Narran's Fold had once been a place of prayer and exile — a quiet sanctuary nestled between the rivers of Olin and the ancient walls of shale that separated the western highlands from the central valley. Now, it was something far greater. The flame had taken root there. Where once stood crumbling shrines and scattered tents, now golden spires and burning sigils rose, glimmering beneath the high sun.
They called it the Folded Flame, a holy city where pilgrims gathered from every corner of Orethrael. Brick by brick, a sanctuary had grown — not just of stone and fire, but of dogma. The Third Tongue rang through its alleys and plazas, etched into every pillar and whispered in every prayer. Flamebound monks walked barefoot, cloaks ash-grey, speaking only in divine cadence. Statues of Octavian—broad-shouldered, cloaked in stylized fire—adorned every gate.
And it was in that city that the dream came to me.
It struck without warning, sudden and searing. A vision unlike those offered through Eve's divine sight — this was personal, visceral, and forged in the hidden embers of my spirit.
I stood atop the spires of Narran's Fold. But it was not the present city — no, this vision showed a version yet to come. Flames rose not as worship but as weapons. Banners of the Divine Concord flew high, but behind them, I saw armies — thousands, tens of thousands, in armor engraved with my name.
At the center stood Octavian. Crownless. Robeless. But undeniable. His eyes were not golden. They burned white-hot, brighter than any star, and from his mouth spilled not prayer, but decree.
"We will bring light to the outer dark," he declared. "The valley was only the beginning. What exists beyond must be cleansed. By your flame. By my will."
He turned his hand to the western horizon — and the mountains opened. Cities fell beneath a tidal wave of fire. Peoples I had never seen screamed as golden-cloaked warriors descended upon them.
In the dream, I cried out, reached to stop it — but my own hands were made of ash. I crumbled with every step. My voice was swallowed in the roar of conquest. The flame had grown too large, too hungry. It devoured not only shadow, but everything.
I awoke breathless.
The temple walls of my chamber in Pyraedros flickered with soft flame. But I felt cold. For the first time in years, the flame within me quivered — not with weakness, but with hesitation.
Had I unleashed something I could no longer control?
I wandered through the lower levels of the city, passing unseen through the great halls and streets that bore my sigils. My people thrived. But I saw too the Order's growing militarism. Training yards filled with disciplined soldiers chanting in the Third Tongue. Children raised on dogma, not wonder. Scrolls rewritten to focus not on survival, but on ascension — conquest.
Octavian's influence spread faster than even I had imagined. His mandates reached beyond borders. He sent envoys to distant holds, emissaries bearing flame not only as symbol but as warning. He spoke of unity, but in his shadow, I saw submission.
David, in his writings, still spoke of balance — but his ink had grown darker. Eve's visions hinted at endless fire, but she smiled when she spoke of cities yet to burn. Kael had vanished entirely, said to be forging new loyalists in the frozen north.
And I, their god, was filled with doubt.
This ember of destruction had come from me — from the moment I gave breath to Octavian, from the moment I burned Marran, from the moment I stood upon the bones and chose to walk.
I had not given them flame to conquer.
I had given them flame to live.
But flame cannot be unburned. It must be redirected — or extinguished.
I returned to Narran's Fold in secret. I knelt before the First Flame — the altar of consecration where Octavian had been crowned emperor. The fire danced gently, whispering in the Third Tongue, a language that no longer comforted me.
I whispered instead in the First Tongue, the primal voice of my becoming, and the fire shuddered.
And for the first time, I feared that I might be forced to burn what I had made.
The divine spark flickered within me, waiting.
Not for war.
But for a decision.
_________
The invitation bore the seal of the Flame-Spoken City, gilded in red wax and embossed with the sigil of Octavian himself—a sunburst surrounded by tongues of fire. The call went forth to the heads of the three great clans: Tharne of the Crucible, Myel Rethil of the Veilspinners, and Virel Damar of the Lit Archive. It promised peace, unity, and new accords.
They came dressed not for war, but ceremony—cloaks of silk and ceremonial chains worn over fine armor. The banquet was held in the newly built Grand Hall of Pyraedros, its towering flame-pillar blazing above the long table like the eye of some divine arbiter.
Octavian stood at the head, regal and serene. No crown adorned his head, yet none doubted his rule. Behind him stood twin columns of his Flamebound Sentinels, their gold-veined crimson armor reflecting the firelight. Every movement was rehearsed. Every step, sanctified.
