The flames crackled in the fireplace of Flynn's study, casting shadows along the curved spines of old books and the gold trim of the map-strewn desk. But the warm light did little to thaw the storm building in his chest.
Elior stood nearby, arms crossed, cloak still dusted with snow. He had returned from the council meeting with more troubling news.
"The Ember Hand may not be a scattered cult anymore," Elior said. "Someone's feeding them gold, arms, information."
Flynn's gaze flicked toward the letter spread on his desk. The sigil on the parchment was unmistakable: a noble house from Winterbell's inner circle.
He muttered, "House Aurel."
Elior's brows furrowed. "But they've been loyal for generations."
"Loyalty means little in the shadow of power," Flynn said. "And if someone within the court is aiding the Ember Hand… we may already be surrounded."
Elior moved closer, voice quieter. "Do you suspect Khalid?"
Flynn's throat tightened. "…No."
It was the first time he'd said it aloud.
Not yet trust. But not outright suspicion, either.
Elior studied him for a moment, then said carefully, "You still feel something for him."
Flynn flinched. "I don't know what I feel."
There was silence between them, heavy but not cold. Elior didn't press further.
Instead, Flynn stood and moved toward the glass window. Snow swirled outside like restless spirits.
And behind him, Seren's whisper returned soft, almost mournful.
"Caelan… the fire's returning."
Flynn closed his eyes. The voice didn't sound afraid. It sounded warning.
That night, he dreamed of the fire again.
But this time, it wasn't destruction it was a mirror.
And inside that mirror, he saw himself as Caelan… and someone else watching from the other side.
A figure with red-threaded robes and a face veiled in silver.
The voice from the dream said only one thing:
"The one who betrayed you is not who you think."