The flames in the Circle's chamber burned lower than usual, their glow redder, more ominous. It had been a full day since Kaelien's escape. No word, no trace. The Flame Circle's patience had not just frayed — it had ignited.
Karrath slammed his fist onto the stone table. "He spat on our laws. A soldier who chooses a Velmoran's life over loyalty is no soldier at all. He's a threat. A symbol of weakness. And now, thanks to Maeril's request, he's out there, rotting the edge of our forces."
A murmur of agreement followed. Maeril did not flinch. He sat straight-backed, expression unreadable.
"He had been useful," Maeril said at last, slowly, "and the circumstances around the Steelkeeper's death were… complicated. But you are right. Time is up. He did not come back. He did not confess. He ran."
A pause. Not a single Flame Lord expected him to say it. His voice remained calm, but those who watched closely saw the glint of regret in his eyes.
"I vote with the Circle."
Silence rang louder than the flames.
Karrath leaned forward. "Then it is settled. Kaelien is no longer one of us. His name will be erased from the Ember Scrolls. His memory struck from the ranks. His blood will answer for his betrayal."
Another flamelord raised a hand. "Who do we send?"
The answer came not from Karrath, but from a door behind the table creaking open. A gust of dry, scorching wind swept into the chamber.
A man stepped in, barefoot, cloaked in a tattered crimson mantle that fluttered in wind no one else felt. His hair was sun-bleached white, his skin bronzed and lined by harsh heat. He looked no older than thirty, but the aura around him aged the room by centuries.
A smile curled on his lips — too wide. Too sharp.
Karrath turned. "Vyrathis."
The Scorching Gale stepped forward, barefoot steps silent on the stone floor as the emberlord aproached the circle.
"You summoned a storm," Maeril said quietly.
Karrath nodded. "One that will not stop until Kaelien is ash."
Vyrathis dipped his head mockingly.
"I always did like Kaelien," he mused. "Such a beautiful dance in his flames. Shame I'll have to snuff them out."
"We don't want scorched land," another flamelord warned. "He's to be dealt with cleanly. No infernos."
Vyrathis chuckled, eyes gleaming. "You sent the wind to kill a spark. Do not tell the wind how to blow."
Without another word, he turned and left the chamber — and with him went the warmth of the firelight. A lingering silence stretched between the remaining lords.
Maeril did not speak again. But deep in his chest, something ached. Vyrathis would not fail. That much was certain. And Kaelien had only one chance.