CHAPTER 32: THE FIRST FLAME

THE PURIFICATION OF THE FLAME

(Narrated by a most attentive observer, who knows far too much and yet not nearly enough.)

Dearest reader, if you had walked through Solmire this morning, you would have sworn that the sun itself had decided to descend and dwell among mortals.

At dawn, the city awoke not to the usual toll of the palace bells, but to the slow, rhythmic hum of prayers. From the first ring to the farthest ash-stained alley, the kingdom shimmered with life, streets brushed clean, banners of red-gold unfurled from marble balconies, and children laughing as they scattered crushed ember petals that glittered like sparks beneath their bare feet.

The Heart of Flame, the royal palace itself, blazed brighter than ever. Its white stone towers caught the morning light until they seemed to burn, a fitting sight, for today marked the beginning of the Pyrosanct Festival.

The beauty of Solmire was divided into three division.

Every ring of the kingdom spun with its own rhythm. The First Ring, where the nobles resided, moved like a slow, elegant dance, the clinking of goblets, the rustle of silks, servants carrying urns of sacred ash toward the Temple of Pyronox, where the High Priest and Priestess prepared the anointing rites.

The Second Ring, the Sanctum Quarter, was already alive with the sounds of artisans, smiths hammering charms of bronze and gold to hang at doorways for luck. The smell of burning cedar and orange blossom filled the air, sweet and heavy.

Farther out, in the Common Circle, the markets stirred with laughter and song. Bakers painted their bread with saffron and fire-honey, minstrels tuned their glass flutes, and old men told wide-eyed children the story of Pyronox, Bringer of Flame, who lit the first dawn from his own heart.

And beyond them all... even in the Ash District, where the poor lived in soot and smoke — lanterns glowed red and gold in every window. For today, even sorrow was permitted to burn bright.

By midmorning, every street converged toward the marble steps of the Temple. Thousands gathered, dressed in white to mark purification. The air was alive with murmurs, chants, and the faint heat rising from a hundred thousand torches yet to be lit.

And then, as the bells tolled, she appeared.

Queen Eris of Solmire, the Flameborne Monarch.

There are many who will tell you that the queen is beautiful, reader. But beauty is too soft a word for her. She was radiant, the kind of light one cannot look upon for long. Her hair, white as winter fire, was veiled by gold, and her eyes... oh, those eyes... caught the morning like molten glass.

Her arrival was met with bows and trembling silence. Not all of reverence. Some of fear. For one does not forget what the flame has burned, even when it promises warmth again.

The High Priest and Priestess greeted her at the temple gates, her hands coated in sacred ash. The ceremony began.

One by one, citizens knelt before the flame, their foreheads marked with ash, a blessing and a warning both. Steam rose from the sacred springs, curling into shapes said to be the god’s whispers. And when Eris stepped forward, the crowd held its breath.

The priest dipped his fingers in the ash, but his hands shook. Eris did not flinch. She bowed her head, and for one brief second, the fire in the temple dimmed... as though even Pyronox himself waited.

Then came the sound of horns from beyond the temple walls. A column of foreign banners shimmered in the distance, blues and silvers, the mark of Nevareth.

Emperor Soren had arrived.

Ah, dear reader, the Ice Emperor among a city of fire... what poetry, what peril. The citizens of Solmire did not forget how he stopped their queen from turning the whole capital into Ash.

Soren stood out like a snowflake fallen upon a brazier. Tall, calm, and cool-eyed, the heat did not seem to touch him. Yet, if one looked close enough, one could see the faintest flicker of something beneath that composed exterior, a quiet awe, perhaps. Or was it recognition?

He watched the queen’s every movement. And though he said nothing, his gaze did what few dared: it did not waver.

The first torch procession began soon after, encircling the city in a slow spiral of flame. The citizens followed, chanting softly. No other fires were allowed to burn tonight, save for these torches, to remind all of the time before the god gifted them light.

And as the procession wound back toward the palace gates, Solmire shimmered like a living sun... radiant, resplendent, and just faintly trembling beneath its own heat.

But somewhere, in the hush between chants, the question whispered from tongue to tongue...

Would the queen’s fire this year bring blessing, or ruin?

DUSK OF THE FIRST FLAME

Dearest reader, if morning belonged to the sun, then dusk belonged to the flame.

