Chapter Eleven Frejara
Iwoke to the sound of bells – low, ponderous things that tolled like thunder, rolling through the stone halls in long, heavy waves.
Not temple chimes or the peal of city hours – these rang deeper.
My limbs were slow to move, leaden with wine and the stiffness of cold stone.
For a moment I lay there, head against the curve of the wall, trying to remember what day it was.
The bells kept tolling, each strike louder than the last, each one drawing the hour into focus.
The Feast had begun.
The brazier had long since died, the air gone cold.
Astrid remained sprawled in the chair, one boot on the desk, the other somewhere near the door, a half-empty bottle cradled to her chest like a lover.
Daen hadn’t moved at all. Or perhaps he had—there was no telling with him.
His posture was unchanged, but his eyes were open now, watching the door with that same unreadable calm he wore in battle, as if he’d known the moment would come long before it arrived.
I pushed myself upright, my joints stiff and aching, the room tilting for a breath before it steadied, as a knock sounded at the door – if it could be called that.
The Acolytes didn’t knock so much as press themselves against the space you occupied until you were forced to acknowledge them.
They slithered into the room abruptly, arms laden with iron and fabric and the reek of old smoke, their silent, eerie presence enough to speak for them and for what they had come to do, and I did nothing to resist as they closed in. What would have been the point?
They fitted me into the ceremonial armour with the same reverent efficiency they used when tending my mother’s altars.
Blackened steel, cold to the touch, polished to a cruel gleam and edged with thin golden filigree that caught the morning’s weak light.
The breastplate bore the crest of Irongate – a dragon bound in gold and wreathed in flame.
The Acolytes strained as they hauled it into place, their thin arms trembling under the weight while I stood still and let them work.
When the straps finally bit down against my shoulders, the iron felt heavier than I remembered.
Or perhaps it was only me, worn down by years of parades and pageantry and tired of being dressed for war in someone else’s theatre – a spectacle I had never chosen, that had always been chosen for me.
A mantle handed down not as honour, but as inheritance.
Astrid groaned from her chair as I adjusted the final clasp. “You look like a revenant,” she muttered, squinting against the morning light now filtering through the high window. “Crawled up from the grave to settle old accounts.”
“I’ve had worse mornings,” I said, my voice rough with sleep and wine.
She smirked faintly. “Give it time.”
Daen passed me my sword – not the gilded thing kept for parades, but the blade that had followed me through mud and blood and fire.
The leather hilt was darkened by years of sweat and rain, its grip worn to the shape of my hand.
I took it from him and fastened it at my side, the weight settling against my hip.
Let them see their Unbroken Blade – but let it be the real one.
This blade had never broken, and neither had I.
“I’ll see you after,” I said then, tapping the hilt once before I pushed the door open. Neither of them answered. Daen only gave a small, mocking salute before leaning back against the wall, arms folded, as I stepped out.
The corridors of the keep were already alive.
Courtiers in silks and fur-trimmed cloaks whispered behind gloved hands.
Hierophants of the Flame moved in procession, incense smoke trailing behind them, the scent of burned herbs and rose oil clinging to everything.
I passed them without a word, the soft rustle of their robes fading at my back as I stepped into the antechamber.
The air here was cooler; the high dome shadowed above.
For a moment, there was nothing but the hollow stretch of stone and the faint echo of my own breath.
Then a glimmer shifted against the dimness—slight enough that I might have missed it if it hadn’t moved.
A fleck of gold leaf, thin as dust, turned lazily as it fell.
I watched it spiral, slow and unhurried, until it came to rest against the floor.
Another clung still higher in the air, suspended for a breath before gravity drew it down.
My gaze drifted upwards, to the domed ceiling, where the fleck had fallen from.
The gilt of the seven golden crowns had dulled long ago, but the morning light still teased faint fire from their edges, enough to mark them out against the shadowed vault.
Stalling my steps, I let my eyes trace them one by one before the roar from beyond the keep reached my ears and drew me onwards, through the throne room and toward the steps that led to the High Balcony.
