Chapter 27: Veins of Fire
The wind that rolled through Velcrest had changed—no longer thick with smoke, but colder, threaded with the sharp bite of unease. The sky above was a bruised violet, early evening cloaking the city in uneasy shadows. The fires had dimmed, but the wounds left by siege, betrayal, and divine violation still bled across every stone street and shattered arch.
Elias stood in the half-collapsed antechamber of the Ember Cathedral, a hand pressed to the pillar where old prayers had been carved in goldleaf. They shimmered faintly now, flickering between illumination and ruin. Behind him, the bodies of cultists were still being cleared, many too warped by magic to resemble anything human.
The air smelled of sulfur, singed hair, and burnt incense.
Velena approached, her footsteps soft over the blood-washed marble. Her armor had been partly removed, her left shoulder exposed, a thick gash stitched by magic and gauze. She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she looked at the cathedral's dome, cracked but still standing, like a ribcage protecting a failing heart.
"They burned the altar," she finally said, voice low. "Even the icon of the First Flame. They wanted to erase everything."
Elias glanced at her. "They didn't succeed."
"Not completely," she admitted. "But faith doesn't rebuild easily. Not after what they saw. What I saw."
He moved to her side, eyes scanning the remains of the grand hall. The silence between them was not empty—rather, it was filled with what couldn't yet be said. Grief. Guilt. The weight of surviving something others hadn't.
Outside, Seris Vandra paced the edge of the square, her knives re-sheathed, her expression unreadable. She had taken to watching the northern gate—ever since the rumor had come in: remnants of the cult had fled underground. Into the deeper ruins. Into the place even the old kings feared to touch.
Ralvarin stood among a gathering of surviving priests and wardens, fingers tracing a floating sphere of light as he sketched runic lattices in the air. "The barrier will hold for a day," he announced to them. "Two if the leyline stabilizes."
"And after that?" asked Cambric Eral, who arrived bruised and ash-covered, one arm in a sling.
Ralvarin didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the cathedral's deepest chamber. "Then the hollow opens."
Velena's brows furrowed. "You mean the Ember Vault?"
"No." Elias turned slowly. "He means the Hollow Throne beneath it."
Gasps rippled through the circle of survivors. Ralvarin gave a slow nod. "It was sealed a thousand years ago. After the last Dawnfire Rebellion. The one not recorded in most books."
Cambric exhaled. "So that's what they were after…"
"They weren't here to conquer," Velena said bitterly. "They came to awaken something."
"And they failed," Elias said.
"Did they?" Seris asked from the shadows, eyes sharp. "Because something is still breathing under this city. And it's not resting easy."
That night, a decision was made: the party would descend into the ruins below the cathedral. Not just to hunt the remaining cultists—but to ensure the Hollow Throne remained sealed.
But before the descent, there was another reckoning.
In a war room lit by flickering red crystal, Elias sat with Velena, Seris, Ralvarin, and Cambric around a round obsidian table etched with the kingdom's old map. They debated tactics, risk, and loyalty. Secrets long buried in court records surfaced—of oaths broken, of noble families who had once sworn allegiance to the old gods, of bloodlines cursed by pact and fire.
"House Varnel," Cambric said. "They funded the cult, didn't they?"
"Yes," Seris confirmed, tossing a sigil-ring onto the table. "I took this off the corpse of their envoy. Still warm."
"And you didn't think to share that earlier?" Velena snapped.
"I wanted confirmation," Seris replied coolly. "Now we have it."
The discussion spiraled into tension, with accusations veiled in courtly tone. Even Elias's patience began to thin.
Then Velena stood, palms pressed to the table. "Enough. We're wasting time. We descend tomorrow. We seal the Hollow. Then we deal with Varnel."
Later that night, beneath a fractured window of stained glass, Elias found Velena sitting alone. Her armor was gone, replaced by a deep red robe tied hastily around her waist. Her silver-blonde hair spilled freely, damp from a wash, and she stared at the fire with a distant look.
"You should rest," he said.
"I can't. Not after what we saw." She turned to him, the firelight catching the curve of her collarbone, the sharp cut of her cheekbone. "When you faced the Bastion's echo... did you see it?"
He nodded. "A city in flames. A throne of bones. And a crown made of fire."
Velena shivered. "I saw the same. But the throne… it looked like it was waiting for you."
Elias stepped closer, kneeling beside her. "I'm not him."
"No. You're worse," she said softly. "Because you might actually survive it."
They said nothing more. But the silence again was heavy, filled with something sacred. When her hand touched his, when he leaned in, their kiss was less urgent than before—but deeper. Slower. Her fingers undid the knot at her waist. His lips traced the scar at her hip.
They moved together as the cathedral burned in memory behind them—tender, raw, alive in defiance of everything that wanted them broken. Flesh answered flesh, soul reaching for something eternal. In that moment, there was no war, no throne, no legacy.
Only heat. Mouths and breath. And love, forged in fire.
By dawn, they stood dressed again—renewed, if only slightly.
The party gathered at the foot of the cathedral's descent, where the steps into the Hollow Throne gaped open like a wound beneath the city.
Elias turned to them. "We descend as one. No splinters. No secrets. If something stirs… we end it."
Ralvarin raised a sphere of firelight. Cambric drew his blade. Seris loaded her twin crossbows. Velena stood beside Elias, hand on the hilt of her curved sabre.
And together, they stepped into the dark.
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End of the Chapter 27