Volume 2 – Inheritance of Fire
Chapter 9 – Fractures in the Crown
Part 1 - Darius and Soren
The war table remained lit, the lines of each kingdom carved into the stone by our own hands. But as the runes pulsed and the room settled into silence, one truth hovered above all: power did not mean peace.
Each of us ruled something, yes. But rule did not mean control.
Darius leaned forward, knuckles whitening as he stared at the war map. "My command is respected in the cold, but only because no one else wants the burden. Half my strongholds whisper of secession. The moment they sense weakness, they'll revolt."
He motioned toward the jagged line of the eastern Spine. "I hold the bastion cities — Ironrest, Coldmere, and Thornwatch — by sheer will. Those garrisons are loyal to me personally. My banner hangs over their gates, and the men wear my crest not out of fear, but belief. They've fought with me. Bled with me. If I give the order, they move."
Then he pointed farther southeast, where the hills bled into forest. "The hill tribes? They remember Valrik's cruelty — the forced levies, the winter burnings, the executions. I ride in under his name, and all they see is a quieter tyrant. They nod when I speak, but they arm in secret. They've begun stockpiling frostfire powder and hiding skysteel weapons in the old barrow dens. I don't need Ezra's eyes to know they're waiting."
His hand drifted west. "Then there's the Outer Keeps — Stormcall Hold, Bastion Fall, and Ridgehall. These were part of Ovrien before the collapse. I absorbed them through oaths of necessity, not loyalty. Their commanders answer to me now, but their people don't. Some of those keeps still fly Ovrien's sun-mark behind closed gates. I've already put down two mutinies quietly. A third brews in Ridgehall, unless the new quartermaster turns the tide."
He reached for a nearby quill, tapping it against the spine of a folded letter. "There's a force beyond my sight gathering at the Iron Scar. Raiders, beastkin warbands, and remnants of the Frostborn Pact. They don't claim a banner yet, but they move like they expect one. I sent scouts. Only two returned. Both blind."
Soren let out a low whistle.
"I still control two bloodbound mercenary companies — the Brazen Vow and the Ember Chain. They're well-paid, well-equipped, and utterly ruthless. But they're coin-loyal, not oath-loyal. If gold runs dry, they'll shift. And I won't always know to where."
Darius finally leaned back, jaw tight. "So yes, I command a kingdom. On paper. In truth? I command a fireline in a field of dry grass."
He looked around the table, voice colder now. "I didn't come south to bow. I came because the North will collapse without something greater to anchor it. I'm not asking for your charity, Caelan. I'm asking what kind of hammer you plan to swing."
Soren chuckled, dry and humorless. "My entire empire is built on lies. Markets, bribes, secrets. I lose one string in the web and the rest collapse. My merchants would sell me for a better interest rate."
He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the map, and drew a slow circle around the Sapphire Coast.
"Velisport is mine in name, and mostly in practice — the docks, the trade courts, the illusion markets. My Guildmasters answer to me so long as the gold flows and their secrets stay buried. But beyond the inner ring, in the outer ports and debt districts, the Compact holds sway."
He glanced toward Caelan. "That's the Sovereign Compact — a clandestine league of financiers, artificers, and trade barons. They made Vel Arden a king without crown, and now they suspect I'm not him anymore. Half of them think I've gone soft. The other half think I've gone mad."
Naomi arched a brow. "Which are they more afraid of?"
Soren smirked faintly. "The ones who think I've gone mad are the ones still backing me."
He gestured to a set of merchant routes running inland. "I control the Silk Arteries and the Glass Veins — trade lines that move more than goods. Information. Disguised mages. Forbidden relics. Even prophecy, bottled and branded for sale."
Then his voice dipped low. "But I'm bleeding stability. Three minor houses under my protection just turned coat and joined the Compact openly. The Faith of the Crimson Ledger now offers prayers against my reign. I've already lost two regional trade councils to private coups — nothing loud, just silent purges and reappointments. If I don't reinforce my influence soon, the whole current will turn against me."
Ezra, who had been silent beside him, finally spoke. His voice was soft, almost casual.
"I'll help you consolidate."
Soren's eyes flicked sideways.
"I'll identify who needs a nudge," Ezra continued, "and who needs to vanish. You worry about keeping the currents flowing. I'll dredge the ones poisoning the river."
Soren studied him for a moment, then gave a single nod. "And when it's done?"
Ezra smiled — faint and sharp. "Then you'll know exactly who your empire belongs to."
Soren turned back to the table. "Then perhaps it's not built on lies anymore. Just selective truths."
He looked to Caelan. "Your crown buys you order. My coin buys silence. But I'd trade all of it for one week where I didn't have to wonder who was stabbing me in the back with a smile."