Etched In Flame

Chapter 3

Two eyes—one glowing green, the other a dull, ancient red—watched in silence from the arched threshold of the Hall of Remembrance.

Prince Emrys Szulc, heir to the Voratian Dominion, stood unmoving. A rare reverence stirred within him, one not born of protocol, but of awe. Before him, seated at the center of the sacred chamber, was Meike Herr—the Pyrokyne heir, the Flameborne.

She was motionless, almost statuesque. Her microbraids—thick strands of obsidian black laced with the sunlit glint of gold—were arranged in a layered updo, carefully braided and pinned to form a crown-like spiral. The style was old. Ancestral. A design once worn by Vidariia herself, the Fire Goddess of Pyrokyne myth. And Meike wore it like it was her birthright.

The heir's ceremonial robes were nothing short of breathtaking: cascading folds of silk in deep royal blue and ember pink, embroidered with filigree in gold thread. Intricate gemstones adorned her back in a vertical line—diamonds surrounded by rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, forming a constellation of Pyrokyne's patron stars. When the light from the mirrored ceiling hit her, it refracted in a thousand directions, dancing across the walls like scattered fire.

She sat on a raised platform of dark obsidian etched with starmaps and Pyrokyne script, surrounded by polished mirrors that formed the chamber's dome. In Pyrokyne temples, there were no pews, no thrones—only platforms. Grounded and eternal.

Her legs were crossed. Her hands rested on her knees. Her eyes were closed, face tranquil. She looked like a relic of some ancient divine era, preserved in stillness.

Emrys approached slowly and knelt on the platform beside her. The mirror floor reflected the two of them together—her like flame incarnate, him like a shadow on the edge of the blaze.

Without opening her eyes, Meike spoke.

"Many lives were lost during the battle, Prince Szulc."

Her voice was quiet. Weighty. It carried the weight of command, of memory, and of mourning.

Emrys bowed his head. "And many survived."

He hesitated, then added, "Bjarne made it out too."

The effect was instantaneous. Meike's eyes snapped open—molten amber now, their usual firebank color sharpened with sudden heat.

"Never speak that name in this palace again."

Her tone was not angry. It was final. A decree handed down from someone forced to lock a piece of their heart away.

Emrys blinked. "Why?"

Meike turned her gaze back toward the mirrors. Her face was now unreadable—mask-like, noble, carefully composed.

"If the Sovereign Court knew," she said softly, "that he still lived... every member of my Armada who fought beside him would be charged with treason. So would Lelianne—for concealing him. And she would admit it. She would face execution without hesitation."

Her hands curled into fists in her lap.

"Bjarne was disinherited. Not just removed from the succession—erased. For leading the first fires of resistance against the old monarchy, before the alliance was formed. Even now, in peace, he cannot be forgiven. His existence threatens everything this new union stands on."

She swallowed, and for a moment, her voice cracked—just barely.

"And yet... he is my brother."

Silence echoed around them. Only the breath of the chamber's wind-chimes stirred above—soft, silver notes drifting down from vents in the domed ceiling.