The marble halls of Virelion's High Citadel were built to echo silence.

Today, they echoed with panic.

Whispers slithered through the gold-veined corridors, weaving between merchant envoys and armored guards, fluttering like stray embers behind finely embroidered cloaks.

"He took the Spine without losing a man." "They say his flame walks unseen." "No one even heard the march."

The words were not shouted. They didn't need to be. The very fact that they were spoken was enough.

Inside the Court of Ash—a long, windowless chamber walled in scorched ashstone and obsidian—Virelion's inner circle argued beneath the cold gaze of empty braziers.

Six nobles circled the war table. None of them spoke calmly.

"He's spreading lies!" Baron Valdrik shouted. "Our soldiers flee from shadows because they believe his words."

"He spreads more than lies," hissed Countess Evarne, fingers drumming on the table. "Our merchant houses are stalling. Food convoys delayed. Mana reserves rerouted to border towns without orders."

Duke Harsen slammed a fist down. "Then strike! We are Pride! We meet fire with greater flame."

A sneer answered him from across the chamber.

"And feed his legend?" asked Lord Veyran, the king's scribe. "You think the people will not sing louder if they see our armies burn?"

No one answered.

The Court of Ash had not been this divided in a generation.

Meanwhile, through the lesser halls of the Citadel, a different kind of message moved.

Tavern songs hummed beneath the feet of passing nobles:

Flame that walks unseen— Flame that leaves no ash behind— Flame that frees, not binds— The Scourge corrects the king's own lie—

The court's spy master had already reported dozens of such songs. And dozens more letters—anonymous, scattered like kindling.

One such letter, freshly slipped into a noble child's satchel, read simply:

I have not come to conquer. I have come to correct.

In the chamber, tension reached its breaking point.

Then the doors opened.

The king entered.

The obsidian doors of the Court of Ash opened with a deep groan.

The arguing nobles fell silent—every word strangled mid-breath—as King Valtheron IV entered.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He walked without escort.

His robes of Pride were cut from black silk, patterned in silver flame motifs. His crown—a circlet of braided platinum—rested sharp against dark hair untouched by time. In his right hand, he carried a scroll bound in red ash cord—the color of irrevocable judgment.

His gaze passed over the assembled court without warmth.

"You chatter like merchants beneath an empty vault," he said.

No one spoke.

He strode to the head of the war table, the ash-veined surface cold beneath his palm.

"The River Spine was not lost to swords or mages," the king said. "It was lost to fear."

Several nobles flinched. A few dared lower their eyes.

"He has done what no Wrath-born has done in an age. He fights with restraint. He fights with purpose. He fights to correct."

The last word rang through the stone chamber like a hammer blow.

Valtheron raised the scroll.

"Pride does not bow. Pride does not chase illusions. Pride eradicates threats."

With slow, deliberate precision, he broke the red ash cord and unrolled the scroll.

"By sovereign decree of the Throne of Virelion," he intoned, voice steady as steel, "Kael Drayke—known as the Scourge of Wrath—is hereby marked as Ashbrand." "An enemy of the Doctrine. A threat to the sanctity of Pride's order." "He is to be hunted without quarter, within our borders or beyond." "All who aid him shall share his fate." "All who resist this decree shall be cleansed."

The words hung in the air like smoke that refused to fade.

Even the most hawkish nobles shifted uneasily. They knew the weight of the Ashbrand title—used only five times in recorded history. Each time had ended in fire, blood… and consequences that lasted generations.

But the king's gaze dared them to speak.

None did.

Elsewhere in the Citadel—a place the king would never see—a young girl sat in her family's estate library, writing by moonlight.

She was no more than ten—daughter of a minor house, ears still ringing from the Court's pronouncement. Her tutor had forbidden her to speak of it.

But her hands moved swiftly.

To Kael Drayke—if you can hear this… I do not want to live in a city of ash. Please help us. I will find a way to send this. Please… don't let them win.

She sealed the letter with trembling fingers.

And the first ember of rebellion found its voice.

The war table in Emberleaf's central tower glowed with fresh updates—supply lines strengthened, civilian movements secured, new scout reports filtering in from the outer villages.

Kael stood at its edge, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

Across the table, Rimuru floated with barely contained glee—her form shimmering a playful gold as she spun slowly above a sealed scroll freshly intercepted by Flame Scouts near the border.

"It's official," she said, voice lilting. "Your first Ashbrand title. Should I read it dramatically, or tragically?"

Kael exhaled through his nose. "Neither."

Rimuru grinned wider. "Then dramatically it is."

She unfurled the scroll with a twirl of slime-threads and cleared her throat—projecting her voice with mock noble flourish:

"By sovereign decree of the Throne of Virelion—" "Kael Drayke, known as the Scourge of Wrath, is hereby marked as Ashbrand…" "An enemy of the Doctrine…" "A threat to the sanctity of Pride's order…" "To be hunted without quarter…" "All who aid him shall share his fate…"

She paused for effect, eyes twinkling.

"He dares to burn too brightly."

Rimuru sighed theatrically. "Oh my stars, Kael, you're glowing with menace."

Nyaro let out a soft snort from her seat at the table's far side. The Runebrick tactician shook his head, murmuring, "They're afraid."

Kael's gaze remained fixed on the scroll—but his voice was steady, calm.

"They should be."

He reached toward the side of the table where a smaller, far less ornate letter now lay—delivered in secret only an hour ago by one of his border scouts.

A child's hand had written it, the strokes careful but uneven:

"To Kael Drayke—if you can hear this… I do not want to live in a city of ash. Please help us."

Kael read it twice, then folded it carefully.

"There are still embers worth saving."

He looked up, meeting each gaze around the table.

"And we will."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.