CHAPTER 183: [183] A SAINT FORGED IN GOLD

The morning sun filtered through the stained glass windows of what had once been Hearthome’s grandest ballroom, casting fractured rainbows across marble floors still stained with glittering dust. Lord Torval Flameheart stood alone among the wreckage, his hands clasped behind his back, studying the transformation of his domain.

Where Duke Haverford had fallen, servants had swept the crystalline remains into neat piles, though they refused to dispose of them entirely. The maids whispered that the dust sang lullabies when the wind caught it just right, and that touching it left your fingers cold for hours afterward. Torval had ordered the piles covered with silk cloth, but even shrouded, they seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

The ballroom bore other scars from the previous night’s chaos. Scorched marble where volcanic fire had met Winter Court ice. Cracks in the walls from supernatural forces that mortal architecture was never meant to withstand. Overturned tables and shattered crystal, evidence of nobles fleeing in terror when reality itself had bent to accommodate something that shouldn’t exist.

But the centerpiece of this new museum of impossibilities stood where the dance floor had been.

Ashley Martin’s form rose from a pedestal of carved obsidian, her body preserved in golden light that never dimmed. The fractures that had spread across her skin during her final moments had crystallized into veins of pure radiance, transforming her into something between sculpture and saint. Her eyes remained closed, her expression peaceful, but the warm glow that emanated from her skin suggested something more than death.

Torval approached the statue slowly, his footsteps echoing in the empty chamber. Three of his personal guards flanked him, though they maintained a respectful distance from both their lord and the miraculous figure before them. Even his most loyal retainers seemed uncomfortable in the presence of whatever Ashley had become.

"She saved us all," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d witnessed the impossible. "And he..." Torval’s gaze drifted to the covered piles of Malakor’s remains. "He showed us what we’re truly dealing with."

The transformation of Hearthome’s political landscape had been swift and absolute. Lord Blackwater, who’d drawn steel against Haverford only to cower before Xavier’s Zantei, now sent daily tributes of rare crystals and sworn fealty. Lady Morwyn, her network of spies rendered meaningless by the revelation that gods walked among them, had offered her entire intelligence apparatus to Torval’s service. The minor nobles who’d survived the night competed to demonstrate their loyalty to the new order.

They didn’t fear Torval. They feared what would happen if they displeased the boy who could erase dukes from existence.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Torval from his contemplation. His chamberlain, Agna, entered the ballroom with visible reluctance, her usual composure replaced by the careful deference of someone navigating a minefield.

"My lord," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "They’ve arrived."

Torval nodded, straightening his shoulders beneath his ceremonial robes. Today’s meeting would determine not just Hearthome’s future, but whether that future included its current ruler. "Show them to the Ember Chamber. And Agna?" He turned to face his most trusted advisor. "Have the kitchen prepare their finest wines. Whatever they ask for, provide it. Whatever they need, acquire it. Whatever they want..." He paused, his eyes returning to Ashley’s luminous form. "Pray it isn’t our destruction."

===

The Ember Chamber had been chosen for its symbolic value rather than comfort. Carved directly from volcanic rock and heated by natural thermal vents, the circular room embodied Hearthome’s relationship with the forces of nature. Torval hoped the setting would remind his guests that even the mightiest powers could be channeled constructively.

He sat at the head of a crescent-shaped table, flanked by his remaining advisors. Across from him, three figures occupied chairs that had been hastily padded with silk cushions—a small gesture of hospitality that felt inadequate given the circumstances.

Xavier Valentine looked exhausted. The borrowed body he wore showed signs of strain from the previous night’s transformation, dark circles beneath blue eyes that had briefly held the power to rewrite reality. His black hair hung loose around his shoulders, no longer styled with the careful precision of a noble guest. He wore simple traveling clothes, as if preparing to leave at a moment’s notice.

Beside him sat Calypso, though Torval still struggled to reconcile the divine being with the girl he’d raised as his niece. Her wine-red hair caught the chamber’s volcanic light, and her purple eyes held depths that seemed to contain entire galaxies. The suppression enchantments from her ceremonial gown had been removed, allowing her true nature to shine through in subtle ways—shadows that moved independently of their sources, reflections that showed glimpses of silver hair and pink eyes.

The third member of their party defied easy categorization. Ashley Martin sat upright despite what should have been mortal injuries, her skin bearing permanent golden fractures that pulsed with soft light. She breathed, she spoke, she moved with human grace, but something fundamental had changed. The air around her hummed with barely contained power, and when she looked at him, Torval felt the weight of judgment from something far older than the teenage girl she appeared to be.

"Lord Torval," Xavier began, his voice carrying none of the deference typically expected in such meetings. "We need to discuss terms."

Terms. As if this were a negotiation between equals rather than a surrender. Torval clasped his hands to prevent them from trembling. "Of course. What would you have of Hearthome?"

The question hung in the air like incense, heavy with implications. Xavier exchanged glances with his companions before continuing. "Safe passage for all seven of us. Supplies for the journey north. And..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "A guarantee that no one will attempt to follow or interfere with our mission."

"The Heart of Winter," Calypso added, her voice carrying harmonics that made the volcanic vents respond with subtle changes in temperature. "We know where it is now. Thanks to your research."

Torval’s throat constricted. His secret experiments, his desperate attempts to save Selene, had provided the very information these otherworldly beings needed to complete their cosmic quest. "The archives are yours. Take whatever knowledge you require. My scribes will copy any texts you need."

"We don’t need copies," Ashley said softly, her golden fractures brightening as she spoke. "We need originals. Some knowledge doesn’t survive translation."

The casual dismissal of his life’s work stung, but Torval nodded. "Done. What else?"

Xavier leaned forward, his blue eyes never leaving Torval’s face. "Your daughter. The real Selene. We’re going to free her."