Chapter 81 – Fire Beneath the Marble
The Capitol had always seemed eternal—white towers, sun-lit domes, streets paved with old gold and older blood. But when Caedren returned, its grandeur felt thinner, like paint over rotting wood. The storm he had left behind had not passed. It had worsened.
News traveled faster than horses. The Council knew he was coming. The gates were open, but the eyes that watched him from the walls were wary—some fearful, some hostile. Banners had changed. Some noble houses now flew their colors beside foreign crests: mercenary allies, hired blades wearing silk tabards.
Caedren entered not as a returning prince, but as a question yet unanswered.
Lysa walked beside him, sword at her hip, face unreadable. Behind them, the archivist carried the journal of Ivan wrapped in old linen and reverence. None spoke as they passed the people in the outer districts—workers, healers, beggars. Some whispered his name. Fewer bowed.
It was not hate in their eyes.
It was disappointment.
He had been gone too long.
The Council met in the Hall of Twelve—a circular chamber with thrones too large for the men who now filled them. Tarn greeted him at the doors, eyes rimmed red with sleeplessness.
"They've fractured," Tarn whispered. "Three stand with you. Five stand against. Four are watching the wind."
"Then I'll give them a storm," Caedren said.
He stepped into the chamber.
The Lords rose, as tradition demanded. Some lowered their heads. Others did not. At the center of the room stood Lord Averen—head of House Vehl, voice like cold stone.
"You left the realm in flames to chase a ghost," Averen said.
Caedren stepped forward. "And returned with a map to water."
He unwrapped the journal and laid it on the speaking stone. The runes beneath the marble flared to life—drawn to the old ink, the soul within the parchment.
"This," he said, "is Ivan's final work. Knowledge, governance, vision. Everything the founders buried to build thrones of silence. He saw what Kael's fire could not heal. And he worked to answer it."
The room was still.
Then laughter, sharp and cruel.
"You bring us fairy tales," scoffed Lord Marrel. "Words of a madman defeated a thousand years ago. We rule the present. Not the past."
"Then why do you all live in its shadow?" Caedren's voice rose. "Why do you sit in Kael's hall, under Ivan's stars, and pretend you own the world?"
He opened the journal to a page etched with designs—a city rebuilt, a council led not by birthright but by deed. Oaths woven into law. Networks of knowledge, schools, sanctuaries.
"This is the world I will build. With or without your seats at the table."
Averen stood, lips tight. "You speak of dismantling the pillars that hold this realm."
"I speak of rebuilding them. Not with marble and gold, but with truth."
A silence fell—long and sharp.
Then one voice broke it.
Lady Ithriel, once silent, stood. "Let him try. If we are so strong, his failure will prove it."
A second rose. Then a third.
The vote did not come that day. But the line was drawn.
Later, in his chamber, Caedren stood at the balcony overlooking the city.
"They'll come for you," Lysa said behind him. "Not now. But soon."
"I know."
"You still trust Tarn?"
"Yes. But even trust must be watched."
She stepped beside him. "And the people?"
"They will not follow dreams. But they will follow proof."
He held the journal in his hands.
"Then let's build something real."
Far below the Capitol, in the crypt where forgotten kings were buried, a stone split down the middle. Dust filled the chamber. And something began to rise.
The past was not done speaking.
Not yet.