UTHRED: HEIR OF ASH AND STEEL

Three days after the southern quarter riots, Uthred summoned the leaders of the Flameborne faction to Eldhaven—not in chains, but as guests.

The offer was simple:

> Lay down your rebellion. Rejoin the crown. And your voices will be heard.

The alternative:

> Stand with Kairon when the full moon rises—and be treated as traitors.

Only four arrived. Cloaked. Guarded. But curious.

Among them: a woman named Iskra, a former healer from Caelwyn, and a young blacksmith who once fought beside Uthred in the east.

Vale watched the meeting from behind a silken veil, her eyes alert. She knew what was at stake. She could feel the city on edge—ready to ignite.

And somewhere beneath them all, the gods listened.

Uthred met the delegation in the upper war hall, beneath banners scorched in battle. The Flame Guard stood silent along the walls. Maera and Theron flanked the throne.

He did not sit.

He stood.

"I will not speak of peace in riddles," Uthred said. "You followed me once, not because I wore a crown, but because I bled beside you. I am still that man. But I will not let this kingdom burn from within."

The young blacksmith—Darin—stepped forward. "We followed you because we believed you'd never become them. The ones who ruled in silence. Who crushed dissent."

"I am not them," Uthred said. "But I will not let a lie fracture what we've built."

Iskra bowed her head. "Then prove it. Show the people what justice looks like. Not just for the throne—but for us."

That night, by Uthred's decree, a great pit was dug in the courtyard of Eldhaven. Charred stones from Caelwyn were placed at its edge. A brazier was lit with the same flame that once ignited the Blood Oath.

A crowd gathered—nobles, farmers, soldiers, former rebels. The tension was thick as pitch.

Uthred stepped into the circle.

"Tonight, we do not shed blood. Tonight, we test truth."

Kairon had sent word earlier that day: a challenge. Let the gods decide who spoke for the flame.

So Uthred agreed.

Iskra was the first to enter the circle. She placed her hand over the brazier, lips trembling, eyes closed.

She did not burn.

Gasps rose from the crowd.

Then Darin followed. He too passed the flame unharmed.

A third rebel stepped forward. When he touched the flame, his palm blistered. He screamed, dropping to his knees.

Whispers filled the square.

"The flame judges," someone muttered.

Uthred looked to the crowd. "The gods do not serve kings. But they remember truth."

And then he stepped into the fire himself.

The brazier flared.

But Uthred did not flinch.

When the trial ended, the crowd dispersed—stunned, silent, unsure what they had witnessed.

But something had shifted.

That night, Iskra approached the palace alone. She asked for no audience, no favor.

Only this:

"Let me help rebuild Caelwyn. Let us return—not as rebels, but as believers."

Uthred nodded.

Maera watched her go. "One spark, and they follow."

Uthred turned to her. "One fire, yes. But fire spreads faster than loyalty."

That same night, in the undercellars of Eldhaven, Vale stood before the old altar of the forgotten gods. Her palm still bore the mark from Morlana's ritual.

The priestess whispered, "Now the gods have chosen. But choice always demands sacrifice."

Vale whispered back, "Then I will pay it."

Morlana smiled. "You already have."