The Capital — Dominion Spire

Rising like a dagger to heaven, the Dominion Spire cast its shadow over the kingdom’s heart. Its upper levels glimmered with enchanted silver, its base wreathed in flame wards that never extinguished. From here, the Crown Assembly governed all noble bloodlines.

It was here that Thrones were judged.

And today, a disgraced house—House Varnel—was summoned to stand among giants.

[ Arrival: Outer Gates of the Silver Hall ]

A procession moved through the obsidian gates: Elysia Varnel atop a flame-crested steed, Lucien Caelum walking beside her, silent and composed.

Crowds watched. Some whispered. Others scoffed.

“That’s the girl who summoned a butler?”

“They say he bled a shardbeast with a letter opener.”

“No… they say he never lifted a blade. The beast just fell.”

Lucien paid them no mind.

But his eyes wandered upward—to the towering pillars of the Silver Hall, where ancestral flames flickered above thrones that hadn’t been touched in generations.

And seated at the highest tier—on silver-forged chairs marked by crestfire—were the High Lords of the Dominion.

[ The Council Convened ]

Lord Imperius Darvain, Chancellor of Thrones, rose from his seat. Tall, skeletal in presence, his eyes burned with judgment behind his ceremonial veil.

“Elysia Varnel,” he intoned, “you stand before the Crown Assembly under charges of disordered summoning, pact binding with an unidentified entity, and defiance of noble succession. Defend your claim.”

Elysia stepped forward, voice steady.

“I summoned through the ancient rite. The circle responded. Lucien Caelum is my bound pactservant—marked and sealed. He has defended my honor in both beast trial and noble challenge.”

“His lineage?” one noble snapped.

“Unknown.”

His class? His affinity? His flame rating?”

Lucien finally spoke.

“Unregistered. Unranked. And unaffiliated.”

Murmurs spread like fire.

Lord Darvain raised a hand.

“Then let the Flame Sigil judge him.”

A hush fell.

Even Elysia stiffened. “What?”

Darvain gestured, and the central pedestal rose. A blazing glyph hovered above it—a thronebrand forged from ancient will.

“Place your servant’s hand upon the sigil. Let his flame be measured.”

Lucien stepped forward.

Elysia touched his sleeve. “You don’t have to—”

He gently removed her hand.

“I serve your house. I obey your will. And I welcome their curiosity.”

He placed his palm on the glyph.

[ The Sigil Reacts ]

The brand hissed. Burned white.

Then—

Crack.

The pedestal split.

The glyph—shattered.

The hall fell into chaos.

Lucien stood still, unfazed, as fragments of sigil fire rained around him.

Nobles screamed. Wardens drew blades. The Chancellor stepped back.

“What… are you?”

Lucien looked up at the throne above.

“I am the memory you sealed,” he whispered.

“The throne you buried.”

From his shadow, Thorne emerged—fangs bared, body shrouded in spectral flame.

Lucien raised one hand—and the room froze.

“Enough.”

The flames dimmed.

He stepped away from the shattered sigil and bowed.

“Apologies. It appears your system is… outdated.”

[ Council’s Verdict ]

Darvain trembled. “He is… a threat.”

Another noble shouted, “He carries a suppressed throne! That’s treason!”

Lucien tilted his head. “Would it comfort you if I promised not to kill anyone without proper cause?”

Silence.

Then:

“We cannot revoke the pact,” Darvain admitted, lips curling with contempt. “The contract is sealed. But he shall not wield independent authority.”

He turned to Elysia.

“He is yours to command. Fail to control him… and your house dies with him.”

Elysia nodded.

Lucien smiled faintly.

So they think they’ve contained me.

Good. Let them sleep… while the court builds beneath their feet.

[ Epilogue: That Night ]

In the dim quarters of their guest manor, Lucien stood by the window. Rain trickled down glass. Behind him, Elysia stared at the fractured remnant of the sigil crystal—still glowing faintly in her hands.

“You shattered their truth,” she whispered.

“I only touched it.”

“They’re afraid of you.”

“As they should be. But they do not yet understand why.”

She turned to him. “What throne do you bear?”

Lucien looked up at the stars—silent, drifting.

“The one that waits beneath all others.”