Chapter 119: The Mourning Flame
The ride north from the Ash Path was a march of shadows and silence.
No songs.
No banners fluttering with pride.
Only the rhythmic thunder of hooves striking the withered ground, and the wind—cold, keening—howling like a dirge that stretched on forever.
Behind them, the broken temple lay quiet—but far from dead.
A tremor still pulsed through the land beneath their feet, slow and steady like the beating of some great heart, hidden deep in the earth.
Caedren rode ahead of his men, eyes narrowed and fixed on the distant horizon.
Every thought felt like a weight chained to his spine.
The vision of Ivan.
The echo of Kael's war.
The ash crown's final whisper before its shattering.
You are not a king. You are a witness.
The words haunted him.
A witness did not remain idle.
He had seen too much to retreat now.
Lysa rode at his side, her silence anything but passive.
Her mind worked in quiet focus.
She had spent the night after the Ash Path pouring over the scraps of scripture they had found beneath the throne chamber.
They weren't mere symbols.
Not just forgotten marks carved into stone.
They were instructions.
And warnings.
"Some of these names," she said finally, breaking the hush with a voice like steel meeting stone, "they're real. Governors. Priests. Merchant lords."
Caedren's gaze sharpened.
"You're certain?"
She nodded, eyes shadowed.
"The Cult of Valedros isn't new."
"Dormant."
"Waiting."
"But deeply embedded."
"In every system that serves the Crown."
"The rebellion wasn't born in shadow."
"It was fostered in daylight."
Caedren's jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"How many?"
"Too many."
She looked toward the dark ridge that loomed ahead.
"If we strike wrong, we burn the whole realm."
Caedren breathed in, the weight of command heavy in his chest.
"Then we cut clean."
He spurred his horse faster.
The fortress of Galenhall—the last bastion of southern rebellion—lay just beyond the ridge.
Smoke rose faintly in the distance.
Not from battle.
But from industry.
The cult had taken control.
They were building something.
Galenhall had changed.
Once a proud fortress-town, its marble towers gleamed like crowns beneath the sun.
Its fountains sang in the streets, a melody of peace and prosperity.
Now?
It looked like a beast with steel fangs.
The main gate blackened with soot and ash.
The banners that once bore the stag of southern nobility were gone.
Replaced by the sigil of Valedros—
Twin serpents devouring the sun.
The scouts returned with news cold enough to freeze blood.
"They've emptied the mines," one reported, voice tight.
"Filled them with prisoners."
"Commoners. Soldiers."
"Anyone who didn't bend the knee."
Caedren's eyes narrowed beneath his helm.
"The forges run day and night."
"They're not just making weapons."
"Then what?" Caedren demanded, voice low but sharp.
The scout hesitated, swallowing.
"They're shaping statues, my lord."
"Human-sized."
"But hollow."
"They burn incense into them."
"Some say… the statues speak."
Lysa's face turned pale.
"That's not incense."
She clenched her fists.
"That's consecration."
"They're building vessels."
"Preparing for something to inhabit them."
Caedren turned to his captains.
"This isn't a siege."
"It's a purge."
"We take the city by nightfall."
The assault was swift and silent.
A rain of black-fletched arrows fell first.
Caedren's archers loosed death with cold precision.
Every torch-bearing guard struck down before they could raise alarm.
The outer walls were breached within minutes—not by battering rams or catapults.
But by firewalkers.
Elite soldiers trained to move through blaze and shadow alike.
Ghosts of flame.
Lysa led the second wave.
Her blade silver and red with quick vengeance.
She moved like a ghost in the dark.
Leaving messages in blood where words had failed.
Caedren stormed the forges.
Inside, the truth was worse than any report.
Dozens of hollow statues lined the walls.
Their surfaces faintly glowing, as if something stirred beneath their shells.
The workers were no slaves.
But devotees.
Chanting softly even as arrows pierced their hearts.
A statue turned.
Slowly.
Trembling.
Its movement jagged, unnatural.
A distorted voice burst from within.
Deep.
Inhuman.
"Valedros awakens."
Caedren didn't hesitate.
He split the thing in half with a single stroke.
His sword cleaving through metal like flesh.
But more were rising.
This was no rebellion.
This was a summoning.
By dawn, Galenhall had fallen.
But victory came with cost.
Two dozen knights lay dead.
Lysa was wounded at the hip, blood seeping dark against her pale skin.
The forge destroyed—but many statues remained.
Inert for now.
But humming with unfinished thought.
Caedren stood atop the outer wall.
The city they had taken spread beneath him like a scar.
He did not feel triumph.
Only urgency.
Lysa limped beside him, steady despite her wound.
"What now?" she asked.
"Now," Caedren said, voice low, "we draw the traitors out."
"One by one."
"We use fire and steel, yes."
"But also memory."
He looked toward the shattered crown he had left behind.
"We remind them what the ash meant."
"And why it must never be reborn."
Far to the west.
Beyond the dead forests and salt valleys.
A figure in crimson robes stood before a flame that burned blue.
He watched the fall of Galenhall reflected in a bowl of obsidian and oil.
His lips curled into a smile.
"So the child of Ivan's line rises," he murmured.
"Let him come."
"Let him burn."
And the fire whispered back.
The Mourning Flame burns ever brighter.