The Primordial Flame

Fluffing his feathers.

I tilt my head slightly, catching sight of the broad stone pier through the parting fog. Torchlight flickers against the wet rock, reflecting off the polished breastplates of a dozen heavily armed guards arranged in formal formation, and at their centre stands High Lord Carrion himself, draped in fine dark furs and watching our vessel with sharp, expectant eyes.

"Bram," I say softly, the regal coldness slipping back over my tone like armor as the heavy timber gangplank descends with a deep, echoing thud. "He is waiting for me at the dock with his guards already. Gods, he is eager."

Bram moves to my flank, taking his position half a step behind my left shoulder. His heavy, gloved hand rests casually against the pommel of his broadsword, his posture immaculate, upright, and terrifyingly composed.

"Eager men make careless mistakes, my lady," Bram rumbles quietly, his voice carrying that flawless, deferential cadence meant solely for public ears. "Let his vanity blind him."

I lift the heavy folds of my icy blue silk dress just enough to clear the wet timber, my spine straight, head held high, and the massive aquamarine catching the torchlight like a glittering beacon. Step by step, we descend the gangplank into the heart of Carrion’s lair.

High Lord Carrion steps forward as my slippers touch the damp stone of the pier. He is a broad, seasoned man in his late forties, with silver dusting his dark beard and sharp, hawk-like eyes that instantly rake over my form, lingering long enough on the plunging neckline and King Alaric's gem to make his intentions glaringly obvious.

"Princess Amelisse," Carrion purrs, sweeping into a deep, sweeping bow that reeks of practiced theatrical nobility. He catches my hand, lifting it to press his lips against my knuckles just a fraction of a second too long.

"To what do the Eastern Marches owe such an exquisite honor? Your journey across the sea must have been grueling."

"Not grueling at all, High Lord Carrion," I reply smoothly, offering him a brilliant, captivating smile that holds just enough calculated charm to make his chest swell.

"Though I must admit, your reputation for unmatched eastern hospitality made the voyage feel far too long."

Carrion’s eyes gleam with instant, flattered pride. "Then let us not keep you in the sea chill another moment. My keep is prepared for your stay, and a grand feast awaits us tonight."

His gaze flicks briefly behind me, taking in Bram’s colossal frame and stern, unreadable glare. Carrion offers a mild, condescending smirk. "I see you brought a rather imposing hound to watch over you."

Bram doesn't blink, his stone carved features remaining utterly devoid of expression as he holds Carrion's gaze with silent, lethal promise.

The air on the damp stone pier instantly freezes, the gentle slap of waves against the dock suddenly feeling loud in the tense silence. Carrion’s guards shift subtly, their eyes widening at my sudden, unyielding sharpness.

I pull my hand back from his grip, my spine straightening as I lift my chin. My fingers rest strategically against the cool, massive surface of King Alaric's aquamarine stone, framing the priceless royal gift for everyone on the pier to see.

"Careful now, My Lord," I say firmly, my voice smooth as silk but laced with a razor sharp, lethal chill. "Are you really calling the head of my personal honor guard a dog? While I appreciate your hospitality, I urge you to remember that you are addressing royalty. I do not take kindly to you insulting my guard. As he was hand-picked by me, I take any slight against his standing as a direct insult to myself."

Carrion’s condescending smirk evaporates instantly. His eyes flick down to my hand resting over the sparkling blue gem, a flashing symbol of the immense royal power standing behind me, and a flash of surprise, followed quickly by flustered embarrassment, crosses his seasoned features.

Behind me, Bram doesn't move a single muscle, but the subtle, intense shift in his posture is palpable. Hearing me publicly defend him with such fierce, regal authority, using King Alaric's jewel as a shield for his honour, sends a sudden, invisible tremor through his stoic guard. His dark eyes glint under the shadow of his hood, burning with a complex storm of fierce pride and silent, tortured gratitude.

"Forgive me, Princess Amelisse," Carrion quickly stammers, sweeping into another, far more subservient bow to repair his misstep. "No offense was intended to your Royal Highness, nor to your distinguished captain. I merely meant he carries the formidable presence of a true warrior."

He steps aside, gesturing toward the sweeping stone stairs winding up the cliff face toward the keep's grand iron gates.

"Please," Carrion offers smoothly, eager to regain my favor. "Allow me to escort you up to your quarters so you may rest before tonight's banquet. Your honor guard, of course, shall have full clearance to accompany you at all times."

"That is much better, High Lord," I say, letting a small, captivating smile return to my lips as I allow him to lead the way up the steep stone path, with Bram following a single, loyal step behind my shoulder.

