The shadows seemed to stretch longer than usual in the High Hall as Kaleon approached the throne. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting faint, shivering lights across the cold stone beneath his boots. It felt as though the very air around him had grown thicker, charged with anticipation.
Lord Darion sat upon the throne, his hands clasped loosely before him, fingers drumming against the armrest with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The dark stone walls of Skarnhold, thick with ancient history, pressed in on all sides, their weight somehow greater today, as though the mountain itself had grown heavier with every step he took.
"You return from the Wastes," Darion's voice cut through the silence, cold as the mountain itself, "without the relic you were sent to retrieve.
Your expedition ended in blood and confusion. You bring no proof—only tales of visions, shadows, and fire."
Kaleon stood tall, though every instinct screamed at him to bow, to show deference to the father who towered over him both physically and metaphorically. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, grounding him.
"There was more than shadow," Kaleon said, his voice clear, though every word felt as if it carried the weight of a thousand fires. "We found the Monolith."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap. A ripple of murmurs stirred through the council, and the emissary from House Drakmire shifted, exchanging a glance with his counterpart from House Ardwyn. The air grew thick with tension, their faces a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.
Lord Darion's face, however, grew darker still. His jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his mounting frustration. "And what would you have me believe, son?" His voice dropped lower, colder. "That a stone whispered secrets into your mind? That you—above all others—were chosen to glimpse truths hidden from wiser men?"
Kaleon's jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering as he met his father's. He could feel the weight of Darion's words, but he could not—and would not—bend. "I saw something… someone. Bound in fire. Calling for help."
The room fell utterly still. The murmurs ceased, and even the flickering torches seemed to hold their breath. Lord Darion's knuckles whitened around the armrest, the only sign that he was still grounded in the present. His gaze fixed on Kaleon, like a predator eyeing its prey.
Theo, standing just behind Kaleon, shifted uneasily, sensing the shift in the air. But he said nothing—wisely, his presence a silent support rather than an interference.
Darion's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Do not speak of shadows and flame in this hall. Speak of truth."
Kaleon's fists curled tighter at his sides. Every word he had fought to contain for so long threatened to burst free. "You ask for truth but command silence. Which is it?"
The sharp intake of breath from one of the councilors was barely audible, but it was enough to send a shiver through the room. Ser Vaelor shifted slightly, hand brushing the pommel of his sword—a motion that could have been entirely habitual, or perhaps a warning. Kaleon couldn't tell.
"You are a son of Skarn," Darion's voice, now frigid, cut through the silence. "Not some flame-touched prophet. You are bound to duty, to stone, to blood. Dreams are for bards and fools."
Kaleon could feel the crushing weight of those words—the echo of his entire life pressing down on him. He was never enough in Darion's eyes. Never.
"And yet it was duty that led me there," Kaleon said, his voice calm but the weight of his words undeniable. "Duty that nearly cost the lives of my men. And dreams—" He let the word hang, bitter and sharp on his tongue. "Dreams do not leave scars, Father. Nor do they call the sky to burn."
For the briefest moment, Kaleon saw a flicker cross Darion's face—a shift in his otherwise steely gaze. It was not anger, but something else. Fear, perhaps. Or memory. But just as quickly, it was gone. Masked once again by the unyielding coldness that defined Lord Darion.
"You failed your men," Darion's voice came low and heavy, like the fall of a guillotine. "You let superstition cloud your sword. That failure lies at your feet—and it stains our house."
At the edges of the dais, Kaleon felt Maelor's eyes burn into him. His elder brother—once a pillar of strength—looked down, his face twisted by guilt, as if Kaleon's words had reached deep into his own hidden doubts.
Ser Vaelor, too, remained as ever—unwavering, cold. His empty gaze never left the center of the room, but Kaleon could feel the weight of his scrutiny.
"And what of Ser Vaelor?" Kaleon could not help himself. The bitterness surged in his chest. "He abandoned our line when the beasts came. He left us to die."
The room buzzed again with whispers, more fervent this time. The words, once uttered, could not be taken back.
Darion's eyes flicked to Ser Vaelor, but there was no reaction, no defense. Only silence.
"You will not cast blame to veil your own weakness!" Darion's voice thundered suddenly, the full weight of his fury crashing through the hall like a storm.
The room fell utterly silent as if the stone itself held its breath.
"For now," Darion said, his tone shifting, colder still, "you will remain within Skarnhold. You will speak to no one beyond these walls. You will obey the council's orders."
Kaleon's blood boiled beneath his skin, but he held his tongue. He swallowed the fire rising in his throat, biting down on the words that threatened to explode from him.
"Is my loyalty so doubted," he asked quietly, barely more than a whisper, "that I must be caged like a dog?"
Darion's eyes narrowed, the intensity of his gaze unyielding. It felt as though the air itself grew even colder, pressing down on him.
