THE HAND THAT BURNS

Chapter Five – The Hand That Burns

The sky above Varlund was a dull orange bruise, the sun swallowed by dust and smoke. In the courtyard of a half-ruined garrison, Serenya Dravari stood before a man kneeling by a shattered statue of a dragon.

His armor was dull silver, tarnished with rust and cracked across the chestplate. A faded crimson cloak hung from one shoulder, barely holding to its clasp.

He looked old. But not weak.

"Serenya, daughter of Maeren Dravari, King of Flame and Ash." His voice was a slow, deep thunder. "I never thought I'd speak those words again."

"I never thought anyone alive would remember them," she replied.

He rose. Ser Lior Halvane, once a sworn brother of the King's Flameguard, bowed his head—not in worship, but in loyalty long kept quiet.

"I remember," he said. "I watched your mother give you your name. I carried your brother's sword from his pyre. And I killed three men trying to take you from the nursery tower."

Serenya didn't know what to say. So she said, "You ran."

"I did," he said. "To live. So that one day, if something of the fire returned, I could serve it again."

She stepped forward. "Then serve me."

He looked her in the eye, slow and steady.

"I will. But not because of your blood. Because of what you do with it."

Later, Maerys pulled her aside beneath a half-broken arch.

"You're gathering too fast," the priestess said. "Flame burns brightest when it's patient."

"I need swords."

"You need belief. And belief takes time."

Serenya looked at the horizon. "Then I'll make them believe. One by one."

Kaelen sat atop the east tower alone, the wind dragging at his cloak. Below, Thorne padded quietly along the courtyard wall. He didn't train today. He didn't speak.

He only watched the mountain horizon.

There had been rumors. Whispers of burned caravans in the South. Of old Dravari colors drawn in blood on fallen gates.

Nothing certain. Nothing proven.

But the cold always knew when fire was coming.

The fire crackled low in the Vaylen solar, where only three people were allowed.

King Halric stood near the hearth, cup in hand, eyes sharper than the wine he hadn't touched.

Lord Ceyric sat across from him, one leg crossed, arms resting on the wolf-etched arms of the chair. Lady Myra stood behind him, unmoving.

"I've never asked for much," Halric said.

"You've asked for the North's loyalty," Ceyric replied. "That is no small thing."

"I ask for more now."

Ceyric raised an eyebrow.

"The Hand is dead," Halric said. "Poison. Or a fall. No one agrees. But he's gone."

There was a pause. Myra's fingers tightened slightly on the chair.

"I need someone I trust," Halric continued. "Someone with a spine that doesn't bend at court. Someone whose house does not bleed ambition."

"And you believe that's me," Ceyric said.

"I know it's you."

Silence stretched.

"I want you in Sunspire, before the solstice. I'll give you a seat beside me. I'll give you command of the realm's spine."

"And if I say no?"

Halric met his eyes. "Then I pray to the gods I never need you."

After the King left, Myra remained still.

"You're not going," she said.

Ceyric stood slowly. "The King asks. The realm shifts. We need to be present."

"We need to be here," she said, voice colder than any snow. "With Kaelen, with Torren, with our daughters. With the wolves."

"You don't trust him."

"I trust no man who brings fire into a wolf's den and smiles like it won't burn."

Ceyric looked into the flames. "I'll decide soon."

She touched his arm—gently. "If you leave, something will crack. In this house. In this realm. And in you."

He didn't speak again.