The Emberbound Oath

The Inquisitor’s Ledger

Rain slicked the marble steps of the White Spire, turning the banners above the gates a darker shade of crimson. Inside, the air smelled of parchment and smoke from the braziers that burned day and night to keep the damp from creeping into the Crown’s records.

Lord Inquisitor Serrath moved through the main hall without slowing, his boots leaving faint, wet prints on the polished stone. Clerks and guards stepped aside. No one met his eyes.

He liked it that way. At the end of the hall, he pushed open the door to the War Chamber. It was empty save for a single map table covered in scrolls and small carved markers? red for loyal cities, black for unrest, gold for military garrisons.

One marker was neither red nor gold. It was deep orange, carved into the shape of a flame.

Serrath picked it up, rolling it between his fingers.

The door opened behind him. “My lord.”

It was Captain Ilyra, her uniform soaked from the rain, her dark hair plastered to her face. She carried a sealed scroll.

“Report,” Serrath said.

She crossed the room, breaking the wax seal with quick fingers and spreading the parchment on the table. It was a hand drawn sketch of a clearing, marked with curling runes around the perimeter.

“Our scouts found another one,” she said. “The runes match those from the site in Ash Hollow.”

Serrath’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Ilyra hesitated. “The ground was still warm when they arrived. Something passed through recently.”

Serrath set down the flame marker. “Describe it.”

“No tracks. No scent. But…” She tapped the center of the sketch. “The moss was burned away in a perfect circle. Heat without fire.”

Serrath looked down at the map of the realm. The orange marker hovered over the borderlands, far from the capital.

“The Emberborn is moving,” he murmured.

“You’re certain it’s him?”

“I’m certain no one else walks the Ember paths without paying a price.”

He reached for a smaller map, one most in the Crown’s service never saw. It was older, drawn in faded ink, its edges frayed. Across it ran thin, winding lines in red, gold, and blue.

“Three colors,” Ilyra said quietly.

“Three fates,” Serrath replied. “If he’s taken the blue path, he’ll come out in the Moonwood.”

“That’s a long way from here.”

“It will not be long enough,” Serrath said, rolling the map closed.

He handed it to her. “Assemble a hunting party. No banners, no drums. I want the boy alive, but if you must choose”

“I understand,” she said.

Serrath turned back to the window, watching rain streak the glass. “If he reaches the end of the path, the Crown won’t matter. And neither will we.”