Chapter 12 — A Flame in the Marsh

The salt fire still burned.

By dawn, its light was a pale shimmer on the horizon, but in the hearts of the Ryu loyalists, it was a sun reborn.

Jin had not slept.

He stood at the cliff’s edge, boots caked in soot, staring toward the valley where the bell had tolled hours before. That sound had carried farther than any rider, louder than any decree. It was a declaration. A challenge.

A beginning.

“You look like a man waiting for war,” said Ashen Voice, stepping beside him.

“I’m waiting for a reply.”

“You’ll get it. One way or another.”

Jin nodded. “Then we move before it arrives.”

The salt marshes to the east of the tower were half-flooded from recent rains. Jin led a small group—six riders cloaked in grey, their mounts light-footed and quiet. Ashen Voice walked ahead of them on foot, her presence somehow larger than the rest of the group combined.

They weren’t headed for battle. Not yet.

They were headed for allies.

“The Marshwardens have long memories,” Jin said as they rode. “Before the High Seat stripped us of title, we shared oaths.”

“They also remember broken promises,” Ashen Voice replied.

He didn’t argue. She was right.

They reached the Marshwarden village by midday. Reed huts stood atop raised wooden stilts, and the smell of fish, smoke, and wet earth clung to everything. Children peeked from behind doorway curtains. No guards stopped them—just eyes, watching.

A man stepped out from the largest hut. Broad-shouldered, weather-creased, with a black sash across his chest—the old colors of the marsh clans.

“Jin Ryu,” the man said. “Didn’t expect to see you here again.”

“You remember me, Chief Danwol.”

“I remember a boy with fire in his eyes.”

Jin dismounted. “Then remember this—House Ryu has lit the tower.”

A quiet murmur rippled through the onlookers.

Chief Danwol’s gaze sharpened. “Lit the tower? That flame’s been dead for six winters.”

“Not anymore.”

The chief crossed his arms. “And what does the salt ghost want from us?”

“Loyalty. Shelter. Passage to the western trade paths.”

Danwol snorted. “You want our boats, our reeds, and our lives.”

“I want your faith,” Jin said, stepping closer. “Baek Hwan is moving. When he comes for me, he’ll come through the marsh. You’ll either stand with me—or die with nothing.”

Ashen Voice leaned on her blade. “And if you think he’ll spare you, think again. Baek burns the roots before he picks the fruit.”

Danwol’s eyes lingered on her. Then on the blade. Then back to Jin.

Finally, he turned to his people.

“Call the council.”

That night, around the marshfire circle, Jin stood again.

He told them of the betrayal. Of the fire. Of what he planned.

“We don’t want to rule,” he said. “We want to survive. And if we must burn for that right, then so be it. But I promise you this—when the storm comes, House Ryu will not break. We will rise.”

The old women of the council whispered. The boatbuilders nodded slowly. A young fisherwoman lifted her hand and said, “Let the fire burn.”

And that was enough.

From the highest perch of the marsh tower, the second fire was lit.

Not as bright. Not as old.

But just as fierce.

Ashen Voice watched the flame catch and said nothing. Jin stood beside her.

“One spark becomes two,” she murmured.

“And two become a blaze.”

In the cold halls of the High Seat, Baek Hwan watched from a glass window as runners brought news after news.

“Another fire,” his spymaster whispered.

Baek’s smile faded.

“Then the game begins.”