The embers in Kaleon's chamber had long since cooled, and the pale light of the half-moon slanted through the high windows.
He slept like a boy untouched by burden, arms loose, breath shallow.
But the quiet did not last.
A voice stirred in the stillness—thin as mist, cold as grave-soil.
"Vey'naarak."
Kaleon bolted upright, heart hammering against his ribs, sweat slick against his brow. His tunic clung to him, damp and tangled.
"Gods, enough," he rasped into the dark, voice cracked with anger and fear. "Why won't you leave me be? What is it you want?"
Silence answered, deep and smothering. No whisper. No reply. Only the faint crackle of cooling coals.
From beyond the walls came another disturbance—muffled shouts, hurried steps.
Still catching his breath, Kaleon swung his legs off the featherbed and crossed the cold stone floor to the window.
Below, the torches at Eldvaria's gates flared against the mist. Movement stirred in the courtyard.
"Guards," he called down, sharp but not shouting.
A voice rose back, steady and respectful.
"Aye, little lord," came the reply from a sentry pacing the gardens.
"What's the noise? Speak true—is it rebellion?" Kaleon demanded.
The guard hesitated, choosing his words.
"Nay, my lord. 'Tis a boy. Claims he's a friend. Theo of House Leveros."
Kaleon exhaled roughly, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
"That fool," he muttered under his breath. "Stirs a ruckus everywhere he goes. And the gods thought him fit to wear a crown one day."
He leaned out slightly and barked,
"Ser Ed! Let him through before he wakes the whole damn city."
"At once, little lord," Ser Ed answered, bowing.
A clatter of boots followed as the guards obeyed. Theo sauntered in soon after, travel-worn yet full of life. His cloak was dusted with the long miles, and his tunic, though fine, bore the scars of hard riding. Crimson stitching caught the torchlight—mark of Fyrakar, a land where storms cut the mountains and sunfire burned the fields.
Theo grinned at the guards, offering a mock bow.
"You do your duty well, Sers," he said, voice light. "No need for apologies. I am but a wayward fool, and fools need guarding more than kings."
The guards chuckled, pride stiffening their stances at the young lord's easy manner.
He carried with him the sunfire spirit of Fyrakar, a realm of flame-washed highlands and storm-cut passes. His clothes were travel-worn but fine, stitched with deep red threads and weathered leather—a proud badge of a house known more for heart than politics. There was an ease in his step, a swagger that spoke of swordplay and storms, of wild rides through borderlands and tales spun too big for one lifetime. But beneath the grins and dramatic bows was a soul forged not just in fire, but in loyalty. For all his noise, he had stood firm where others fled. For all his foolishness, he had seen truths that wiser men ignored. To the world, he was a loudmouth, a tempest, a jester of noble blood. To Kaleon Skarn, he was more. Friend. Shield. Brother not by blood, but by everything that mattered. And now he had returned, laughter still in his lungs, mischief in his stride, and something heavier—unspoken and waiting—in the silence behind his smile.
"Ride half the realm to see him, and he lets me cool my heels outside like a common squire. Fine way to greet your dearest friend."
Above, Kaleon leaned on the windowsill, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—but he said nothing.
The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken things.
Tomorrow would come with its own trouble.
But for now, the boy from Fyrakar had come, and the heir of Skarn was no longer alone.
The night wore thin, the fire in the hearth long since gone to ash.
Kaleon drifted into a restless sleep, the echoes of laughter and old ghosts tangled in his dreams.
When the first light of dawn crept through the stonework, the city of Eldvaria stirred to life below—carts rattling, hammers clanging, the low hum of voices rising like mist from the waking streets.
Kaleon rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed himself upright, the memory of the night before pressing against his ribs like a bruise. His limbs ached, heavy from the bruises of sparring and heavier still from the weight of Maelor's words.
A sharp knock broke the silence—a hurried, impatient rapping against the oaken door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
"Oi, lazy crow, up with you!" came Theo's familiar voice through the wood, muffled but unmistakably loud. "The world's already burning and you're still curled in your blankets!"
Kaleon groaned under his breath, dragging the thin cloak tighter around his shoulders as if it could shield him from the chaos Theo always seemed to drag in with him.
