UTHRED: HEIR OF ASH AND STEEL

The scout collapsed at the gates of Eldhaven just after dawn, wrapped in a torn cloak, his fingers blackened by frost and blood.

He had crossed the eastern wilds alone.

In his hand: a sliver of birch bark, scorched at the edges. Etched into it were five words burned with iron:

THE FLAME HAS ESCAPED.

Uthred read the message twice. He didn't blink. Didn't speak.

Something deep in his chest twisted—not fear, but recognition.

Caelwyn, the old rebel outpost where the Blood Oath began, had been burned.

And not by his fire.

Three days later, Uthred rode with a detachment of Flame Guards to the charred remains of Caelwyn.

The ground was black glass. The trees stood like bones. And in the center of the ruined hall, nailed to a scorched pillar, was the broken crest of Eldhame—defaced with ash and oil.

A new symbol was carved beneath it:

A flame, devouring a crown.

Maera stood beside him. "Someone is using your legacy. Twisting it."

Uthred turned slowly. "No. Not someone. One of us."

He ordered a search of the surrounding woods. What they found were banners—small ones, hand-stitched, marked with the sigil of the Flame King. Dozens of them.

But the campfires were still warm.

The rebels had fled.

Or were waiting.

He knelt beside a half-burned log, fingers brushing the ash. Beneath it, a scrap of parchment.

> "He lit the fire. We carry it."

Back in Eldhaven, Theron slammed his gauntlet on the council table.

"We just ended one war. And now you tell me there's another growing under our own colors?"

Eamon spoke calmly. "It's not war yet. But it will be—if we don't act fast."

Vale rose, her face pale, her arms wrapped around their child.

"They're not enemies. Not yet. They're people who believed in Uthred when the throne was empty. Now they fear he's forgotten them."

Uthred looked to Jorlan. "How many men can we move without alarming the city?"

"Two hundred. No banners. No steel. Just eyes and ears."

"Send them."

Maera looked uneasy. "And if that fails?"

"Then I'll go myself."

That night, Vale descended into the royal archive—beneath the oldest wing of the Flamekeep.

She searched scrolls inked in dead languages, flipping pages until her fingers were stained with dust and soot.

She found it near dawn:

> When the blood of fire fathers a child under broken moons, the line of kings shall be tested. One will rule. One will burn. And the crown shall fracture again.

She held the scroll close.

Then, from the shadows, a voice whispered:

"You should not have read that."

Vale turned, blade drawn.

A hooded figure vanished into the dark.

She chased it—through narrow stairwells and echoing halls—but by the time she reached the outer courtyard, only a smear of ash remained.

By the time Uthred returned to the city, Vale had fortified the western tower.

She showed him the prophecy.

He said nothing for a long time.

Then: "If they think Elion is the threat, they'll come for him."

Maera stepped in. "They won't get close."

But Jorlan shook his head. "They're not coming with blades. They're coming with belief. That's harder to kill."

Uthred stood.

"Then we take the war to them. Not to destroy. To reclaim. If my name has become a weapon—I'll wield it myself."

Weeks passed.

Whispers spread through Eldhame like smoke—of a man in red armor gathering old rebels. Of a group calling themselves the Flameborne. Of a creed more dangerous than any sword.

They called Uthred a false king.

They called Elion a cursed child.

And they crowned their own leader: a masked man named Kairon, who once rode beneath Uthred's banner.

Theron scouted a northern pass where they'd been sighted.

"They're fast. They know our tactics. Because they trained under us."

Uthred paced before the hearth.

"Then I trained them wrong."

He turned to Maera.

"We march tomorrow. And we end it before the fire spreads again."

Uthred rode north with a chosen company—two hundred warriors, Vale's blessing, and the Flame Banner hidden beneath his cloak.

They crossed into the Emberfold, a region of deep pine and burned valleys, where the last remnants of the rebellion once fled.

Every mile, they saw signs:

Crows impaled on spears.

Sigils burned into trees.

Children watching from the shadows, vanishing when approached.

And then they found the trail.

It led to an old mine—long collapsed, now repurposed as a fortress of flame.

From its gate, a voice echoed:

"Kairon awaits the king who abandoned his crown."