By the time the last bell tolled, Solmire had transformed into something otherworldly. The streets, once a riot of laughter and song, now breathed in unison, a thousand torches flickering as though they shared one heartbeat.

Each ring of the city glowed. From the Ash District to the Palace Gates, firelight rolled like a wave. Windows shimmered with candlelight; crimson banners whispered with the wind. The scent of burning cedar, myrrh, and spiced wine hung thick in the air.

And high above it all, like a goddess carved of light and sin, stood Queen Eris.

She led the procession down the Ember Path, the torchlight kissing the edge of her robe as if even the flames longed to touch their queen. Behind her trailed priests in gold, children carrying bowls of glowing ash, nobles with jeweled torches raised high.

The procession was meant to symbolize rebirth, the fire’s cleansing touch upon the city before the god’s blessing returned. But, dear reader, if you had seen her that evening, you would not have thought of purity. You would have thought of power.

From every street corner, people whispered her name in awe and fear.

"Long live the Flameborn Queen."

"May Pyronox temper her wrath."

And yet, among those watching from the marble steps of the temple, one figure did not bow his head.

Soren of Nevareth.

The Ice Emperor stood wrapped in the soft blue of his kingdom’s silks, silver embroidery glinting faintly in the torchlight. Around him, foreign envoys murmured their admiration for Solmire’s spectacle , but Soren heard none of it. His eyes were fixed on her.

How strange, he thought, that fire could be so silent.

How strange, that he could feel its pull.

When their eyes met across the waves of flame, the noise of the city seemed to vanish. For an instant, there was only heat and breath and something neither of them could name.

Eris’s steps faltered, just slightly, irritation rising subtly at her own mistake, before she recovered. The mask slid neatly back into place. She descended the last step, torch in hand, and the crowd parted like waves before her. Soren stepped forward then, and before anyone could stop him, not even Caelen’s warning voice in his memory, he bowed low.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice smooth, too calm for what stirred beneath it. "It’s good to see you well."

Eris regarded him coolly. "I wasn’t aware I’d been unwell."

Soren smiled faintly. "You’ve been through much," he said. "I thought it proper to ask."

"One does not survive long by thinking too much of survival," she replied. Her tone was distant, but her gaze lingered longer than she intended.

The lower priests were chanting now, voices rising as the torches were lifted toward the sky. The light reflected in Soren’s pale eyes, making them shimmer like liquid frost.

He spoke again, softly this time, just for her. "Then I’ll ask another way. Are you... at peace, tonight?"

The question was too intimate. Too human.

Eris looked away, her expression unreadable. "Peace is for the gods, Your Majesty. Mortals like us merely chase the illusion."

Around them, the flames flared higher... golden fire swirling into the night as the people chanted Pyronox’s name. The sky bloomed with sparks. It was said that each ember carried the prayers of the living to the dead. Some swore they saw the souls of their ancestors in the drifting light.

But Soren wasn’t looking at the sky. He was looking at her... the way the fire danced across her pale hair, the faint exhaustion beneath her perfect stillness.

He wanted to ask her a hundred more questions. He wanted to ask why her fire didn’t burn her from the inside out. He wanted to ask if it was lonely to be worshiped. Just like he was. But he didn’t. He only said, "You carry the fire like a burden."

"And you," she said quietly, "speak like a man who doesn’t know what to do with the cold."

He stayed silent.

And they stood like that, two monarchs, two elements, two opposing eternities, until the flames reached their crescendo and the priests began the final chant. The torches would circle the city once more before the night was declared sacred.

Soren inclined his head at last, his breath clouding faintly in the heat. "Then may your god grant you rest, Queen of Fire."

Eris turned from him. "And may yours teach you silence, Emperor of Ice."

Her robe swept past him as she moved on, her guard falling in line behind her. But as she passed, one of the torches guttered, just slightly, as though uncertain which element it should obey.

And from the shadows beyond the marble arch, Lady Ophelia watched.

Her eyes followed the two rulers, her smile tight and still. Around her, the procession glowed like a living inferno... music, light, praise... but her gaze was fixed only on them.

Perhaps, reader, it was curiosity.

Or perhaps, it was the first spark of something far more dangerous.