“There’s no one else I could trust with what you’re doing,” Kailorien replied, his gaze fixed on Auryn’s wrist. He checked her pulse, felt for her mana.
“Kail, I’m alright. Truly,” she insisted. “There’s no need.”
