39. Golden Breath
Golden Breath
The chaos that erupted after the attack on the Han was worse than the explosion itself.
The Jade Lattice had fallen into uproar.
Word of the devastation raced through the tiers faster than any courier or Attendant could carry it.
The portal network lay unusable. Reskala runes failed anywhere within the radius of the blast. Menders and Priests alike found their mana slipping from their grasp.
Krystopolis was bleeding, and its citizens had been left without supplies to staunch its wounds.
The Solutus had never struck so boldly before, never dared to reach so openly into such critical territory in the city.
They were a nuisance, certainly, with their bombs and magical traps designed to maim and kill Reskala.
But this time, they had not chosen some distant street or forgotten alley to bombard.
They had crippled the entire Han. The district feeding Krystopolis through trade and craft had been gutted in a single brutal evening.
Merchants staggered into the Commons with rubble in their hair and blood on their hands, dragging carts of whatever wares they'd managed to salvage from the wreckage.
Crafters fled the shattered avenues clutching child apprentices and bundles of cloth, as if those scraps of their lives might somehow anchor them to the world that had existed only hours before.
And above it all, the Council snarled and fought each other like a pack of starving dogs over scraps of meat.
Within the Circle of Rule, voices clashed like drawn steel. Resources. Trade routes. Gleams. Retaliation.
Everything except the People.
Through Kailorien's connection to the Flaeme, he felt the fear of every single ravaged citizen.
The terror of the unknown. These selfish fools could not imagine how it felt to sense a thousand lives being snuffed out in a single moment.
And even if they'd stood among the rubble, they could never have empathized with the horror of losing one's purpose.
The People carried Batchers, and that honor guaranteed them assistance from the temples in times of strife.
But the temples were overrun with the sick.
The Pale Madness had claimed their halls in full, and more and more temples were targets for the Solutus to kidnap citizens.
In the chaos, the rebels would no doubt use this opportunity to boost their ranks.
Auryn had repeatedly questioned their purpose.
Their methodologies. How they managed to turn dying child Apprentices and adults into zealots that would give their lives for the Solutus.
The Flaeme keeps the minds of the People calm and neutral. They are tethered to it at birth. Irreversibly.
How, then, are the Solutus breaking that connection?
By the Void, Auryn asked this a thousand times. And all one thousand, the Council dismissed her insight as softness.
Even I believed her questions stemmed from her natural kindness. I should have listened. Now, look at my city.
Burning. Eating itself alive from within.
All while the Council argues over Gleamspurses and influence.
And Auryn? What of my Sokar? She could have been killed when the portals misfired, and whatever effect the explosion had on her body could have been fatal if I hadn't come to her side.
He was the Resh'Agar, and the Void was impartial.
His heart was built to beat a steady rhythm even when it should have quaked.
He could hardly feel the elements. Rarely needed sleep.
Felt no hunger. His rage should have been leashed.
Contained. But as the Council's voices rose in volume, the air around him thinned.
A rumble started from the ground and moved upward to the walls.
The Councilors staggered. Stopped speaking. Not because they had nothing more to say, but because—one by one—the chokers on their necks grew dim. Kailorien stood, his thick cloak whispering at it settled against mirrored marble.
The Resh'Agar spoke, and the storm bent around his will.
"I will hear nothing more from this Council," he said, each word fogging in the air with azure steam.
"Shelters will be raised before the next dusk.
The wounded will be tended. The Deep Reserves will be opened.
Reskala will patrol the Commons until every displaced Crafter has a place to sleep beneath a roof. "
He looked at each of them, and none dared to move.
"Your greed, your ignorance, has invited death and war into my city. Has endangered the safety of my Sokar. The next time I hear a single argument that is not in favor of my People, I will Repurpose you where you stand. Rank, title, seniority be damned to the Void."
The walls shuddered, clouds of dust and debris falling from the roof like snow.
"The Han will be rebuilt. My People will not be abandoned."
The Circle yielded. How could it not? The Arm had spoken, and the threat of destruction hung heavy in the Councilors' minds long after the echo of the Resh'Agar's voice faded from the chamber.
Their chokers did not light up again, but even if they had, none would have dared to speak against the Arm.
They shuffled their papers, gathered the remnants of their greed, and retreated from the Axis Hall with their tails tucked between their legs.
