Shadows Beneath The Flame
1273 Words
Tyler stood at the edge of the palace courtyard, his boots crunching against fragments of blackened stone. All around him, the air shimmered with heat, the fires of Velharr still raging as night fully claimed the sky. The royal city—once a symbol of Ashenborn strength—was now little more than a carcass picked clean by vultures with silver tongues and hidden daggers.
He clenched his jaw, knuckles white around the broken sword. The pain in his ribs throbbed from the earlier fight, but he ignored it. Pain was good. Pain reminded him he was alive.
They thought he’d die in the flames. They were wrong.
“Your Highness,” a voice called from behind him—low, cautious.
Tyler turned slowly. A tall man approached through the shadows. He wore the colors of House Merric, once sworn to the Ashenborn crown. The man removed his helm to reveal a hardened face scarred by war—General Kellan Draive, one of the few commanders who had not abandoned the throne when it cracked.
“Kellan,” Tyler said, nodding grimly.
“We’ve secured the eastern quarter. The noble districts are lost, taken by House Velmar and their damned mercenaries. We hold the harbor, barely. The rest…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“How many men?”
“Fewer than four hundred still loyal. Most of them wounded, scattered. But they’re waiting for you to speak, Tyler. They need to see a king rise from this wreck.”
Tyler looked past him, toward the dark heart of the city. Fire still glowed in the distance, casting flickering light over ruined stone. Somewhere out there, Darian might still be alive. Somewhere out there, the traitors sharpened their knives, thinking they had already won.
But they hadn’t seen what Tyler had seen.
He stepped forward, voice like flint striking steel. “Then I’ll give them one.”
Within an hour, the remnants of the loyalist army had gathered in the remnants of the temple square. Once a place of peace, now it stood scorched and desecrated. Priests lay dead beside toppled altars. But Tyler walked among his people with his head held high.
“These lands belong to us,” he began, his voice echoing through the broken stone. “Our fathers built Velharr with sweat and sacrifice. My family bled for this kingdom. And now? We’ve been betrayed. Not by foreign invaders. Not by beasts from the north. But by our own blood.”
The crowd murmured, nodding grimly.
“House Velmar. House Cassaryn. Even the damned Ebon Council—they sold their loyalty for silver and whispers of power. They think they’ve already won. That the Ashenborn name will vanish in flame.”
Tyler paused, letting the silence hang heavy.
“Let them come. Let them march on our bones. Because when the ashes settle, it won’t be their banners that fly above Velharr—it will be mine. We are not broken. We are not done. We are the last flame of a dying empire. And we will burn brighter than ever before.”
A roar of approval surged through the crowd.
General Kellan stepped forward. “There’s something else,” he said under his breath, lowering his voice. “A survivor from the royal court. She claims she has information. About your brother.”
Tyler’s chest tightened. “Where?”
“In the old catacombs. Beneath the temple. She wouldn’t come to the surface. Said there are ears everywhere.”
Tyler handed off his sword to a nearby guard and motioned for Kellan to lead him. Together they moved through the broken temple, stepping over scorched marble and shattered columns until they reached a hidden stairwell beneath a collapsed altar.
The catacombs were cold, damp, and silent save for the occasional drip of water. The air was thick with mildew and the scent of old death. It felt like descending into the veins of the kingdom itself.
They found her in the fourth chamber—wrapped in a dark cloak, her face hidden beneath a veil. When she looked up, Tyler immediately recognized her.
“Lady Sera Valen,” he said, frowning. “You served as my mother’s political envoy.”
“I served the crown,” she corrected softly. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but fury. “And I have news that may shatter what little trust you have left.”
Tyler stepped forward. “Speak.”
“They never meant to kill you,” she said. “Not yet. Your brother was their real target. Not to murder—but to turn. I saw it. I heard it.”
Tyler froze.
“They’ve been grooming him for months. Feeding him lies. Promises. They told him your father planned to make you king, despite you being the younger. That Aric believed Darian was weak… unworthy.”
“Lies,” Tyler hissed.
“Maybe,” she said, “but lies told long enough, believed hard enough, become truth to those desperate for power.”
Tyler staggered back a step, heart pounding.
Could Darian have betrayed them? Was he truly gone… or just lost?
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “He’s my brother.”
“He was,” Sera said softly, “until they made him something else.”
Tyler turned to Kellan. “We need to find him. Fast.”
“We have scouts sweeping the eastern gates. There are rumors of a convoy leaving the city under House Velmar’s banner. Darian could be among them.”
Tyler’s jaw tightened.
“Then I ride tonight.”
Hours later, under the cover of darkness, Tyler and a small unit of riders galloped through the ruined outskirts of Velharr. The city behind them glowed like a fading ember, but the road ahead was darker still—shrouded by forest and fog. Tyler rode hard, teeth gritted against the cold wind, heart a storm of fury and doubt.
He had to know. He had to see it with his own eyes.
They caught sight of the convoy near the Southern Ridge. Five carriages, thirty armed guards, and a sigil Tyler had once respected now sewn onto the cloaks of traitors—House Velmar’s crimson eagle.
The Ashenborn riders struck fast.
The ambush was brutal. Arrows flew like lightning through the mist, cutting down the outer guards before the Velmar soldiers could even draw steel. Tyler charged in headfirst, dismounting mid-strike to drive a dagger through the throat of a man who’d once trained in the royal barracks.
The air was filled with screams and steel.
Then—one of the carriages burst open.
And from within stepped a figure Tyler would have recognized even in the darkest abyss.
Darian.
Alive. Changed.
His brother’s face was gaunter, eyes shadowed by something far worse than fatigue—guilt… or perhaps ambition. He wore no shackles. No chains. Only the dark crest of House Velmar embroidered on his cloak.
“Tyler,” he said, voice calm in the chaos.
Tyler froze.
“Tell me this isn’t real,” he said. “Tell me they forced you. Tell me you didn’t walk willingly into their lies.”
Darian’s silence was worse than any answer.
“You always had the fire,” Darian said softly. “But fire doesn’t always build. Sometimes it destroys.”
“They killed Father!” Tyler roared. “They betrayed everything! You think they’ll let you rule? You’re just their pawn!”
“No,” Darian whispered. “I’m their king.”
And before Tyler could react, Darian raised his hand—and flames erupted around them.
- Writer
