The Golden Halls of Solara were not built; they were coaxed into being.

Legends told that when the first Phoenix descended from the heavens, it scorched the mountains until stone bled molten gold. From that fire the early kings drew their palace — a fortress of sunfire marble and veins of crystal, glowing eternally as if it were the very heart of the day made stone.

The great hall of judgment stretched the length of a battlefield. Sunlight poured through glass panels laced with rune-script, painting the floors in shifting mosaics of flame. The walls hummed faintly, each slab of crystal attuned to the ley-lines that ran beneath the city. When court convened, the air itself thrummed, as though Ayara listened.

On the high dais sat King Aranthor of Solara, Rael’s father. His beard was streaked with white, but his shoulders bore the weight of the Ember Throne like a warrior bears armor. The throne itself was no simple chair — it was a living flame, bound in crystal, its shape shifting subtly as if breathing. To sit upon it was to wrestle the Phoenix’s fire. Few could endure it long.

Rael stood at his father’s right hand. The place of honor. The place of expectation.

The courtiers had gathered in their dozens: nobles in gold-threaded robes, merchants with gem-studded collars, generals clad in rune-etched steel. The air smelled faintly of heated crystal, sharp and metallic, as though the walls themselves judged every word.

And gliding among them like a serpent of starlight was Calithra.

Her robes shimmered as though woven from night itself. Silver bangles chimed at her wrists. Her hair fell dark and straight to her waist, framing a face that seemed carved to inspire trust. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost soothing — yet each word slid neatly into the cracks of men’s doubts.

“The omens are plain,” she was saying now, her gaze sweeping the chamber. “The twin eclipses are no blessing. They are a warning. We must heed what the Phoenix reveals: that fire uncontrolled becomes ruin.”

Murmurs rippled. A lord of the eastern forges nodded gravely. A priest touched his prayer-beads.

Rael’s jaw tightened.

Lakvenor, standing just behind him, muttered, “By the storms, she’s good. If lying were an art form, she’d have a gallery.”

Rael shot him a look, but Lakvenor only smirked.

King Aranthor lifted his hand. The hall stilled. His voice was deep, measured, carrying the resonance of command.

“The Phoenix’s fire is no curse,” he said. “It is the heart of Solara. It is life to our forges, light to our people. Shall we now call our blessing a blight?”

Calithra inclined her head, graceful as a dancer. “My king, none doubt the Phoenix’s gift. But prophecy is not always kindness. Fire tests. It consumes. And your son…”

Her eyes flickered toward Rael. For an instant, they gleamed with something sharper than concern.

“…your son bears the omen of both salvation and destruction. The Ember Throne may rise with him — or fall to ash.”

The hall buzzed with whispers. Doubt took root.

Rael felt their eyes upon him: measuring, weighing. To some he was heir, rightful and divine-touched. To others, he was a fire waiting to escape its hearth.

Sira stepped forward from the gathered attendants. Her voice, calm and clear, cut through the noise like water across stone.

“Prophecies are not verdicts,” she said. “They are possibilities. The Phoenix chose Rael’s line to guard the balance of Ayara. Would we now mistrust the will of flame itself?”

A few heads nodded. Others remained uneasy. Calithra’s smile never wavered.

After the court dissolved, Rael walked the colonnades with Lakvenor and Sira at his side. The halls opened to wide terraces overlooking the city — streets lit by floating orbs of crystal, smithies roaring with molten rivers, children chasing sparks through the markets. Solara lived, breathed, thrived.

And yet Rael felt the weight of Calithra’s words like ash in his chest.

“They are beginning to doubt me,” he said quietly.

“They are fools,” Lakvenor answered at once. “Or cowards. Or both. You stood in battle against the Ashborn raiders when half those nobles couldn’t lift a blade. They should be kissing your boots, not whispering about omens.”

Sira touched the carved railing, her gaze thoughtful. “Doubt spreads quickly in halls of power. Calithra knows this. She does not need to be right — only convincing.”

Rael looked out over the city, the molten rivers gleaming like veins of light. “Then I must be more convincing still.”

Sira’s hand brushed his. Just a whisper of touch, grounding him again. “Not by speaking louder,” she said softly. “By being who you are. Let them see not prophecy, but Rael.”

Unseen in the shadows of the colonnade, Calithra watched them depart. Her eyes gleamed like stars on black water.

She whispered to herself, unheard:

“Every flame leaves cinders. And every throne leaves ashes.”