The Hall of Flame, deep beneath the Sapphire Palace, was built of blackstone and glass. The ceiling shimmered with enchanted flame, flickering with every heartbeat of the kingdom.
Twelve seats surrounded the obsidian table—each carved with the emblem of a house sworn to Sapphire.
King Levi Daemon sat at the head, his crown resting beside him, untouched.
Around him, his council stirred. The murmurs had already begun before the chamber doors closed.
Whispers of fire in the east.
Whispers of him.
"—A dragon?" scoffed Lord Feron, the Trade Minister. "You summon us for campfire tales?"
"Tell that to the ash falling in the villages near Eastgrove," replied Lady Merra, commander of the Queen's Guard. "Something stirred out there."
"The people say they saw wings," murmured Seer Halric, ancient and half-blind. "And dreams have returned. Dreams of fire. Of kings burning."
Levi raised his hand.
"Enough."
The chamber stilled.
Levi stood. "Two hundred years ago, our ancestor won this peace with ink and blade. But peace is a mask. And the kingdoms have grown restless. If they sense weakness, they will strike."
"Then let us strike first," Lord Feron said.
"No," Levi said. "We will find the boy. Quietly. Before the others do."
A silence fell.
Then Lady Rhaen Daelwyn, ambassador to Velmora, leaned forward. "There is a rumor. One of your bloodline… but not of your house. Is it true?"
Levi's jaw tightened.
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Some council members leaned back. Others leaned forward.
If Marcus was truly his son—and bonded to a dragon—then his existence was a threat to every noble in the room.
"Do you plan to name him heir?" Feron asked sharply.
"No," Levi said.
"But the blood runs strong," said Seer Halric. "And the fire… it chooses the worthy, not the willing."
The room grew colder.
And from the shadows, a figure unseen slipped away—a spy in Sapphire colors, but loyal to another crown.
Within the hour, a raven would be flying toward Zar-Khalan.
And by nightfall, Velmora would already be preparing their ship.
The race had begun.
—
Far beyond, Marcus Daemon stood at the edge of a ruined watchtower, gazing at the distant lights of a village below. The dragon, Veyrion, curled on a stone nearby.
His hands burned faintly with light he didn't understand.
He turned to the creature. "Why me?"
The dragon didn't speak.
But in his heart, Marcus felt the answer.
> Because the fire remembers. Even when men forget.