"Loyalty is proven by silence as much as by action," Darion's voice, cold as stone, echoed through the hall.
Kaleon met his father's gaze one last time. His body stiffened, his back straight as iron.
A long, suffocating moment passed before Kaleon bowed stiffly, his head inclined not in deference but in an act of defiance.
"As you command, Lord Father."
As Kaleon straightened, the heavy silence in the room seemed to press in on him from all sides. His father's presence loomed over him, suffocating, as the council members around them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The tension was palpable—almost tangible. Whispers filtered through the hall like the rustling of leaves in a storm.
Theo stepped forward, his eyes still locked on Kaleon, but now full of concern. His gaze flickered briefly toward the councilmen, noticing the slight tightening of their expressions. He knew better than anyone that a volatile moment was coming—one that could shatter the fragile unity of the noble houses.
Kaleon turned toward him, his voice low. "I never thought it would come to this... I only did what was right. And still, it's never enough for him."
Theo's jaw tightened. He understood the burden his best friend carried—the weight of being constantly judged, constantly held to impossible standards by a father who would never see him as anything but a disappointment.
"I know, Kaleon," Theo murmured, keeping his voice quiet enough not to be overheard by the council. "But don't let it break you. If you fight him now, you'll only prove him right. He's looking for a reason, any reason, to silence you."
Kaleon's eyes flickered toward the throne, where Lord Darion watched them, silent but ever-present, his expression unreadable. The air between them crackled with unspoken hostility. Kaleon exhaled sharply, his fists still clenched. "I don't know how much longer I can remain silent. But I can't afford to make a mistake now."
Theo gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "You're not alone in this, Kaleon. The council may be divided, but not everyone in this room thinks the same way."
Behind them, the murmurs of the gathered council grew louder, snatches of conversation barely audible over the low hum of tension.
A few of the more influential councilmen, seated toward the back, exchanged glances. Lord Ardwyn, with his thin, calculating smile, leaned toward his companion, Lord Darven, and spoke in hushed tones.
"Skarn's heir," Lord Ardwyn murmured, his voice dripping with disdain, "always the fool who seeks glory where there is none. And now this… fire and shadows. What is he truly after?"
Lord Darven's voice was sharp as a blade. "Whatever it is, he doesn't have the strength to back it up. He should have known better than to follow such foolishness. If he's truly seeking out visions, he might as well be seeking his own grave."
At the far corner of the hall, one of the younger knights, Ser Edrik, glanced over at Kaleon with a mix of pity and suspicion. His brow furrowed as he whispered to the knight beside him, Ser Bryn.
"There's no honor in chasing ghosts," Ser Edrik muttered, his voice low but steady. "Skarn's bloodline is tarnished by the father's coldness, and the son's delusions won't help them. We need a leader of steel, not one who is swayed by shadows."
Ser Bryn, his face hard with years of battle and loyalty to House Skarn, simply shook his head. "Be careful, Ser Edrik. Those whispers will do more harm than you think. He may be a Skarn, but he's still our lord's blood. Speak ill of him now, and it will come back to bite you."
Across from them, the emissary from House Drakmire, an older man with a thin mustache, raised an eyebrow at the conversation. He leaned toward his counterpart from House Leveros and murmured in a voice that was barely audible.
"If this keeps up, Skarnhold will fall into disarray," he said, eyeing the two best friends at the center of the storm. "The Skarns are a house of dragons—of fire. But they're also divided, and those flames will burn them alive if they cannot unite."
The House Leveros emissary nodded, his eyes glinting with a mix of interest and caution. "Perhaps that is the plan. For someone, not Kaleon, to rise from the ashes."
Theo could sense the growing hostility in the hall, the whispers of doubt and suspicion swirling around them like a storm gathering strength. He glanced sideways at the knights and councilors, some of whom seemed eager to see Kaleon falter. Their eyes were filled with a quiet but dangerous contempt, and he knew that their loyalty to House Skarn was nothing but a distant memory.
"Theo," Kaleon whispered, the weight of the room's growing hostility settling on his shoulders, "do you hear them? They're waiting for me to break. They want me to fail."
Theo clenched his jaw, eyes scanning the room, taking in the faces of those who had known them both since childhood. The hesitation, the silent judgments, the pointed glances—they all said the same thing. The halls of Skarnhold were not as loyal as they once had been.
"I hear them," Theo replied quietly. "But I won't let them turn this into something you can't control. They'll want to tear you apart, Kaleon, but I'm not leaving your side."
Kaleon managed a tight, worn smile. "You never have."
He looked around the room again, sensing the undercurrent of division growing thicker. The council members were divided, yes, but there was something darker at play. It wasn't just the council's disdain for his actions—it was fear. Fear that Kaleon, against all odds, was touching something ancient, something dangerous. And not all of them would survive if he did.