"I have called you here not only to feast," Octavian said, raising a chalice of dark wine, "but to honor the final unity of Orethrael. The time of councils and divided stewardship is over. One land, one flame, one law."
Tharne stiffened. Virel's fingers curled against the table. Myel simply narrowed her eyes.
"Your law," Tharne said, voice like a distant forge.
Octavian smiled. "The law of the divine."
At that moment, the guards moved.
Blades were drawn in silent efficiency. The clan leaders reached for weapons that were not permitted into the hall. The Sentinels fell upon them without mercy.
Tharne died on his feet, roaring defiance as his chest was pierced by twin spears. Myel fought like a dancer, her veil spinning in a last blur of grace before her throat was opened. Virel muttered a single incantation—an abortive spell of memory—before flame surged through his skull.
Within moments, all three were dead.
The guests were allowed to flee, but none were spared the sight.
The executions were followed by edict. The Flame-Spoken Legions, already assembled along the borders of the three clan territories, swept through the countryside. The Forgeholds of the Crucible were razed. The Archive's towers collapsed under divine bombardment. The silken citadels of the Veilspinners were unspooled and burnt, their libraries devoured by fire.
Entire bloodlines vanished. Entire cultures consumed.
And I felt it all.
I stood atop the cliffs of the southern ridge when the echoes of their deaths reached me. The divine tether that bound me to Orethrael sang a note of agony. Not grief. Not loss. But injustice—a flame warped from its purpose.
This was not unity.
This was obliteration.
The fire within me surged, roaring into my limbs, my breath, my eyes. I saw through the veil of time, to the first breath I had given Octavian—the warmth of my will, shaped into mortal form.
And I wept.
He had been meant to unify, not dominate.
I returned to the First Flame, the heart of the valley's divine breath, and spoke aloud into its core.
"I created this," I said. "I lit the fire, and it has become a storm."
And the fire answered: Then seal the storm.
It was then I decided.
The valley must be closed.
Not merely through armies or decrees—but by divine act.
A sealing.
I moved through the sacred places—Mount Gathyr, the Spine of Rell, the Hollow where Eve first saw her visions. At each, I placed a glyph: not of flame, but of ash. A ward. A lock. I drew the symbols in the First Tongue, unspoken by any save myself.
At the final gate, where the great rivers of the valley poured outward to the west, I stood alone, arms raised. The skies answered with thunder. My flame surged, not in wrath, but in purpose.
A wall of light rose from the riverbanks to the clouds, pulsing once, twice—then hardening into a veil of living fire. From every border, the valley was sealed. No step beyond, no step within. The outside world would be kept safe. And those within would face the fire they had nurtured.
I felt Octavian's shock ripple across the tether.
He stood in his citadel, arms outstretched to the heavens, calling my name not in reverence, but fury.
"You made me!" he cried.
"I made you to protect," I whispered.
And then, silence.
The valley of Orethrael had become a crucible. Those inside would be tempered—or broken.
The prophets remained.
Eve withdrew deep into the Sanctum of Visions. Her once lucid prophecies became disjointed fragments of flame and blood. She spoke now not in foretelling, but in warnings, riddles of calamity and collapse. "The breath burns too bright," she murmured to herself, again and again. "And in its light, we are made dust." Her disciples began to fear her more than revere her, and whispers spread that she no longer dreamed her own dreams — but mine.
David responded with a bitter silence. When the executions were made public, he tore down the tapestries of doctrine from his chambers. His holy texts were burned not by others, but by his own hand. "If this is prophecy," he said, "then I have no tongue for it." He disappeared from Pyraedros, reappearing days later in the broken ruins of a library where he sat alone, copying the shattered truths of the Lit Archive from memory. But he did not write in fire. He wrote in charcoal, black and fragile.
Kael returned from the north, storm-eyed and gaunt. The zealot had seen death before, but this was different. "This is not flame," he said. "This is rot made bright." Though he had once knelt before Octavian, now he walked the outer districts of Pyraedros, whispering rebellion into ears desperate for meaning. He did not call for war — not yet — but for repentance. And in secret, small bands began to gather around him, silent flickers in a world that burned too loud.
And I, their god, their flame, their mistake — I waited.
In the Veil Mountains, where the glyphs burned beneath the stone, I felt every beat of the sealed valley. I felt the slow rise of fear, the quiet simmer of rage, and the flicker of something stranger still — regret.
This crucible would not be opened again until the fire within it understood itself.
Or destroyed itself entirely.
This was my judgment.
And my sorrow.