Chapter Nine
1051 Words
Noxareth lay beneath a sky of smoldering ash.
Unlike Aurelia, there was no radiant light here.
The city was illuminated by rivers of molten fire that wound between obsidian streets and iron towers. Black spires rose from the landscape like the ribs of some colossal beast, their peaks disappearing into the crimson haze above.
Ash drifted endlessly through the air.
It settled upon rooftops.
Upon statues.
Upon the shoulders of demons and fallen angels alike.
No one paid it any attention.
In Noxareth, ash was as ordinary as rain.
At the center of the city stood the Citadel of Embers.
Its walls were carved from dark stone scorched by countless ages. Vast braziers lined the pathways leading to the throne room, their flames casting restless shadows that crawled across the floor like living things.
Within the great hall, voices echoed beneath vaulted ceilings.
Generals argued over territory.
Nobles exchanged veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.
Ancient creatures whispered of opportunities and rivalries.
It was, by every measure, an ordinary day in Hell.
Upon a throne carved from blackened stone sat the Ashen Monarch.
The ruler listened in silence.
His chin rested against one hand while the endless disputes of his court unfolded before him.
A duke was accusing a rival of breaking a centuries-old pact.
A commander demanded additional legions for the southern wastes.
Someone was lying.
Several others were plotting.
Nothing unusual.
The Ashen Monarch found comfort in that.
Conflict was predictable.
Ambition was predictable.
Greed.
Pride.
Envy.
All of it was familiar.
Reliable.
The arguments rose and fell like the tides.
Then something changed.
Subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
The Ashen Monarch's eyes shifted.
Not toward the nobles.
Not toward the generals.
Toward a brazier beside his throne.
The fire burned steadily.
Red.
Orange.
Gold.
Then silver.
The change lasted less than a second.
A flicker.
A single heartbeat.
Then the infernal colors returned.
The conversation continued.
Unnoticed.
The Ashen Monarch narrowed his eyes.
'Had I imagined it?'
For the first time in centuries, his attention left the court entirely.
His gaze remained fixed upon the flame.
Moments passed.
The brazier crackled softly.
Normal.
Perhaps it had been a trick of the light.
The fire flashed silver again.
Longer this time.
A sharp intake of breath echoed somewhere in the hall.
The Ashen Monarch was not the only one who had seen it.
The nearest advisor had gone pale.
Several others were now staring at the brazier.
The arguments gradually faltered.
Words died mid-sentence.
One by one, voices fell silent.
The hall seemed suddenly much larger.
Much colder.
"What was that?" someone whispered.
No one answered.
The flame danced innocently within its basin.
Yet every eye remained fixed upon it.
Then, for a third time, the fire changed.
Silver washed through the brazier like moonlight through water.
Soft.
Pale.
Beautiful.
Wrong.
The silence became absolute.
The Ashen Monarch slowly rose from his throne.
The movement alone would normally command attention.
This time, nobody was looking at him.
They were looking at the fire.
At the impossible color burning where it should not exist.
The Monarch descended the steps of his throne.
Each footstep echoed through the chamber.
When he reached the brazier, he extended a hand toward the flame.
The silver light vanished instantly.
Infernal reds and oranges returned.
The fire crackled.
Ordinary once more.
The court remained frozen.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The Ashen Monarch stared into the flames for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"Summon the archivists."
The tension in the room deepened.
Several faces exchanged uneasy glances.
The archivists were rarely consulted.
Not for military matters.
Not for politics.
Not for disputes.
The archivists were called when history itself was needed.
When something happened that no living being could explain.
The Ashen Monarch's gaze lingered on the brazier.
The fire reflected in his eyes.
Red.
Orange.
Gold.
As though nothing had happened.
Yet somewhere deep within him, a feeling stirred.
One he had not experienced in a very long time.
Fear.
Far above the Citadel of Embers, beyond the towers of Noxareth, ash continued to drift across the crimson sky.
And for a brief moment—
every ember in the city burned silver.
"How much longer are you going to avoid Seraph Cassiel?" Lyra asked. She and Vespera walked side by side, heading to the first class they had in common.
Vespera suppressed a scoff.
"I'm not avoiding him."
"Yes, you are."
"No."
"Yes."
"Why are you on his side?"
"I'm not," Lyra giggled. "And way to turn this on me," she added. "At the end of it all, I'm not avoiding the angel," Vespera said, with what she hoped sounded firm enough for finality.
Deep down though, she knew she had been avoiding him. She had seen him the following day after the duel, but she had insisted on going with Lyra. For three days it had been like that.
And instead of feeling better and going back to her usual, detached self, she wished for his company more.
"You two looked so good next to each other," Lyra was saying, "and being with him has made you change."
"And by change, you mean?"
"The other students don't fear you as much," Lyra said simply.
Vespera realised she was right. It had been a while now with her not catching a whiff of fear. Now that she thought about it, the smell had grown very faint. It was still there, but so little she almost missed it.
And that was due to her being with Cassiel?
"You smile too, which remains my favourite sight yet," Lyra added cheerfully.
She really was changing. Vespera was unsure how to take it. Everything was new, and coming in so fast she was struggling to keep up.
And Cassiel... He was at the centre of it.
"For all that it's worth," Lyra began as they stopped in front of the door of their class, "follow what your heart wants. You sure don't seem like the cold person you portray yourself to be, and you know who's to thank for you letting the mask down. Don't push yourself back, you deserve having friends. You deserve all the happiness you can get."
Without another word, they entered the class.
For Vespera, the words hit deeper than she thought they could ever.
- Writer
