The Citadel of Embers rose high above the smoldering wastes, a monument to wrath carved from volcanic stone and sustained by the breath of dying stars. Here, in a throne room shaped like the mouth of a dragon mid-roar, Ashen sat upon a throne of molten obsidian, veins of fire pulsing beneath his skin like caged lightning.
Flames curled around him, never touching, always obeying. The heat alone could peel flesh from bone. The very air shimmered in agony.
And yet he was still.
Still as the eye of a storm.
Still as the grave he had carved from a thousand burning kingdoms.
His golden eyes stared into the distance where no horizon remained—just ash skies and the scream of distant storms.
A memory flickered there.
Emerald green eyes.
Tiny hands reaching for him without fear.
A laugh lik
