THINGS THAT DO NOT BURN

Chapter Eight – Things That Do Not Burn

The ashes from the fire trial had long cooled, scattered across the stone yard like snowless soot. But Serenya Dravari still walked barefoot across them every morning, before the sun burned high enough to sting.

This morning, Maerys the Ash-Born watched from beneath the shadowed arch.

Serenya's pace was slow, careful—but her step never faltered. The burns on her feet had healed. Completely. Not a single scar. Not a tender spot. Her skin, pale bronze and unmarred, stepped where flame had once risen.

Maerys narrowed her eyes.

"You should still be limping."

Serenya glanced over, raising one brow. "Should I?"

Maerys stepped forward, drawing a taper from her robe. She struck it to life against a flintstone.

Flame rose.

She brought it close—slowly—until the fire flickered just inches from Serenya's bare arm.

Serenya didn't flinch.

"It's warm," she said. "But it doesn't bite like it used to."

Maerys said nothing. Her breath stilled.

She blew out the flame, turned, and vanished into the ruins without a word.

Dust choked the shelves of the ruin's old prayer vault. The fire-temple had collapsed in the war, but Maerys had saved the scrolls, fragments, and half-rotted tomes the rest of the world thought ash.

She pulled a bundle wrapped in oilcloth from beneath a fallen beam.

The pages crackled.

There—half-faded, half-burned—was the mark of an old rite. Dravari symbols twisted in flame-tongue.

"To Stir the Flame That Sleeps: A Rite of Bone and Blood"

Maerys inhaled, slow and reverent. Then her eyes caught another passage on the opposite page:

"The king who walks with fire shall not blister nor bleed beneath its tongue. The true dragonlord bears the Flame-Flesh—unmarked, unburned, unbroken."

She touched her fingers to the page.

"She is waking the blood," she whispered. "And fire knows its own."

Behind her, the black egg pulsed again.

Kaelen Vaylen crouched beside a narrow trail of hoofprints, brushing snow from the stones. The elk had passed through at dawn, not long ahead. Fresh, but not careless.

Behind him, Torren dismounted and scanned the trees. They were deep in the frostwood—far from any farm or holdfast. The silence was thick.

"You see it?" Torren asked.

"Tracks curve east," Kaelen replied. "Steep grade. He's heading for the salt ridge."

A third rider approached—Ser Halden Snow, cloak trimmed with old wolf hide, bow slung over his back.

He nodded to both brothers. "Riders shouldn't be out this far."

"Neither should elk," Kaelen said. "But something's got them moving."

They followed the trail for another hour before reaching the clearing.

What they found stopped all three of them cold.

The earth was blackened.

Trees along the perimeter were scorched at chest height, bark peeled back like dried flesh.

The snow hadn't melted—only the earth beneath had burned. A perfect circle.

Halden knelt. "There's no source. No coals. No ashes."

Torren muttered, "It burned… and then vanished."

Kaelen didn't speak. But Thorne, standing at the edge of the treeline, let out a low, uncertain growl.

Alenra Vaylen stood in the training yard, arms crossed, wooden sword strapped to her back.

She expected the usual dull guardsman to meet her—slow of reflex, soft of spine.

Instead, Lord Ceyric himself entered the yard, leading a weathered man with gray-streaked hair and a sword sheathed in dragonbone.

"This is Ser Daelen Thorne," Ceyric said. "He once served the royal guard. He'll teach you now."

Alenra narrowed her eyes. "Because I asked for a real sword?"

"Because I expect you to learn how to earn one."

Daelen nodded once. "Strike."

She blinked. "What?"

"Strike," he said again.

She charged—wild, fast, full of reckless energy. He sidestepped. She fell hard.

Again.

She rose. Slower this time. Sharper.

He blocked. Turned. Let her fall.

On the fifth try, she stopped charging and watched.

Then she moved.

And he let her land a blow.

"You'll be dangerous," Daelen said. "If you learn when not to be."

From the window above, Ceyric watched in silence, hands clasped behind his back.

Nightfall – Fire's Quiet Breath

In the ruins beneath Varlund, Maerys traced a circle of ash and bone, whispering the first lines of the rite.

Serenya sat nearby, palms open beside the eggs.

The black one pulsed. The red one shimmered faintly. The blue one remained still.

Maerys didn't look up. But her voice was calm.

"The fire doesn't come for kings. It comes for those who deserve to wake it."

Serenya closed her eyes. "Then let it come for me."