CHAPTER 55: TREATY

If love is the oldest war, diplomacy is surely its most polite disguise.

For what unfolded next in the Grand Ballroom of Cinders was not merely ceremony... it was theatre, divine and dangerous in equal measure. The nations of Solmire and Nevareth stood poised on the edge of ritual peace, though one could not help but notice how warmly their monarchs stared at one another across the flames.

The marble floor, polished to a mirror, reflected two worlds meeting .. ice and fire, restraint and ruin... beneath chandeliers that wept light like liquid stars.

At one end of the circle, Lord Venrick of Nevareth stepped forward with the precision of a man who feared even his shadow might offend. Behind him, attendants bore treasures that seemed to breathe cold into the very air: white diamonds that shimmered like imprisoned snowlight, winter-wolf pelts pale as moonfire, and vials of Eternal Ice whose liquid hearts refused to thaw no matter how near they came to the Pyrosanct flame. The chest that held them was bound in silver filigree, etched with sigils that sang of blizzards and the long sleep of northern gods.

From the opposite end, Solmire’s own offering arrived in counterpoint... High Keeper Dareth robed in crimson and gold, his every step a sermon of flame. His attendants carried the south’s heartbeat: fire rubies big enough to shame crimson fruits, phoenix feathers that hummed with heat even in stillness, scrolls edged in gold leaf, and bottles of Fire-Wine so aged their very scent seemed to smolder in the air.

The contrast was exquisite. Frost and ember, restraint and fervor... each kingdom arrayed in its truest skin.

And then, as though the gods themselves held their breath, the circle widened. The crowd parted.

The Queen of Fire and the Emperor of Ice stepped forward.

Eris moved first, gliding across the obsidian like a living flame made flesh. The light bent around her, unwilling to let go. Soren followed, his every motion deliberate, composed... the hush of snow following the roar of a volcano. When they met at the center, the room forgot how to breathe.

Between them, the treaty lay waiting... two quills of phoenix feather and winter raven poised beside the scroll. The parchment shimmered faintly under the Eternal Pyre’s glow, as if aware of the gravity of what it would soon bind.

The priests began to chant in Old Solmiran, the sound low and rhythmic, like the murmur of ancient fire under stone.

"May the flame and frost remember their oath."

Eris and Soren inclined their heads, a gesture of mutual sovereignty rather than submission. And then... together... they signed.

Two names, side by side. Two worlds, momentarily united.

The crowd erupted in applause, a symphony of relief and awe. The nobles bowed, the courtiers sighed, and the air itself seemed to tremble with history remade.

But the true story, dear reader, was not in the treaty. It was in the silence that followed.

For when the last echo of applause faded, the two monarchs remained standing close—too close. The kind of proximity that begged for secrets to be exchanged. Firelight danced between them like a living thing, curling up from the Eternal Pyre and licking the edges of their reflections.

Soren’s voice broke the stillness first. Soft, rich, threaded with that dangerous warmth Solmire was beginning to suspect he’d brought with him deliberately.

"You are breathtaking tonight, Your Majesty," he murmured, the words not offered to the court but to her, alone. "Though I suspect you already know that."

It was not the tone of diplomacy, nor of formality. It was the kind of honesty that could ruin empires.

Eris turned her head just enough that the fire caught her cheekbones, painting her in gold and blood. The faintest curl of amusement touched her lips... barely there, but real enough to send a ripple through the Emperor’s chest.

"Flattery, Emperor?" she said coolly, every syllable a perfect blade.

But her eyes... oh, her eyes betrayed her.

For a single heartbeat, their masks slipped in tandem. His, with unguarded awe. Hers, with reluctant intrigue.

And though the diplomats would later tell tales of peace renewed between Solmire and Nevareth, those who watched closely that night whispered of something far more dangerous:

That in the space between flame and frost, something new had begun to burn.

Next came the toast. That moment in every royal gathering when the room holds its breath and pretends unity tastes sweeter than ambition.

The servants moved first... silent, gliding things in scarlet and gold, each bearing silver trays that shimmered with heat. Upon them, crystal goblets caught the light like captured suns. The Fire-wine within glowed faintly amber, pulsing as though it possessed a heartbeat of its own.

A hush fell as the Queen of Solmire rose from her throne. The Eternal Pyre seemed to sense her intent; its flame coiled higher, reaching for her as if for its maker.

Eris lifted her glass. The court followed. A thousand hands mirrored her gesture... an ocean of crystal gleaming in the firelight.

Her voice, when it came, rolled through the hall like molten silk.

"To Pyronox, who gave us flame. To Solmire, who carries it. To our allies, who share our warmth. And to the nights that remind us why we burn at all."

Not the customary blessing... no simple salute to power or prosperity. It was something softer. Sadder. The kind of toast one gives when one knows the light cannot last forever.

The courtiers, of course, pretended not to notice the deviation. They raised their goblets and drank, eager to feel the Fire-wine’s slow, searing kiss down their throats. It burned pleasantly, spreading a golden heat through their chests, a warmth that would linger long after the glass was empty, long after the Queen had turned her gaze elsewhere.

And then, the music changed.

The orchestra slipped into a rhythm older than the crown itself... drums and glass flutes in wild, reverent harmony. Six dancers emerged from the shadows, bare-armed and flame-marked, their movements so fluid one might think the fire obeyed them.

They circled the Eternal Pyre, spinning ribbons of flame into the air, shaping dragons that coiled and phoenixes that burst apart in showers of sparks. Fire arced between them like living silk, and yet none were burned.

Children gasped. Nobles forgot to gossip. Even the air seemed to kneel.

And above them all, upon her throne, sat Eris... bathed in the reflection of her own divinity. The firelight crowned her in gold, painting her skin with the same brilliance that lit the heavens outside.

She did not smile. She did not move. She simply watched... queen, goddess, and ghost all at once... as the world burned beautifully for her.