The room seemed to shrink around him as Lord Darion's voice rose once more.
"You will remain within Skarnhold. You will speak to no one beyond these walls. You will obey the council's orders."
And for a long moment, it felt as though the weight of every decision he had ever made, every word that had been said in this hall, pressed down on Kaleon's shoulders. He could feel the weight of his father's eyes, like two burning coals.
His words, when they came, were soft but laced with a resolve he had not known he possessed. "As you command, Lord Father."
Darion gestures sharply for the hall to clear.
Kaleon expects to be dismissed along with the others, but instead Darion speaks again—softer this time:
"Stay."
Theo hesitates at the doorway, glancing back at Kaleon.
"I'll be waiting," he mouths silently, before slipping away into the hall beyond.
Kaleon remains, standing alone beneath the shadow of the dragon mural.
Darion descends the dais, his boots striking the stone with the slow, measured tread of a man walking toward an unpleasant memory.
"Come," he says.
Without another word, Kaleon follows his father into the bowels of Skarnhold—toward a place he has never been permitted to tread.
The corridors beneath Skarnhold were older than memory.
Kaleon felt the weight of that age with each step he took. The stone walls, weathered and worn, seemed to breathe in the silence, whispering secrets of a time long forgotten. They bore no banners, no carvings—only the raw bones of the mountain itself.
He could almost hear the pulse of the earth beneath the ancient stones, the beating heart of Skarnhold, a fortress born of fire and blood.
The torches lining the way burned low and guttering, casting more darkness than light. The flame flickered weakly, as if hesitant to light the path ahead. It was an ominous sight—reminding him of the shadows that seemed to follow his every step within the walls of Skarnhold, shadows of his father's expectations, the whispers of the councilmen, and the doubts that lingered in his own heart.
He followed half a step behind Lord Darion, feeling the distance between them widen with each passing moment. Despite the proximity, the space between them felt infinite, stretching farther than the walls of this ancient keep. The silence between them was a thing alive, breathing in the narrow halls. It was the silence of a father who had never spoken kindly, and a son who had never been enough.
Kaleon could feel his father's presence ahead of him, heavy, suffocating, like the weight of the world pressing down upon him. He did not need to see Lord Darion's face to know that the man was unreadable as ever—stone cold, as he had always been. There was no warmth in him, no understanding, only the sharp edge of command.
The air grew warmer with every turn they made, the heat thickening as they descended deeper into the heart of the mountain. It was as if the very stone around them held the fire of Skarn's bloodline, pulsing with a heat that threatened to suffocate. Kaleon felt it in his chest—the tightening of his breath, the growing discomfort. But he said nothing. He never said anything.
At last, they came to a pair of blackened iron doors.
Kaleon had passed these doors countless times, but they always seemed to hold a certain dread, a heavy finality in their ancient frame. Each door bore the sigil of House Skarn: a dragon wreathed in fire, wings stretched wide. The very image of their lineage—of their curse.
Lord Darion reached out, his hand brushing the cold iron.
For a moment, nothing happened. The door didn't budge.
Then, with a groan that seemed to shake the very mountain beneath them, the doors slowly swung inward on ancient gears, revealing what lay beyond.
Beyond lay a vast chamber.
The Chamber of the Flameheart.
The very name sent a shiver through Kaleon. The chamber was a place of legend, a place where Skarn's bloodline had been forged in fire, a place where the past and future collided in the flickering glow of an unearthly flame.
The ceiling arched high above, lost in smoke and shadow. The walls were carved with scenes of a time long past: dragons soaring over burning fields, armored lords holding torches aloft, great battles won and lost. And at the heart of it all, upon a dais of black stone, a brazier burned with a flame that was not wholly natural.
The flame shimmered in hues of red, gold, and deep, searing blue—colors that shifted as if alive, twisting and turning in impossible ways. No wood fed it. No oil sustained it. The flame was older than any living soul within Skarnhold.
Kaleon felt the heat kiss his skin even from yards away, and it struck him like a physical blow, the intensity almost suffocating. His body tensed, as if the flame called to him, beckoning him to understand its truth.
His father, ever calm, stepped forward. The fire reflected in his cold eyes, casting long, harsh shadows on his face. "This fire," Lord Darion said quietly, almost reverently, "was gifted to our bloodline by the first of the Skyborn. Vaelkar the Flameborn knelt here, where you stand now. And the great wyrm, Myrrax of the Endless Wing, breathed upon this stone. A pact was forged—in blood, in fire, in loyalty."
Kaleon took a slow, deliberate step toward the brazier, his eyes fixed on the dancing flame.
His heart thudded in his chest, and he swallowed hard, but the words came despite the tightness in his throat.
"And you would have me forget what I saw?" he asked, the words barely above a whisper, though they carried the weight of his defiance. "Forget the visions, the call?"
