CHAPTER 35: FINAL BLESSINGS

Dearest Reader,

By the seventh dawn, every forge, every hearth, every breath within the city burned with devotion. And yet, our northern guest, the Emperor of Nevareth, burned most curiously of all... not with flame, but with something perilously close to longing.

---

After that night, Soren had not seen the Queen of Solmire for two days.

Two long, punishingly bright days.

He had pretended otherwise, of course. The Emperor of Ice could not very well be caught mooning after a woman who was believed to be destruction herself. Not when Caelen’s warning still stayed like poison.

Perhaps she would devour him. Ruin him. Perhaps that was precisely why he could not stop thinking of her, the way the torchlight had reflected in her eyes, the weight of her quiet near the observatory dome, the sadness in her eyes as she answered honestly about Caelen and that single, devastating thought he’d barely swallowed: how badly he had wanted to taste her lips.

Now, as Solmire prepared to close its nine days of worship, Soren’s composure was as thin as the smoke curling from a brazier.

---

The Celebration of Craft had begun.

From the palace’s towering gates to the outermost Ash District, every ring of the kingdom throbbed with color and heat.

The forge-masters, bare-chested and damp with sweat, opened their workshops to the people, letting even small children strike a spark upon their anvils, a ritual said to call Pyronox’s blessing for courage and creation. The clang of metal on metal sang through the Sanctum Quarter, sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing through stone.

Merchants unfurled their crimson awnings, selling charms of molten glass, necklaces filled with captured flame, and bottles of fire-wine that hissed softly when uncorked. The air was thick with the scent of burning cedar and spiced honey; every breath was an invitation to sin.

In Mirror Square, illusion fires shimmered above the heads of thousands. Storytellers with painted faces performed the tale of Pyronox and Aenithra, the god and his mortal lover... their tragedy of love and sacrifice reimagined through moving flame. The crowd gasped as the goddess dissolved into a hundred sparks that rained upon the city like weeping stars.

More envoys from Nevareth arrived with gifts on behalf of their emperor. They joined in celebration.

And all through the streets, music drifted like smoke.

Glass flutes sang. Drums pulsed. Choirs chanted.

Every evening, when the last glow of the sun faded behind Solmire’s walls, dancers emerged from the Common Circle, their garments stitched with tiny burning stones. They moved like living embers, their paths guiding the procession toward the palace. To stand on the upper balconies and watch was to see a galaxy in motion, fire winding through the streets like rivers of molten gold.

---

And then, on the ninth night, the Blessing of the Flames.

Dearest reader, if you had walked the streets of Solmire that evening, you would have found silence unlike any other. Not for lack of life, but for reverence.

From the Temple of Pyronox, hundreds of priests emerged, each bearing a bronze brazier containing a portion of the Eternal Flame. Their robes shimmered like heated glass, their faces painted with ash.

One by one, they touched each doorway, each window, whispering blessings for protection and renewal. The poor knelt with heads bowed; nobles leaned from their balconies, holding out vials to capture the blessed smoke. Even the air seemed to hold its breath as firelight rippled across the city.

It was on this night, after days of absence, that Queen Eris appeared again.

---

She rode through the first ring on horseback, her arrival a hush of awe through the crowd.

Her white stallion, Solara, glowed beneath the torches as if carved from starlight, its mane streaming like silk fire. Eris herself wore no crown, only a mantle of gold-threaded cloth that caught every flame it passed, turning her into something otherworldly.

Some bowed in reverence. Some in fear. All watched.

Behind her walked the royal procession, Caelen, steady and unyielding beside Ophelia, who carried their young son Rael in her arms. The people cheered for them too, for the image of family always softened tyranny.

And somewhere along the marble steps leading to the Temple, Soren stood among foreign dignitaries, pretending not to search for her.

But oh, reader, how his gaze found her anyway.

---

The ceremony began with the lighting of the High Flame. Eris dismounted and approached the sacred brazier, her steps slow, deliberate. When she lifted her hand above the Eternal Fire, the torches nearest to her bowed their flames in answe, each flicker curving toward her palm as if greeting an old master.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some whispered her name with devotion. Others crossed themselves, murmuring that she was too close to godhood for comfort.

And Soren, foolish Soren, felt his heart twist with something perilous and tender.

He should have been thinking of diplomacy. Of alliances. Of his icy empire waiting far north of the desert sands. Of the renewal of the truce between fire and Ice.

Instead, he thought only of her..

of fire bending for her,

of a woman too proud to be loved,

and of the warmth he feared would melt him whole.

As the final blessings echoed and the flames touched every threshold in Solmire, the city roared once more to life. Fireworks burst overhead, serpents and suns spiraling in the dark. The night was feverish with joy.

But from where Soren stood, joy felt like an illusion made of ash and light, beautiful, fleeting, and entirely dangerous.

He had spent his life watching warmth from afar.

It was always something meant for other people, families gathered close in flickering light, lovers folded into one another’s arms, children chasing through snow without fear of the cold.

For Soren, warmth had never been cruel, only distant, something the world offered others but not him. It shimmered at the edge of reach, a promise that dissolved the moment he tried to touch it.

So when fire rose around Eris, when it curved to her will and caressed rather than consumed, something inside him faltered. She stood at the center of everything he could never hold, bathed in a light that welcomed her as its own. He had never known heat that didn’t retreat from his grasp.

The thought should have faded, but it didn’t. It clung quietly, stubbornly and as the fireworks above broke into gold, he saw only the pale reflection of a moon he could never quite call his.

--

The dungeon smelled of iron and rot.

He had been five that winter, though winter had long since stopped ending for him.

The frost had crept into his bones, whispering lullabies that promised sleep would hurt less if he just let go. His wrists were locked in metal cuffs, heavy and ringing with spells that swallowed the smallest trace of ice before it could take shape. His legs were bound the same way, the weight keeping him small, bent, obedient.

When the moonlight came through the slit of a window high above him, he would count the seconds it stayed before the clouds swallowed it again. It was the only thing that still moved in his world.

He used to run through mountains once, he remembered that. The smell of pine. The sting of snowflakes that melted against his cheeks instead of cutting them open. His friends and their laughter echoing in the wind.

He missed those sounds most of all.

"Snow," he whispered, his lips cracked, voice smaller than the wind itself. "Just one. Please."

And for a moment, the air obeyed.

A flake, tiny, trembling, formed right before his face. It was clumsy and uneven, a child’s first miracle.

He smiled. Or tried to. His lips broke instead, bleeding a little.

Then the footsteps came. Slow. Echoing. Familiar enough to steal the air from his lungs.

The flake melted before it could fall.

"Have you learned your lesson yet, little prince?"

The voice was smooth as glass and twice as cold.

He didn’t answer. He had learned that answers only made it worse.

The sound of chains filled the air, and for a long while after, there was no moonlight.

And now, standing beneath Solmire’s feverish sky, Soren could almost feel that cold again pressing at the edges of his ribs.

And he thought, with a small, helpless ache:

perhaps the reason he could not stop watching her

was because she burned the way he had always wanted to live.