Kailorien’s gaze drifted to the empty seat beside his.
Auryn’s chair was vacant.
Something in the blast had triggered a reaction in her body that neither of them had seen before.
When the Blightsphere detonated, she had not burned the way she did during her Flares.
She'd frozen instead. Not the simple chill of fatigue, but a deep, unnatural cold that seemed to draw the warmth from everything around her.
Even in the hours after the attack, when the city trembled, and the wounded filled the temple halls, her skin had felt like ice beneath his hands.
Days had passed since the bombing.
The city had not yet recovered.
And neither had his Sokar.
The divan in Kailorien’s sitting room had been piled high with cushions, its low frame drawn near the fluxhearth.
Auryn sat curled against them, white healing robe loose over her shoulders and a fur-lined blanket covering her knees.
Her tea—Lu’ma’s handiwork—steamed in her hands, and she held the cup with both palms for heat.
Even this close to the flames, her skin held a lingering chill, like stone at dawn.
Her movements were sluggish. When she shifted, it was with the guarded pace of someone whose limbs remembered recent weakness.
A faint tremor caught in her fingers as she set the cup down.
Lu’ma adjusted the pillows behind her without a sound, then took a seat on a nearby stool, dark eyes never straying far from her Host.
Bootsteps sounded in the archway leading down to the sparring ring.
A tall figure cloaked in dark browns and purples stepped past the wards.
He removed his hood to reveal a scarred face marred with a frown.
Kailorien, leaning against the divan’s arm, lifted his head and waved Zarrek in.
The warrior stepped forward, his expression sober.
“Resh, you’re working me harder than when I was your Second. I didn’t sign up for reinstatement.”
“There’s no one else I could trust with what you’re doing,” Kailorien replied, his gaze fixed on Auryn’s wrist. He checked her pulse, felt for her mana.
“Kail, I’m alright. Truly,” she insisted. “There’s no need.”
“If you didn’t say that every time you were sick, I would be tempted to believe you,” he countered.
“You’ve given me more than enough.”
Zarrek’s expression soured watching them. He shucked off his boots and walked to a nearby divan, sitting on the edge and setting his forearms on his knees. The soft structure groaned beneath his massive weight.
“If you’re going to flirt, do it while I’m gone,” he grumbled. “Do you want to hear my updates or don’t you?”
Auryn turned to him, her hand on Kailorien’s chest. Not as a gesture of affection, but as a barrier. “Of course we want to hear it, Zarrek. Please. Tell us what’s happened these last two days.”
“The Reskala are deployed. Civilians are being moved to the Temples. Selen and the Prismatum are sending aid. The Solutus cell responsible was eliminated the night the bombing happened. Now it’s quiet. No horns. No more signs of them.”
Auryn’s brows drew tight. “And the Han?”
“It’s leveled,” Zarrek said, blunt as a hammer. “Countless dead.”
Kailorien’s thumb traced idly over Auryn’s wrist. His voice floated to her through the Bond. You don’t need more grief added to your plate.
You’re leaving something out.
He exhaled. The Artisan Halls were hit hardest. Few survivors.
Auryn’s lips pressed thin. Out loud, she asked, “What is being done for the displaced Crafters?”
“Temporary quarters in the Commons,” Kailorien answered.
“Kail, that doesn’t bode well. The People in the Commons are already restless from their temples being used as dumping grounds for the sick. This is going to cause unrest.”
Zarrek scoffed. “Unrest can only happen if your will isn’t tied to a magical leash.”
“The Flaeme doesn’t trample the People’s will,” Auryn argued.
“Just numbs it,” Zarrek added.
Auryn frowned.
“Don’t look so offended, little star. You’re not the one pulling the strings behind that magic.” He raised a brow. "Don't look so put out. You couldn't stop it if you tried. The Flaeme and its magic is beyond even your meddling."
Kailorien gestured in warning. “Zar, don’t be so harsh. She’s recovering.”
“I’m always recovering,” Auryn complained. “If you try to pivot around that, you’ll be dancing to a tune that’s impossible to follow.”
Kailorien glanced at her. Are you alright? You sound bitter.
Because I am. I hate this body at times. Hate discovering new ways to be weak inside of it.
You aren’t weak.
Auryn squeezed his hand. “Have any other Districts been affected?”
“No,” Zarrek said. “The blast didn’t make it past inter-District containment.”