The first bell of Pyrelorne rang before dawn.
Aren Pyranthir had been awake long before it sounded.
He stood on the eastern balcony of the Grand Flamehold, bare feet against obsidian stone, watching the estate-city settle into motion. Below him, courtyards filled with disciplined silence—soldiers changing shifts with practiced precision, officers exchanging clipped instructions, servants moving along fixed paths without ever breaking formation.
No one hurried.
Haste was a sign of disorder.
Disorder was weakness.
House Pyranthir tolerated neither.
The air carried a low, constant warmth. Not flame—never open flame—but something deeper. As if the land itself remembered burning and refused to cool completely.
Behind him, the doors opened.
"Up already?"
Aren turned.
Kaedros Pyranthir stood framed by the chamber's shadow, fully dressed in formal black and crimson. He did not need armor to project weight. His presence pressed outward, subtle and inescapable, like heat through stone.
"I slept enough," Aren replied.
Kaedros joined him at the balcony. His gaze swept the estate with the ease of long ownership. "The Third Battalion returns today. Early."
"They weren't meant to be tested that long," Aren said.
Kaedros glanced at him.
"And yet," the patriarch said calmly, "you expected them to hold."
"They had the foundation," Aren answered. "The rest is endurance."
Silence followed—not disapproval, not approval. Evaluation.
Kaedros's lips curved faintly. "You speak as if you issued the orders."
Aren did not respond.
Below them, a group of knights crossed the inner courtyard. The air seemed to tighten around them, presence alone bending posture and attention. Soldiers straightened without command. Conversations cut off mid-breath.
Aren watched closely.
Not with admiration.
With analysis.
Knights were powerful. Everyone knew that. They were weapons shaped to perfection. But they were also… complete. Finished.
Aren's gaze drifted past them, toward the sealed inner bastion rising at Pyrelorne's core.
Elite knights did not walk openly.
They remained where they were needed most.
Guarding what could not be replaced.
"Today," Kaedros said, "you'll attend the council."
Aren's attention sharpened. "I thought—"
"You're ten," Kaedros interrupted. "Not unaware."
That was permission.
The council chamber was carved deep into the Flamehold, its walls etched with battles rather than victories. Losses were recorded beside triumphs. House Pyranthir did not pretend otherwise.
Seven figures sat around the stone table when Aren entered. They fell silent.
Not because of respect.
Because he did not fit.
Aren took his seat without ceremony.
Reports followed. Border skirmishes. Supply routes. A monster sighting near the Gharrek Front. Numbers were stated without sentiment. Decisions were reached quickly.
Power here did not argue.
When the council dispersed, only Aren and Kaedros remained.
"There will be an evaluation tomorrow," Kaedros said. "From the Crown."
"Which one?" Aren asked.
"Prince Corven."
Aren nodded. Internal security. Knight oversight. Dominion Light.
"Not the Crown Prince," he said.
"No."
"Good."
Kaedros's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't fear the royal family."
"I don't fear what can be measured."
A longer silence this time.
"The throne tolerates confidence," Kaedros said quietly. "It does not tolerate inevitability."
Aren met his gaze. "Then it shouldn't have built an empire on strength."
Kaedros turned away.
"Go," he said. "Train."
The instructor did not soften his stance when Aren entered the inner grounds.
"You're late."
"I was summoned."
"That doesn't make you faster."
Aren stepped onto the stone circle. "Begin."
Flame ignited.
Aren moved.
No wasted steps. No excess force. His body flowed at a pace that felt unnatural for his age—not faster, but correct. On the third exchange, he deliberately mistimed his stance.
Flame grazed his shoulder.
Pain flared.
He did not flinch.
"Why?" the instructor demanded.
"To remember it," Aren said. "It was becoming distant."
The instructor stared, then laughed softly. "You're going to be dangerous."
Aren looked toward the distant spires of the Crownlands.
The throne was not waiting.
It was watching.
And for the first time that morning, Aren smiled—not at strength, but at the space still left to take.