Morning following Sylva Crestlyn's visit dawned over Darsen's western hills beneath a cover of thin mist. The Flameborn manor, situated among the hills there, looked particularly ancient that morning—its tall spires brooding like silent sentinels, the stone silver-lit as if the past itself breathed softly through the halls.
Ashen rested against the library window, fingers crossed behind him, watching the first light creep into the clouds. He hadn't slept much. Too much to think.
Crestlyn's interest wasn't an accident. Their families hadn't seen each other much beyond required political etiquette. For Lady Sylva to come to these halls wasn't an accident. And if Crestlyn noticed… so did the others.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. It was Sir Verrin, his father's trusted retainer.
"You're summoned," Verrin said.
Ashen turned. "By Father?"
"No. By the king."
Ashen blinked.
"The royal court has sent letters to a number of noble houses," Verrin continued. "There will be a council in Highmantle. Ten days' time."
Ashen's breath hitched. A summons to Highmantle, the capital. Not for celebration. Not for a festival.
For a council.
"What does it concern?" he asked.
Verrin's expression was grave. "Trade routes. Border unrest. The western barons. Possibly succession gossip. But most—its a test."
"A test," Ashen replied.
Verrin nodded. "To see who comes. And who doesn't.".
Ashen turned his back on the window, the courtyard below full now of servants and knights preparing for the day. The world was shifting more rapidly than he'd ever dreamed. But it was this instant his father'd spoken of. Time to move on the big board.
The Flameborn Strategy
Later that evening, the hallway of House Flameborn was afire with lamp light and sound. Not visitors, not courtiers from outside the house—but planners, retainers, and core family members. Lord Orin at the far end of the long oak table, a map spread before him. Ashen to his right, Elira to his left.
"There's no question," Elira answered, tracing her finger along the route to Highmantle. "We must attend. Failing to send a representative would make us irrelevant. Worse—weak."
Orin tapped his knuckles on the edge of the table. "And what does it proclaim if I, lord of a failing house, present myself at court with a son in his minority?"
A bold one," Ashen said. "And one that proclaims we haven't forgotten."
Elira raised an eyebrow at her brother, pleased with the reaction.
Orin's gaze rested on his son. "You wish to walk among lions, Ashen. Ensure you've developed teeth."
Ashen did not flinch. "I don't plan to yelp like one. Just let them know we still walk the same ground.".
Sir Verrin, standing behind Lord Orin, cleared his throat. "There's more. Our spies in the capital suggest House Marrowind has already begun lobbying their allies. They may attempt to claim new lands in the western reaches—lands dangerously close to ours."
Elira scowled. "If Marrowind expands further west, they'll choke our trade lines to the riverfront."
Orin folded his arms. "Then we'll need to make our stance clear. Flameborn does not yield."
The decision had already been made before the words were spoken. The Flameborn embassy would go to Highmantle. The days of observation were at an end.
A Word in Passing
The next morning, Ashen walked the western gardens, his thoughts burdened by the weight of what was to be. That was where he found Seren, the steward's daughter, sitting quietly by the fountain with a book on her lap.
Seren was always there, lingering in the background of the estate—listening, observing. She was quick with her tongue, quicker with silence.
"You walk like a man ready to meet his end," she remarked without lifting her head.
Ashen gave a dry huff of laughter. "Rather more like a man ready to be noticed."
She glanced up at him then. "Same thing in aristocratic society."
He sat down next to her on the stone bench. The fountain softly churned in the distance.
"Did you hear about Highmantle?" he inquired.
"Of course. Everyone has. There's been twice the gossip in the kitchens since the raven arrived."
Ashen studied her face. "And what do they say of me?"
Seren paused. "That you're a candle in a room of torches. Bright, maybe. But transient."
Ashen took that without a flinch.
"And you?" he asked softly.
Seren finally met his eyes. "I think you'll surprise them. The real question is—will they let you?"
They sat in silence for a while after that, the autumn wind tugging gently at the trees overhead. In that quiet moment, Ashen found a rare calm. The kind of calm that comes not from assurance, but from acceptance.
The Road to Highmantle
Five days later, the Flameborn convoy rode out.
Ashen led the middle ranks, with Sir Verrin and a score of household knights on either flank. Lord Orin rode in the back, in the main carriage with Elira, who had insisted on accompanying them, "to watch your back," she'd said dryly.
Highmantle was to the east, and the road there went through the heartland plains, by hamlets, river towns, and smaller noble manors. They encountered other houses on the way to the same council—each with its own banners, its own carefully groomed escorts.
The Cavere procession was the first they encountered—one that flowed smoothly by in silver and blue, their carriages shining, their riders too haughty to do anything more than nod.
Then House Tamerin came, with greetings warm enough and even rode with them for half a day, discussing openly court matters and rumors of the king's sickness.
But every house danced around the same unresolved tension: change was coming. Whether it came through blood, pen, or alliance—no one would be departing the council the same.
Arrival at Highmantle
When the Flameborn ambassador rode through the marble gates of Highmantle, the capital was alive. Banners hung from every tower, market avenues buzzed with throngs, and blue-shirted guards patrolled every corner.
Ashen couldn't help but be drawn to the city—a thousand eyes, a thousand reasons.
As they passed into the inner court district, there came a blast on a horn and a crown steward approached their company. He bore the crown seal, gold and crimson.
"Lord Orin Flameborn," the steward addressed him. "The king welcomes you to Highmantle. Your family will be accommodated in Solar Hall for your stay."
Orin respectfully bowed his head. "We are honored."
The steward looked at Ashen. "Your heir will be needed at the noble heir's assembly tomorrow evening."
Ashen kept quiet, but he knew that. The kingdom's eyes narrowing. Sizing him up.
The real games ahead.