THE HALLOWED FLAME.

Dawn broke red over Eldhaven.

Not the crimson of blood, nor the gold of flame—but something in between. A hue that promised reckoning. That warned of a second reckoning.

The nobles gathered. The Flame Guard held the gates. Kairon awaited judgment in chains. And beneath the city, Vale's silent pact with the gods had begun to leave its mark.

A shadow moved beneath her skin. Her heartbeat burned.

Something was coming.

Kairon stood before the court, bound in steel and ash.

He bore his bruises with dignity. No tears. No bowed head. His face—split lip, darkened eye—still held the pride of a rebel who never truly surrendered.

The hall was packed. Lords, commoners, warriors, priests. The seats of judgment had not been filled since the Old King's fall. Now they waited for a verdict that might decide the fate of the city itself.

Uthred entered without crown or cloak. His sword, Aedric's blade, rested sheathed at his side. Vale stood behind him, pale but resolute.

Theron read the charges: insurrection. Sabotage. The deaths of over two hundred Flame Guard.

Then he paused.

"And the final charge," he said. "Incitement of civil war against the sovereign flame."

Murmurs rippled.

Uthred raised a hand.

"Kairon," he said, voice calm but cutting, "you've spilled blood. You've raised steel against the city you once bled to protect. What do you say to the people?"

Kairon looked past him, toward the gathered crowd.

"I say you crowned a warrior, and expected him to rule like a priest. I say this kingdom forgets its dead too quickly."

The silence grew sharp.

"I say I regret the lives lost. But not the fire I lit. Because it reminded you all what it feels like to burn."

The court waited.

Uthred looked to the crowd, then back to Kairon.

"You want to be remembered," he said. "Fine."

He turned to the guards.

"Strip him of the chains. Let him walk out of this court."

Gasps. One noble stood in protest. Another shouted.

Vale narrowed her eyes.

"But," Uthred continued, "he walks into exile. Branded. Banished. If he returns, he dies."

He walked to Kairon, unsheathed his blade, and touched the tip to his palm. A small cut. Just enough to bleed.

Then he pressed his bleeding hand to Kairon's shoulder.

"A mark of flame," Uthred said. "To remind you and all who see you—what you once were. And what you lost."

Kairon didn't flinch.

"I'll carry it," he said. "Until the end."

That night, Vale's body burned.

Not with fever, but with something deeper—an ancient power awakening from slumber.

She knelt in the catacombs, sweat pouring down her face, as Morlana whispered rites long forgotten.

"You've made the offering," the priestess said. "Now the fire will test you."

"I don't care," Vale gasped. "If it keeps Elion safe, I'll take it all."

The floor beneath her pulsed.

Visions surged—Elion's face older, scarred, eyes glowing; the throne room in ruins; Uthred fighting shadows that bore no name.

The fire cracked.

And for the first time, Vale screamed.

At the city wall, scouts returned with grave news.

"The Vikings haven't retreated," said one. "They've regrouped. A larger force now gathers in the west. Mercenaries. Betrayed clans. Outlaws."

Theron scowled. "They mean to surround us."

Maera studied the map. "Then we can't hold the walls. We'll bleed out in place."

"We don't retreat," Uthred said. "We strike first."

Maera raised an eyebrow. "Into a storm?"

"Better we set it than let it fall."

The next morning, Uthred met privately with Halric and Maera in the war tower.

"If we wait, they'll have numbers," Uthred said. "We need speed. Surprise. Fear."

Halric nodded. "Then we ride through the ravine. We flank the western encampment before they expect it."

Maera frowned. "It's a suicide path."

"It's a path they won't see coming," Uthred said.

Meanwhile, beyond the southern hills, Kairon stood alone on a ridge. The cold wind snapped his cloak. The fresh brand on his shoulder still wept blood.

He watched the Viking fires in the distance.

Then he turned away.

And began to walk—not away from the war, but toward it.

Toward something he hadn't told anyone yet.

Not even Uthred.