The war had ended. And Ember fall city mourned.
The Flare estate, once vibrant with flame rhythm and ceremony lanterns, now moved like an open wound—smoke whispering through broken halls, healing chants echoing from recovery wings, and silence flaring where laughter once danced.
Jalen arrived quietly, walking across scorched stone with Sion, Delra, Tian and Kaelin. He wasn't limping, but his steps were slow—cautious. The others bore no wounds, only dust and fatigue from their escape. Rana, physically whole but heart-heavy, gripped his arm with quiet urgency.
She asked only one thing.
"I want to see my mother."
Jana lay unconscious within the estate's flame-warded chamber, qi rhythm scattered, ignition threads dimmed to survival. Her breathing was steady—but shallow. A healer sat beside her, rotating flame petals to preserve core circulation, murmuring incantations to stabilize her meridians.
Rana didn't speak as she entered. She sat down beside her mother, held her hand, and bowed her head.
She had heard everything: the death of her master Shia, the fall of Patriarch Riven, the countless wounded elders who had thrown themselves into a war they didn't choose. She allowed herself to be still.
Jalen hovered nearby, unsure how to comfort her. He didn't speak—not because he had nothing to say, but because anything he offered might feel too small. He figured his presence would be enough. So he sat, quietly guarding the chamber entrance, watching the flame petals pulse around Jana's bed like fading stars.
Outside, the compound stirred—slowly. Healers moved through halls, officials swept charred formation dust from glyph rings, and guards rebuilt wardstones shattered in the first wave of the invasion.
—
Later that day, Simon and Simar met Jalen beneath the flame tower.
Simon nodded. "You came back. I thought you'd already disappeared to another continent."
Jalen bowed low. "I apologize, Senior. I didn't mean to bring trouble, but… my appearance seems to have caused far more damage than I imagined."
Simon's expression didn't waver, but his voice softened.
"The damage wasn't your doing. Greed is what caused this. The Royal Family, the Three Great Clans—they saw power and tried to steal it. You didn't ask for this. You only existed. And that was enough to terrify them."
Jalen's gaze dropped slightly. "I still feel responsible."
Simon stepped closer. His voice lowered—not sharp, but firm.
"Do you want me to regret the boy who saved my daughter? The one who helped her grow stronger? The one who repaired our family's flame technique—a technique stalled for many generations?"
He gestured toward the rising vault flame behind them, where new glyphs pulsed in layered cadence—refinements only possible after Jalen's insight.
"I know it looks like we lost something, Jalen. But going forward—my family will never be what it was. It will be more. We will rise from these ashes. And we won't forget how."
Jalen nodded, humbled. "Thank you, Senior."
Simar stepped forward then, his halberd resting lightly across his back. His voice carried the kind of authority born of decades of quiet leadership.
"It's good to finally meet you, Jalen Hewitt. And on behalf of our family, you have our thanks."
"Junior doesn't deserve such praise…"
"Oh, don't be so modest," Simar replied, smiling faintly. "Some men carve paths with war. You did it with wisdom."
Jalen bowed again. "If the two seniors will excuse me—I'll take my leave."
As he walked away toward the recovery halls, Simar turned to Simon.
"Nephew… what now?"
Simon stared at the horizon, where the volcanic basin stretched out into the Emberfall skyline—its edges still bruised from battle.
"We get things in order… before we make our move."
—
Three days later
Order had become flame.
Simon and Simar ascended through Emberfall City—not in ceremony, not with armies, but with pressure. The kind that bends reality and redraws alliances.
They struck first toward the remnants of the Shadow Sect and Erupt Family, only to find both had already migrated to the Ember Pearl state apital, dragging their mid-tier vassals with them. A coordinated retreat. Cowardly—but calculated.
Simon didn't pursue.
"Let them run," he said, voice cold. "Someday—they'll pay properly."
Instead, he and Simar focused their fire on Emberfall City's heart.
They summoned the ten ruling families, along with the two remaining top clans from the previous five. Representatives arrived warily—some cloaked in dignity, others blank-faced with fear. They gathered in the Flame Tribunal, a chamber once used for policy and pilgrimage.
This time, it was for submission.
Months of pressure. Months of bleeding and endurance. Now, flame became law.
Simon didn't raise his voice.
He didn't threaten.
He simply stood—peak Imperial pressure curling around him like living fire, echoing through the vault-stone and legacy rings carved into the marble.
"This city was vulnerable when we were attacked. That ends today. Those who serve with loyalty will flourish under the Flare. Those who do not—will wither."
Simar didn't speak. He didn't need to. Every elder in the chamber had heard what he did three days ago—how his halberd split through formations like parchment.
The first elder bowed. Then another. Within minutes, all ten top families of Ember Fall had sworn allegiance.
Oaths sealed. Formations fused. The Flare insignia branded into each flame sigil bound to the city's vault network.
Even those who hated the new order bent the knee. Because unless they hated living, there was no other choice.
Within one day, Emberfall City was no longer a collection of factions. It became a united force. A flame-linked empire that would one day expanded into a great empire.
___
From above the high ridge, Jalen watched as the sun descended behind the towers.
He didn't smile. He didn't claim credit.
He simply breathed.
He didn't want a throne. But he had made one possible.
And soon… the world would begin to notice.