Another knock, this time followed by the unmistakable creak of the door handle rattling. "Don't make me kick it down, little lord."
A faint, tired smile tugged at Kaleon's lips despite himself. Some battles, it seemed, were fought before breakfast.
"Stop it you clot headed idiot I am coming." complained Kaleon.
The door groaned open under the weight of a heavy hand.
Theo stood there, grinning like a fool, the morning light catching in his tousled hair.
"Morning, dear friend," he said with a crooked chuckle, as if the world were not yet heavy enough to silence him.
Kaleon gave him a long, unimpressed look. "You'll never learn to be serious, will you? At least try to carry yourself like a prince. The last time I laid eyes on you, you looked no better than a beggar blown in from the fields."
He stepped aside with a grunt. "Well? Are you waiting for an invitation written in gold? Get in."
Theo entered, his boots scuffing against the worn stone.
"And who did you drag along this time?" Kaleon asked, folding his arms. "A nine-summer boy from some country hundred and fifty miles off? Gods, Theo, you're barely grown yourself."
Theo only laughed, unbothered as ever, the warmth of Fyrakar still clinging to him like an old cloak.
Kaleon shook his head with a grunt, half in exasperation, half in fondness. "One day you'll find yourself laughing at the wrong time, Theo. And it'll cost you a tooth—or worse."
Theo leaned his shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed. "Well, better to lose a tooth with a smile than keep all of them with a frown."
He tapped the hilt of the dagger at his hip. "Besides, I've more than laughter to defend me."
Kaleon snorted, pulling on his boots. "That little blade wouldn't scare a kitchen rat."
"It's not the size of the blade, it's how you wave it." Theo grinned wider, ducking as Kaleon hurled a boot at his head.
They shared a brief, quiet laugh—one that died too quickly.
Kaleon's gaze drifted to the small window, where the light of morning bled into the grey stone walls.
The summons still weighed heavy in his mind.
The trial was no simple questioning. It was a reckoning.
Theo caught the change in the air and straightened, smoothing the wrinkles from his tunic. "You're thinking of the High Hall."
"Aye." Kaleon tightened the leather straps around his forearm. "The council's waiting. Father… Darion… I doubt they called me back to praise my riding."
Theo hesitated before speaking. "You think they know?"
Kaleon shrugged. "If they don't, someone whispered it to them." His voice hardened. "Skarn walls have ears thicker than the stone."
Theo's smile faded at last. "Then let's not keep them waiting. Best to face the beast before it grows too big to fight."
Kaleon stood, staff in hand, and crossed the room. At the door, he paused, glancing at Theo.
"Whatever comes of this… you stand with me?"
Theo gave him a mock bow, though there was something fierce behind the humor. "To the bitter end, my prince."
Kaleon managed a faint smile. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
Together, they stepped into the cold morning air of Skarnhold.
The corridors of Skarnhold wound like veins through the volcanic heart of the mountain, dark and brooding. Tapestries lined the walls—depicting dragons coiled around burning towers, kings with crowns of flame.
The scent of old ash clung to everything, a memory of ancient fires that had once shaped this place.
As they approached the High Hall, the heavy ironwood doors stood half-open.
Beyond them, the throne of House Skarn loomed—a seat carved into the very bones of the keep itself, black stone polished to a dragon's sheen.
Above the throne stretched a mural of Vaelkar the Flameborn, first of the Skarn lords, astride a colossal dragon whose wings shadowed the stars.
Theo whistled low under his breath. "Makes a man feel small, doesn't it?"
"Good," Kaleon muttered. "That's the point."
Within the Hall, the gathered council fell silent as Kaleon entered. The room was a cavern of stone and firelight, every corner occupied by lords, knights, and advisors of House Skarn. Shadows flickered across stern faces.
Lord Darion Skarn sat atop the throne, his hands steepled before his mouth, his eyes unreadable. His stare bore into Kaleon, dissecting him with cold scrutiny.
At his right stood Ser Vaelor, his armor gleaming coldly in the torchlight, a smirk playing at his lips. Beside him, Maester Valtharion watched, his face pale and grave, hands folded into his long sleeves.
