Chapter 82 – The Ash Tree and the Hollow Throne
The candlelight flickered against stone walls that had seen more betrayal than prayer. Beneath the Capitol, far below the Council's chamber, a hollow space breathed softly. Dust lay thick across the floor, untouched by footsteps, yet scattered now by something older than memory.
An ash tree, petrified in silver and iron, stood at the chamber's center. It was no tree at all—its roots were carved channels, each vein a vessel for power once sealed. Its leaves had long fallen, but the branches still whispered. The vault was listening again. The seal that had held since the age of Kael and Ivan cracked further, hairline and quiet, like a dying heartbeat slowly regaining rhythm.
And above, in the halls of the living, Caedren stood before a table of strangers and ghosts.
He had called together those who might yet stand for more than titles. Tarn was there, seated but tense, his eyes like open blades. Lysa leaned against the wall, arms folded, listening. Opposite them, a mix of lesser nobles, old archivists, merchant heads, a former commander—none with power alone, but all with voices still heard in parts of the realm. This was not the Council. This was something else. Something older, and perhaps more dangerous.
"You know what the Council is," Caedren said plainly. "A hall of debts and favors. They serve only the illusion of stability. But the realm is not stone—it's people. And people are slipping away."
He unfurled the map Ivan had left, a faded parchment traced with dreams: sanctuaries, forums, independent orders, regions allowed to govern by shared code rather than decrees from the spire.
"It's mad," muttered one merchant.
"It's been done," Caedren said. "In pieces. In ruins. We only need to gather the bones and give them breath."
Silence followed.
Then Tarn rose. "I stood beside Caedren when the marsh rebels burned their own grain fields rather than bend. I saw their eyes. They do not fear the Council. They hate it."
He looked at each person present. "You can rule ashes if you like. Or you can build."
Across the chamber, a priestess of the Mother's Faith whispered, "If we walk this path, the old thrones will come for us."
Caedren nodded. "Let them. Thrones are only wood."
Later that night, Lysa moved through the quiet halls like a shadow. She was not at ease among words and visionaries. Her realm was simpler—watch, strike, protect. And she had been watching Tarn.
She found him not in the war chamber, but at the old solar, poring over messages written in cipher.
"What are you hiding, Tarn?"
He looked up, unsurprised. "Not hiding. Shielding."
"From who?"
"From the ones inside our walls who have already sold their loyalty."
He pushed a page across the table. It bore a symbol: a broken crown with blood dripping from its center.
"They call themselves the Hollow Hand. They serve no house. No banner. Only a promise—that when Caedren falls, they'll be the ones to shape what comes next."
Lysa read the name beneath the seal. A Councilor. One who had voted silence.
"They've infiltrated deep," Tarn said. "But not deep enough to blind me."
Lysa studied him. "You still play your games, Tarn."
"We all do."
Beneath them all, in the root-vault under the ash tree, a breathless hum began to stir.
The mirrored tombs—forgotten in silence—shivered. The soulsteel glass fogged from within.
One cracked.
Then another.
And far beneath the Capitol, something long buried opened its eyes.
The next morning, Caedren stood before the people.
Not from the balcony. Not from the throne.
But from the steps of the ancient city square, where executions once took place, and speeches followed war. The wind was bitter. The square was crowded.
"I do not ask for faith," he said. "I ask for witness."
He held Ivan's journal high.
"This is not a weapon. This is not a crown. This is the road we were meant to walk a thousand years ago. And I will walk it, even if I do so alone."
He turned, began to descend the stairs.
Then a child called out, "You're not alone!"
A hand reached upward.
Then another.
Soon the crowd rippled, not with cheers, but with silence—the heavy kind, the solemn kind that carries oaths.
And in a distant tower, the Council watched with cold eyes.
A message was sent before the sun fell: Kill him before he becomes real.
And beneath the Capitol, the ash tree breathed once more.
Not with life.
But with memory.
And memory has teeth.