Darion turned slowly to face him, the fire's reflection dancing in his hard eyes. "I would have you remember this," he said, gesturing to the brazier. "This is what endures. Not dreams. Not prophecy."
Kaleon's fists clenched at his sides. "But you still don't understand, Father," he muttered, just loud enough for himself to hear. "It wasn't a dream... I saw something, someone. I felt the fire... I felt the truth of it."
Darion's gaze hardened, if that were possible, and for a brief moment, Kaleon thought he might strike him. But the moment passed, and the Lord of Skarnhold's expression remained cold and implacable. "You would listen to shadows? To whispers?"
Kaleon's voice lowered, barely more than a growl. "I have listened to nothing but your voice, Father. And look where it has gotten us."
The words hung in the air, sharp and bitter, like poisoned blades.
Darion, seemingly unperturbed, turned his back to the brazier and began to walk toward the far side of the room. Kaleon followed slowly, his thoughts racing.
What did he expect from me? Kaleon thought bitterly. To be nothing but his soldier? To live only for his damned legacy?
He could feel the familiar sting of resentment, the way it crawled under his skin, making his blood burn with frustration.
He watched as his father's broad shoulders hunched slightly, though not from the weight of age. It was the weight of experience, of responsibility, of a thousand battles fought, and a thousand lost.
What will it take for him to see me? Kaleon thought. To truly see me, and not just the shadow of what he wanted me to be?
Darion's voice broke through his thoughts, cold as the stone beneath their feet. "I, too, once believed," he said, his voice lower now, almost hoarse. "When I was your age, I dreamed of destiny. Of omens, of crowns borne by ash and shadow."
Kaleon stiffened, his gaze narrowing as he studied his father's back. "What happened?" he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice.
Darion's jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. "During the War of the Blighted Throne, your grandfather—Vaeron Skarn—believed he was chosen by prophecy. He trusted visions more than steel. He raised banners when he should have fortified walls. He followed whispers when he should have silenced them."
A long pause filled the chamber, heavy with the weight of those lost years. Darion's words lingered, echoing off the stone walls.
"We lost half our blood that decade. Brothers, sisters, sons." Darion's gaze pinned Kaleon where he stood. "And for what? For a crown of cinders that never came."
Kaleon's breath caught in his chest. He could feel the sting of the words deep within his heart. His grandfather—a man who had once been a towering figure of strength, now reduced to a cautionary tale of failure.
The fire crackled behind them, its warmth wrapping around them like a living thing.
"Our line," Darion continued, "has always been closest to the flame. It burns bright… but bright things are fragile. A single gust—and all that remains is ash."
Kaleon stepped closer to the brazier, feeling its heat wrap around him like a second skin.
He stared into the shifting colors of the flame, his thoughts swirling with questions and doubts.
"And if the flame calls again?" he asked quietly. His voice was barely above a whisper, as though the fire might answer him. "If it was not madness, but warning?"
Darion's mouth tightened into a hard line, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, avoiding Kaleon's questioning stare. "Then it will consume you. As it nearly consumed me."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was thick, like the air before a storm. Kaleon could feel his father's gaze burning into the back of his head, and the weight of the words his father had spoken hung in the air like a curse.
Finally, Darion turned away, his cloak sweeping the stone floor. "You will remain within the inner keep," he said, his tone cold, final. "You will answer to the council when summoned. And you will speak nothing of what you saw."
Kaleon's thoughts raced, but he said nothing. He just stared into the brazier, his eyes locked on the twisting flame, feeling the heat rise in his chest.
I will not be silenced, he thought. I will not be a pawn in his game.
And as the fire flickered, Kaleon thought he saw something—something more than just flame. A figure, a face, a woman's face, her eyes burning with an intensity that matched the fire itself. Her mouth moved in a silent cry, but the words were lost in the roar of the flames.
He blinked—and it was gone.
Darion was already walking away.
"Come," the Lord of Skarnhold said without looking back. "There is more yet to be decided."
Kaleon stood still for a moment longer, his fists clenched at his sides. His gaze never left the brazier, even as the door creaked shut behind him. He could still feel the fire's presence, like a calling, a warning. And despite everything his father had said, Kaleon knew this—he could not, would not, ignore it.
The walk back to the upper halls was steeped in silence. The only sound was the distant roar of Skarnhold's heart—the molten rivers deep beneath the mountain that fed its forges, its lifeblood. The stone beneath his feet felt colder, as if the very halls had been altered by the weight of the conversation that had just unfolded.
Kaleon followed Lord Darion, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. His thoughts were a storm, violent and dark, swirling in his chest as if a tide threatened to drown him from within. The pressure in his ribs grew with every step, as if the walls of Skarnhold itself were pressing in on him. The shadows of the corridors stretched long, making the distance between them seem endless.