Two foreign emissaries stood at the edges of the gathering—one cloaked in the deep green of House Ardwyn, the other bearing the silvered wolf sigil of House Drakmire.
Eyes tracked Kaleon's every step as he and Theo made their way forward.
Theo gave Kaleon a slight nudge. "Remember, keep your chin high. If they smell fear, they'll feast on it."
Kaleon kept his face stone. His heart hammered beneath his ribs, but outwardly he moved like a true son of Skarn—slow, deliberate, unyielding.
When he reached the foot of the dais, he knelt on one knee and bowed his head.
"My lord father," he said, voice ringing through the Hall, "I come as summoned."
A murmur rippled through the hall—not loud, but sharp enough that Kaleon caught fragments: "the cursed son," "the blood eclipse," "visions again."
Darion's voice was low, but it carried power. "Rise, Kaleon of House Skarn. Son of fire and stone. We have questions—and you will answer."
The Hall held its breath.
Kaleon stood slowly, forcing his hands to unclench at his sides.
Lord Darion leaned forward slightly. "Where were you during the attack upon the jungles of Vaelyr? Why did you not return with your company?"
Before Kaleon could answer, the emissary from House Drakmire stepped forward, silver wolf sigil glinting.
"Forgive me, Lord Darion," he said, voice sharp and clear. "But perhaps the boy should be given water first. He looks barely out of fever."
A ripple of murmured agreement.
Darion waved a dismissive hand. "The boy has fire in him. He will endure."
Kaleon bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Fire. Always fire. Never weakness.
He bowed his head slightly. "I was separated during the ambush, my lord. I sought to return, but the jungles are treacherous."
"Treacherous enough to keep a son of Skarn away for days?" Ser Vaelor interjected smoothly. "Or was there more at play?"
The emissary from House Ardwyn shifted, his green cloak whispering over the stone. "We have heard… troubling tales."
Darion's gaze sharpened. "Speak plainly."
The Ardwyn emissary hesitated, then said, "Visions. Whispers of flame and madness. Of a boy crowned in ash."
Another murmur. Someone coughed, nervous and dry.
Theo stiffened beside Kaleon, hand drifting to his belt—though no blade hung there today.
Kaleon forced his voice steady. "I survived. I return to you with loyalty and blood still in my veins. Whatever dreams plagued me… they are mine to bear."
"Dreams?" Maester Valtharion's voice was thin, scholarly. "Or prophecy?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Darion stood then, slowly, the gesture alone enough to silence every whisper.
"Dreams are for children and fools," he said. "We are Skarn. We are born of stone and fire, not phantoms."
He descended two steps of the dais, bringing himself eye-level with Kaleon.
"Tell me, boy. Did you see anything? Anything… unnatural?"
Kaleon opened his mouth—and froze.
Images flashed behind his eyes. The monolith. The chains. The burning crown. A voice from the dark.
"No," he said, voice low. "Nothing but battle and blood."
A lie. A necessary one.
Darion studied him. For a heartbeat, Kaleon feared he saw straight through him.
"Very well," Darion said at last, turning away. "Then you will prove your loyalty in the trials."
A shocked stir among the council.
Theo paled. "Trials?"
Ser Vaelor's smile widened. "Ah, a fine idea."
The Ardwyn emissary frowned. "Lord Darion, surely—after the boy's ordeal—"
"He must be tested," Darion said sharply. "Not coddled."
Kaleon stood rigid. He felt the trap closing, the weight of expectation pressing down.
"When?" he asked, voice raw.
Darion's smile was a blade. "Tomorrow at dawn."
Theo muttered under his breath, "We're doomed."
Lord Darion returned to his throne and seated himself once more.
"You are dismissed," he said.
Kaleon bowed stiffly and turned away, Theo falling into step beside him.
As they exited the Hall, Theo whispered, "Trials at dawn. Hall full of jackals. Visions you can't speak of. And no breakfast."
Kaleon managed a humorless smile. "Business as usual."
Behind them, the High Hall doors groaned shut, sealing in the murmurs, the doubts, the gathering storm.
And somewhere deep beneath Skarnhold, the shard pulsed—waiting.