POV: Arch-Speaker Vireon of the Obsidian Council — Solaran Capital, Cindralis
The flame did not flicker. It bent—curved unnaturally, as if bowing to something distant and immense.
Arch-Speaker Vireon watched it through the scrying bowl carved from voidstone. The obsidian floor beneath him reflected the flame's distortion, but not his face. That was by design.
Something ancient had stirred. Not a celestial shift, not a beast uprising.
A Codex had awakened.
He turned from the bowl, robes whispering like old parchment, and faced the far wall of the chamber—a mural of stars, cracked and scorched with age.
"Vaelstrom..." he murmured. The name tasted like iron and storms.
He spoke without turning. "Inform the Seventh Choir. Quietly. Elevate the House Vaelstrom Codex to Kindled. High Watch. No interference yet."
A scribe in bone-threaded robes bowed from the shadows. "And the Throne, Arch-Speaker?"
Vireon was silent for a breath too long.
"Let the Emperor dream. If this fire becomes a storm, he'll feel it soon enough."
The scribe vanished.
And Vireon, alone beneath the weight of seven centuries of statues, let the silence settle again—cold, vast, and listening.
---
### ◆ **POV: Arthur Vaelstrom — Arrival at Broken Stone**
The fortress of **Broken Stone** came into view like a wound cut into the land.
It sprawled across a jagged ridge, walls half-carved from mountain stone, half-raised from black timber, scorched by ash-winds and time. The air stank of rust, sweat, and scorched earth.
The wind screamed through the passes, sharp enough to slice thought. Even the stormbred steeds shifted uneasily beneath their riders, ears flat, coats shimmering with static.
Arthur rode at the head of his column—armor muted in the dustlight, cloak marked with the crescent of his House.
It was a strange thing, to wear the mark of power and feel like a stranger in its weight.
At the gate, a **broad-shouldered knight in red-plated half-mail** stood waiting. The man's face was lined with dust and old scars. One eye had a faint rune-mark beside it—burned there long ago.
He didn't bow.
"You the heir?"
"I am Arthur Vaelstrom," he said, dismounting. "Knight of the Second Oath. Codex-bearer of Stormgrave."
The man's gaze swept over him—not with awe, but calculation. Like a commander measuring a weapon he might one day have to use… or break.
"Knight-Captain Arga. Acting commander of this hole. You're late."
Arthur didn't rise to the tone. "Weather slowed us."
"Everything slows out here. The beasts. The sickness. The land itself." Arga's voice was dry as stone. "We've lost two scouts to something under the hills. Three of my best knights have ashfever, and morale's cracked like old bone. If you came looking for a welcome parade, turn around."
"I came to serve," Arthur said.
Arga paused. A flicker of something passed through his expression—approval, perhaps. Or the faintest respect.
"Good. Serve by listening. This place doesn't care about your name. Only whether your sword holds when the walls don't."
He turned without ceremony. "Bring him inside."
---
The interior of Broken Stone was bleak but functional. Mud-brick barracks, stone towers reinforced with rune-chalk and patched iron. Soldiers moved like shadows, some in armor, others wrapped in ward-cloaks, faces drawn.
Children of the frontier, Arthur thought. Hardened not by glory, but by attrition.
As they walked, Arga gave a terse report.
"Half our wards are cracked. Rune-masons promised last season, never came. The beastkin are quiet—but too quiet. Something's stalking the eastern ridge at night. Not them. Too smart. Too still."
Arthur listened.
Arga added, "We've got good fighters. Tough. But they need something more than discipline. They need hope."
Arthur nodded once. "Then I'll give them that."
---
Later, from the ramparts, Arthur looked out over the horizon.
It was a different kind of vast. Not like the halls of Stormgrave, which loomed with heritage. This place *ached* with silence, with a threat yet unnamed. Dust danced across the stones like restless souls.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out the pendant his mother had given him.
It pulsed once. Warm. Familiar. And beneath it all… aware.
The Codex stirred faintly inside him, like a breath taken in the deep.
---