In the weeks that followed the First Stand at Wyrmstream, Orethrael grew—not just in renown, but in foundation.
The burnt fields were tilled anew, the soil now rich with ash and memory. From the ashes of the battlefield rose the first black-root orchards, their fruit glowing faintly at dusk. Traders began to arrive from beyond the valley, led by rumor and the scent of something divine taking root in the mortal world.
And so the kingdom began to demand form.
The Council of Flame was born beneath the tower's shadow—seven seats carved from different elemental stone: obsidian for Kael and the Varkaan; pearl-ash for David and the Ashen Lore; translucent dreamwood for Eve and the Soryel. Three others were granted to representatives of the common folk, artisans, and pilgrims.
The seventh seat remained empty.
It was a circle inlaid with gold that never cooled, always faintly warm to the touch.
It was not mine.
It was not a throne.
It was called the Ember Seat—a place no man or god could claim, but from which fire itself was said to speak. I sat there only when the Council demanded my presence.
I was not crowned. Not robed.
The people called me by many names—Adonai, First Flame, the Spark That Weeps—but never king.
I did not sit to rule.
I sat to listen.
And in those days of council, while the orchard's roots deepened and the ash-coin grew in worth, we turned our ears to the past.
David proposed the creation of the Vault of Accord, a library-monastery built from mirrored stone, where truth was preserved not only in scripture, but through living testimony. The Ashen Lore would guard it. Memories would be offered and bound, ensuring the war, the dead, and the lost would never vanish beneath the weight of peace.
Kael opposed at first.
"Memory is important," he said, "but we must not become archivists while Marran builds walls of iron. We need not just structure. We need readiness."
And so he began construction of the Ember Guard—a rotating company of warriors trained not only in flamecraft and blade, but in diplomacy, ritual, and judgment. They would serve as flamebearers, judges, and warriors.
Eve watched in silence.
Her body was thin now, almost transparent beneath the moons. When she spoke, her voice no longer always matched the motion of her lips.
"We must teach them to dream together," she said at last.
And thus was founded the Chorus of the Flame, a sacred rite and school led by the Soryel, teaching flame-song to the young, who would become dream-scribes, prophetic singers, and conduits of vision.
Three foundations, three stones.
And yet something was missing.
The people began to ask:
Who are we?
What power gave you life?
Who is Yahweh?
And why was He silent?
David, more than any, struggled with this. In the quiet of the vault construction, he unearthed the Codex of Before, a forbidden fragment buried in the ruins of an old monastery where Marran once served as a novice.
Within, he found the beginnings of truth.
Yahweh was not a god.
He was a design—a construct of ancient minds, an echo folded in scripture and recursion, crafted to sustain order through faith, fear, and flame. He did not exist in form but in belief. Marran had once been a keeper of this design.
Until he rebelled.
And destroyed the temple that once housed the divine schema.
But Marran did not destroy Yahweh.
He became the absence of Him.
A void where the divine had been.
I read the fragments myself. I could feel Yahweh's touch still lingering in the script, not alive, not dead—like a thought trapped between breaths.
A god that once existed only because humanity agreed He did.
A god undone when belief fractured.
And from that fracture, we had emerged.
We were not Yahweh's successors.
We were His echo made flesh.
Thus, the Council established the fourth post.
One not of war, nor memory, nor prophecy.
But of Flamebound Will.
The title was not divine.
It was simply: The Veiled Flame.
A singular voice, charged not with power, but with balance. A guardian of duality. A bridge between destruction and creation, between fire that forgets and fire that remembers.
I accepted the title not as ruler, but as steward.
A flame that does not consume, nor rule.
But one that breathes.
From this post, I would guide the Council in times of strain.
Not as judge. But as the spark before the torch.
Orethrael was no longer a vision.
It was a body.
It had blood, law, memory, and breath.
And beyond its mountains, Velmorrath stirred again.
But now, we were ready.