“I have had far too much rest on the voyage my lord, please could you have your men take my trunks up to my quarters and I would find it most pleasing if you would personally take the time to show me your estate, my stay isn’t for very long but I would be most please to fill that time with your presence.”

Carrion’s chest swells, his ego expanding like a sail catching a sudden, violent gale. Any lingering embarrassment from my sharp reprimand vanishes entirely, replaced by a flush of absolute, smug triumph.

"It would be my absolute privilege, Princess," Carrion purrs, his voice dropping an octave as he eagerly patting the hand I’ve so gracefully looped around his arm. He turns over his shoulder to his captain of the guard, barking an immediate order. "You heard her Royal Highness! Have her trunks taken up to the High Suite at once. Escort them with care, if so much as a seam on her gowns is damaged, I’ll have your heads."

"Right away, My Lord," the captain stammers, bowing low before directing the men toward the docking launch.

Carrion turns his full, gleaming focus back to me, guiding me toward the winding grand staircase that carves its way through the living rock of the cliffside. "The upper estate boasts a breathtaking view of the sea, and my gallery holds artifacts from across the continent, though I doubt any match the beauty currently gracing my arm."

"You flatter me, High Lord," I coo softly, leaning just enough into his side to make his stride falter for a fraction of a beat, letting him savor the illusion that he is winning me over.

Directly behind us, Bram follows.

His boots strike the damp stone steps in rhythmic, heavy thuds, his broad shoulders squared and broadsword resting beneath his hand. While Carrion is utterly enthralled, hanging on my every word and gentle touch, Bram’s dark eyes are razor sharp. He scans every iron portcullis, every archway, every guard station, and every hidden alcove we pass, mapping out the keep’s architecture for our eventual escape.

Yet every time Carrion leans down to whisper in my ear, or every time I let out a light, melodic laugh at the High Lord's bloated jokes, Bram's jaw clenches so tightly the muscle twitches visibly. Standing as my silent shadow forces him to watch me wield my charm as a weapon, enduring the slow, torturous burn of his own choice.

"We shall start with the grand courtyard and the east wing," Carrion boasts, leading me beneath the heavy iron teeth of the main gatehouse. "Where I keep my private collection of rare eastern armaments."

"Rare armaments?" I ask, tilting my head with an expression of polished, breathless fascination. "How fascinating, My Lord. Though I must admit, back at King Alaric's court, I always found the grand displays in the upper galleries to be terribly predictable."

Carrion blinks, his hawk like eyes gleaming with curiosity as he slows his pace down the long stone corridor. "Predictable, Princess?"

"Of course," I say, leaning slightly closer to him and lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a grand secret. "The true heart of a lord's domain is never kept in his velvet-lined galleries where every passing guest can stare. It lies in the lower keeps, the deep vaults, the iron bound archives where a man of true power secures what matters most."

I offer him a coy, admiring look from beneath my lashes, letting my fingers brush gently against his heavy fur trim.

"Unless, of course, your estate relies entirely on surface displays?"

Carrion’s pride takes the bait instantly. A boastful, booming laugh chest rumbles out of him as he immediately alters our course, turning us down a grand spiral staircase that leads deep into the cool, subterranean stone of the lower keep.

"Surface displays? Far from it, my dear Princess!" Carrion boasts, his voice echoing off the damp, ancient granite. "My lower vaults are legendary along the coast. Built three levels into the living cliff face! Reinforced with double bolted iron grates and guarded day and night by four of my most ruthless sentinels."

Behind us, Bram’s heavy steps echo rhythmically on the winding stairs. Over Carrion’s shoulder, I catch Bram’s dark, razor sharp gaze. He isn't looking at me; his eyes are tracking every torch bracket, every iron hinge, and every keyhole as Carrion carelessly maps out his own security layout for us.

"Four sentinels?" I murmur, sounding deeply impressed as we reach the bottom landing, where heavy iron doors block a vaulted stone tunnel. Torchlight flickers against the thick iron bars of a heavy portcullis. "My word, Carrion, you guard your treasures as fiercely as a dragon. Though I suppose a man handling such, extensive international trade routes can never be too careful with his records."

Carrion swells with smug satisfaction, pulling a heavy brass key from his belt to pat it fondly. "Precisely! The ledgers for my most lucrative shipping contracts sit behind three locked oak doors right down that corridor. Not a single page moves without my personal seal."

Right down that corridor.

I smile brightly, letting my arm rest comfortably against his as I commit every detail, the key placement, the four man guard rotation, and the iron portcullis layout, to memory.

"You truly are a master of strategy, My Lord," I purr, gently turning us back toward the upper stairs. "Now, I believe you promised me a view of the sea before twilight?"

I let out a soft, delicate gasp, wincing with practiced perfection as my knee wobbles.