UTHRED: HEIR OF ASH AND STEEL

The mine was silent. Too silent.

Uthred stood at the edge of the collapsed shaft, his sword drawn, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the warped iron gate. Red torches burned along the rocky path, their light flickering on crude murals carved into the walls—flames devouring crowns, kings bowing before shadow.

Maera crouched beside him, fingers brushing the tracks in the dust. "At least fifty. Maybe more. They're waiting."

Uthred didn't flinch. "Good. Let them."

A low horn echoed from within.

And from the shadows stepped Kairon—the man who once knelt at Uthred's side. Now masked in bronze, clad in flame-colored robes, he looked every inch the heretic king his followers claimed him to be.

"Brother," Kairon said. "Did you come to kill me? Or crown me?"

Uthred didn't answer at first. He studied the man before him, seeing glimpses of the loyal warrior Kairon had once been—before the war, before the dust, before the hunger for something more.

"You were my brother in arms," Uthred said, voice like a drawn blade. "You bled beside me in the mountain pass. You carried the wounded from the Battle of Redwater. Now you lead a cult of fire and lies."

Kairon's voice was calm. Almost mournful. "I followed you when you had no throne. When all we had was smoke and dreams. But now you wear a crown. Now you build palaces. What did you think would happen to those left behind in the ash?"

He stepped closer.

"You rose. I burned."

Behind him, a dozen masked followers appeared from the mine's inner depths, blades glinting. The sound of more feet echoed from below.

Maera's hand went to her sword.

"Easy," Uthred whispered.

"I have no interest in killing you," Kairon said. "But I will not kneel to a king who forgets the fire that made him."

Uthred took a step forward. "Then speak. What do you want?"

Kairon raised his hand. "Step inside, and I'll show you."

The mine swallowed them in silence.

Uthred, Maera, and three guards followed Kairon down the winding tunnel, deeper than the map of Eldhame showed. Old mining carts, rusted from years of abandonment, lined the walls. Runes had been painted over them—symbols of flame and rebirth.

They reached a cavern lit by a hundred lanterns. At the center stood an altar of obsidian. Upon it: a crown of jagged metal, wrapped in wire and scorched silk.

"The Crown of Cinders," Kairon said. "Forged from the weapons of those who died forgotten."

Uthred stared at it.

"This is what you worship?"

"No," Kairon said. "It's what we remember. You speak of legacy. I speak of justice."

Maera spoke coldly. "This isn't justice. It's sedition."

"No," Kairon snapped, the mask turning toward her. "It's a second chance. Uthred can unite us—or lose us."

He turned to the crowd behind him.

"You have until the next full moon," he said to Uthred. "Join us. Or stand against us."

Back in Eldhaven, Vale walked the catacombs beneath the old temple of the gods.

She met with an ancient priestess, blind and wrapped in silver cloth. Her name was Morlana.

"You asked to speak with the forgotten," the old woman said.

"I asked to protect my son," Vale replied.

"You seek the old flame. The one even Uthred will not name."

"I seek whatever will keep my child from burning."

Morlana extended a trembling hand. "Then kneel. There is a price."

Vale knelt.

And felt fire kiss her skin.

The council chamber simmered with unrest.

Theron slammed his hand against the table. "You let him live?"

Uthred met his gaze. "Killing Kairon makes him a martyr. I need time to find a better end."

Eamon was more cautious. "But we don't have time. Reports say dozens of villages now fly the Flameborne banner. They speak Kairon's name louder than yours."

Maera leaned forward. "Then we crush them quietly. Not with armies. With blades in the dark."

Uthred turned to her. "No assassins. I will not become what we fought against."

Jorlan, ever silent, finally spoke. "Then do something soon. Because if you don't, someone else will."

That night, a riot broke out in the southern quarter. A preacher claiming Kairon's doctrine declared Uthred an imposter and urged the people to revolt. The Flame Guard intervened.

By morning, five were dead.

One of them wore Uthred's crest.

Vale read the report beside the crib where Elion slept.

"Every day we wait, more bleed," she said.

Uthred stood at the window, the city's lights burning low in the mist.

"I know."

He looked at his son.

Then at the sword on the wall.

Then back to Vale.

"Then I stop waiting."