As I stepped outside through the awning, the full weight of the Feast pressed down on me.
The pyre square spread below, vast and unrelenting, its dark stone inlaid in a great circle that seemed to drink the light of the rising sun.
At its centre, where every path converged, rose the altar of Dragonstone – smooth and black, veined like cooled lava, as if the last breath of a dying dragon had seared it into the earth.
Upon that ancient stone stood the pyre itself, ironbound and unyielding, crowned in chains that gleamed like polished silver.
Crowds had already filled every tier. Nobles lined the terraces, their masks golden and impassive, their faces unreadable beneath artistry and powder.
Below them, the merchants and soldiers stood packed shoulder to shoulder, more restless, eyes darting toward the altar like hounds straining against the leash.
And lower still, pressed close to the pyre, were the commoners – not summoned, but drawn, bound by tradition and the terrible promise of the fire.
They had come to watch a man burn. Not just any man; an enemy of the Sorcerer Queen, made an example of for all who would not bend the knee to her. They came dressed in mourning silks and painted veils, their hands clasped in ritual prayer as if that might cleanse the hunger in their eyes.
Mowgara was already there. She stood at the front of the dais, flanked by two of her highest hierophants, her robe a dark tide that poured down the steps, heavy and seamless as the night.
Her crown—the Circlet of Flame—burned with a steady glow, its fire coiling around her brow without flicker or fade.
She was the very image of sovereign fire, still and terrible, and as I stepped into place beside her, she did not even look at me.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I’m here,” I replied, too tired to argue.
“Your birthmark?”
“It’s fine.”
“Then the broth worked.”
I said nothing – if she noticed or cared, she didn’t show it. Below us, the crowd shifted like a tide, parting to make way for the guards – and between them, they brought him forward.
Alaric walked with slow, deliberate steps.
His robes were torn, the frayed edges clumsily bound with cord, as if a few knots could dress him back into dignity.
His mouth was sealed – not with cloth, but with a blackened clasp of wrought iron that curved across his face like a cruel smile.
His hands were chained in front of him, and though two guards flanked him, he did not resist nor falter. His eyes were clear.
And he was looking straight at me.
They led him up the pyre’s steps and bound him to the black stone with thick iron chains. I watched as they looped them over his chest, across his arms, and around his throat, as if he were something powerful still, something that might yet break free.
Mowgara stepped forward, her arms raised in ceremony. The crowd fell silent. And the Sorcerer Queen drank in their reverence like a fine wine.
Her voice, when it came, was not loud – but it carried. It always did.
“My people,” she began, “today we gather not in mourning, but in preservation. Today, we cast into the fire all that would threaten the order of the Flame.”
Every word landed like a drumbeat, deliberate and unrelenting. Whatever else I thought of her – and there was plenty – I had always admired her for this: the way she could command a thousand hearts with nothing but her voice. No spell, no flame – just words, wielded like a blade.
“This man”, she continued, turning toward the chained figure, “stood in open defiance of the Flame. He sowed unrest, spread lies, and rallied traitors beneath false hopes. He led men and women astray, away from order, away from peace of the Queen.”
My breath caught, just for a moment.
She raised her hands above the Dragonstone.
“Let this be our offering. Let this be our shield. Let this be the fire that guards the gate.”
She began to speak the words then – not in the tongue of Irongate, but in the ancient words only known to the Sisterhood. I recognised them—I had heard them before whispering in the dead of night as a child, standing behind the ritual doors with ash on my face and terror in my throat.
These were the words of ignition, and the pyre answered.
One of the hierophants beside her stiffened, a thin line of blood slipping from his nose as if the sound itself had cut him.
Black flames, like the night itself had become fire, rose slowly at first, then hungrily – deep black edged in gold, licking up the stone like it had been waiting, like it had always been meant for this.
The fire wrapped around Alaric’s feet, his robes catching not with smoke or shriek, but with eerie quiet.
The iron clasp across his mouth glowed red.
Still, he looked at me.
The mark beneath my armour pulsed once.
Then again – harder.