CHAPTER SIX

Finally, after years of silence from the heavens, the Flame had answered. Not with signs in the sky or victories in war, but with blood—his blood, made flesh. A son. A boy who would one day carry the sword, the crown, and the flame itself.

King Daemar stood atop the eastward balcony, staring into the golden mist of morning as the wind tousled his dark hair. The castle below was stirring with excitement. Banners were being dyed crimson and gold, the colors of the ruling house. The bells tolled for the third time, their deep groan announcing not war, but life. The heir had come. And Daemar would mark it the way kings before him never dared.

"Let it be known," he declared to the gathered servants and stewards. "My son's birth shall be celebrated for seven days and seven nights. There will be no hour without food, no hour without fire. Bring dancers from the Isles, songs from the Vale of Winds, beasts from the Northern Spine! Let every realm hear of it!"

The chamber erupted in motion. Pages dashed away to carry the command. Tellers would spread the news like wildfire. Within days, even the farthest border would know: the king had an heir. The flame lived on.

But beneath the surface of celebration, Daemar's heart pulsed with something colder.

That morning, just after the sun breached the hills, he had dressed in silence, refusing assistance. No gold-trimmed cloak or jeweled crown—only his plain travel robe and the pendant given to him by his mother, a woman whose visions had frightened even priests. He ordered two guards to follow, but not closer than ten paces. His destination was sacred, and no steel could guard him from the words he was about to hear.

The seer lived alone, as she always had. Her dwelling was carved into the hill beneath the royal shrine, half-cave, half-temple, cloaked in ivy and shadow. Few dared approach her uninvited.

But Daemar was no stranger.

He entered the torchlit cavern and saw her already waiting, seated upon a circular woven mat, eyes shut, her fingers stained with the dyes of countless rituals. Her long white hair coiled down her shoulders like threads of fate.

The king bowed—not out of obligation, but respect.

"Mother of Whispers," he said.

Her eyes opened slowly. "The Flame blesses you."

"It has," he replied, kneeling across from her. "He is born. My son."

The seer dipped her chin, acknowledging it as though she already knew.

"I have come for insight," Daemar said softly. "The wind feels strange. Even now that I hold victory, I feel... uncertain."

"Victory is never whole," she whispered. "It is only the pause before the next storm."

He extended his right hand, palm upward, ungloved. The seer leaned forward, took a tiny curved dagger, and nicked his thumb. A single drop of blood welled up. She caught it with the edge of her nail, then smeared it across the flat of a blackened stone bowl.

Her eyes rolled back.

And then she spoke:

"On the night victory is certain…

A flame shall be ignited.

One will burn to glow…

One will burn to blind."

Her voice seemed carried by the walls themselves. Daemar froze, lips parted, trying to understand. His thoughts immediately raced—to the son born of his queen, shining in the light of royal halls… and to the other, the son of the Jaka'ar woman, born in chains.

He had no proof the Jaka'ar child would grow to be anything more than another slave's son. And yet... the seer had never missed.

He swallowed, heart heavier now than when he arrived. "Tell me more."

But the seer's voice lowered.

"There is more. There is always more," she said.

He leaned closer. "Please. Read again."

She reached out. Once again, she cut his thumb with the same blade. Another drop. Another trace of blood smeared across the stone. The chamber seemed colder now. The flame of the nearby candle flickered violently.

And then, with a voice as brittle as frost, she declared:

"A king shall die…

for another king to rise…

for another king to die."

A chill crept up Daemar's spine.

He leaned back, hand still bleeding slightly, eyes narrowed. "What does it mean?"

The seer shook her head. "I see only glimpses. It is not mine to know all. But the thread has been spun. You walk the road already."

Silence fell between them like a blade.

The king bowed his head.

"A king shall die…" he murmured. "So that another may rise…"

He clenched his fist.

"Do you speak of me?"

"I speak of kings," she said. "All of them."

That was no answer. Or perhaps it was all the answer she could give.

He rose slowly, the weight of her words like iron across his shoulders.

"I thank you," he said quietly, and turned.

As he stepped from the cave, the morning had grown brighter—but somehow, it felt dimmer. His guards followed without question. They knew better than to ask what had been said.

Back at the palace, servants were pouring barrels of wine into polished troughs. Musicians tuned their lutes. A golden horn was brought from the vault, set to blow at dusk to signal the opening of celebration. Every window, every corner of the keep began to shimmer with new life.

Daemar climbed the steps to the central balcony once more and raised a goblet.

"To fire!" he roared. "To flame and blood and the wheel of life!"

The crowd below shouted in return.

He took a long drink, then laughed, louder than he had in moons.

"This week," he told his steward, "will be one of legend. Let no man go thirsty. Let no woman feel shame. We are kings and creatures of joy!"

Then, turning to his personal guard,Diego, he said with a twisted grin, "I'll drink myself to stupor tonight. For if the seer speaks true, this may be my last feast… as a true king."

The others laughed with him, but some glanced at each other nervously. Others drank harder, faster.

And far beneath the revelry, hidden in the stone corridors, two babes slept in opposite ends of the palace.

One born in chains.

One born in gold.

But both… born under the assurance of the flame.

The question is....which is the flame?