Ysolde’s Pov
The fire had devoured the eastern tower by dawn.
Not all at once, but deliberately, like something hungry and patient. The sky above Eldros hung gray with smoke, the wind scattering ash like falling snow. It settled over the stone courtyards, clung to banners, and smudged against the windows like fingerprints from a dying god.
Inside the palace, servants moved like ghosts.
Heads bowed. Voices hushed.
Their whispers threaded the air like silk laced with poison:
“She’s dead.”
“Burned alive in her bed.”
“The Flameborne is gone.”
But Ysolde did not mourn.
She did not tremble. Did not blink.
She sat beneath the frost-laced sigils of House Eldros, spine a blade of polished ice, while chaos unfurled around her like a dying empire. Court advisors bickered over alliances. Ge
