A few moments later, Asher boarded the estate ship, his bright golden eyes settling on Josef, who stood tall beside his daughter, the sea wind tousling his weathered brown hair.
“My Lord,” Josef said, bowing low with a hand across his chest.
“Hmm,” Asher murmured, his gaze sweeping across the deck with a quiet, measured smile. “How many civilians do you carry aboard?”
“Over a thousand men, my lord. Most with wives and children.”
Asher turned to face the endless sprawl of sea, the horizon a silver blur where water kissed sky. “Then hear this,” he said, his voice steady like a calm tide before a storm. “I hereby bestow upon you the title of Baron. You shall be Baron Josef of the Sea Tribes, first of your name. Your duty shall be to seek out islands—uncharted, untouched—places we shall make our own.”
Before the words had even fully left Asher’s lips, Josef fell to his knees, the weight of the moment anchoring him. “It’s an honour I shall not repay with evil, my lord!”
Asher cast him a sidelong glance, one brow raised, his tone lighter. “There’s no need for theatrics. You may not have performed any famed deed, but I have eyes for talent—and yours shines bright. You won’t be like other lords. Your fief will move with you.”
Josef nodded, humbled yet driven. A flicker of something deeper glinted in his eyes—ambition, perhaps, now tempered by duty.
“Work closely with the lord of the city ship,” Asher continued. “He’ll supply you with men, and you’ll lead them to new shores. Scout the waves, claim land, and plant our banners where none yet fly.”
“I shall do as you command,” Josef vowed, his voice like a stone striking still water—firm and certain.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted the naval troops approaching in rowboats. They wore hardened leather armour reinforced with iron rivets, helms pulled low over sea-slick hair. It was the sort of gear meant to be worn wet—light enough to swim in, yet sturdy enough to turn aside a blade.
Not the best force—not yet. But Asher would make do. The foundation was laid.
Once the Mortal Scroll was prepared, and a Soldier Stele carved its sacred power, these men would rise beyond themselves. Their strength would swell to match their will.
But until then… raw grit would have to carry them forward.
____
Later, Asher returned to Nineveh, the heart of his rising dominion—its towers dark against the sun, its streets echoing with the sound of steel and shouts. From the arched window of his study, he gazed down upon the training grounds.
There, the Emberframed raged.
Their stomps cracked the hardened soil. Their weapons clashed like thunderclouds colliding. Their voices—roars, bellows, war-cries—ripped through the air, primal and untamed.
The mere presence of them made the temperature rise. The heat distorted the air like desert mirages. They were bigger now. Stronger. Sharper in every sense.
They had been reborn.
And Asher—who had stood beside them, fought beside them, eaten from the same pot—remained unchanged.
Hadn’t he?
He looked down at his hands—steady, slightly pale-skinned, unburnt, unscarred. Power thrummed quietly beneath his skin, like a dragon asleep.
Was he already beyond them? Or had something passed him by?
His golden eyes narrowed, catching his own reflection in the glass—calm, unreadable, but not without questions.
Perhaps the King’s body was already the pinnacle—a vessel too refined to be reshaped by the Emberframe.
Or perhaps… the best hid inside of him, like a flower yet to bloom.
Knock! Knock!
Two crisp raps echoed through the chamber, sharp enough to slice through thought. Whoever stood beyond the door didn’t knock a third time, but the interruption had already shattered Asher’s train of thought like glass.
He exhaled, slow and resigned, turning his head over his shoulder. From the corner of his golden left eye, he fixed a quiet gaze on the wooden frame.
“You may enter.”
The brass knob turned with a deliberate twist, and the door creaked open. A tall figure stepped into view—a white-haired man, bearded with dignified fullness, his posture upright and practiced. He wore a silk tunic of deep indigo, lined with golden threading. The kind of clothing tailored for stewards of kings, not mere men.
A single golden monocle hung over his right eye—an elegant touch Asher had never trusted. Not in function, anyway. But the Mortal Scroll had gifted it to Kelvin upon his ascension, and the man wore it like it meant something. So Asher let it be.
“My Lord,” Kelvin intoned, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor as he entered. “I come bearing news. I am unsure whether it will please or trouble you.”
Asher arched a brow. “Is it about my dominion?”
“It is not.”
At that, Asher’s shoulders loosened, the tension in his jaw easing. But Kelvin’s expression remained carved from granite.
“It’s grave, My Lord,” Kelvin continued. “King Reuel of Intis is to wed Lady Sylvia—Princess of the Empire—in three days’ time. Invitations have already reached Lord Nubis, Lord Wyvern, and numerous other highlords from neighboring empires. But our house—and those of our closest allies—have been deliberately excluded.”
Asher’s golden eyes narrowed. “You expected them to invite us? Attending such a farce would be like presenting my head on a silver platter.”
Kelvin didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. “It’s not the lack of invitation that concerns me, my lord—it’s the alliance being forged beneath the guise of celebration. Prince Aaron Nethaneel and King Reuel are moving as one. If their courtship turns to pact, they could fracture the northern alliance… or bring it to its knees entirely.”
Asher’s gaze drifted past him, toward the Emberframed sparring in the training yard.
“Not with our reformed army,” he said, voice like quiet thunder. “Each warrior will be clad in dwarven-forged armour, tempered by flame and pressure. We are not the same force we once were, Kelvin. We are more.”
Kelvin frowned. “Perhaps. But outside our walls, numbers still rule the field. These lords could summon mercenary legions, field wyverns by the dozen. Intis holds the strongest air force in this fractured empire.”
A long silence followed. The torches crackled against the stone walls. Then Asher spoke, voice deep and certain.
“We’ve been preparing for this very moment,” he said. “Galvia breathes death in Nightfire and Silvermoon. The Prince isn’t marrying off his sister for her sake—its just his first step in his ambition to rebuild the empire. The world is changing. A new era dawns, Kelvin. And if we do not fight for a place in it, we will find ourselves kneeling in chains.”
_____
Elsewhere, in the streets of Nineveh…
The day was cloaked in fog and ash. A man in a gray hood strode through the market district, head bowed, steps silent. He slipped into an alleyway between two brick-walled bakeries and stopped.
Slowly, he pulled down his hood, revealing a square-jawed face with no trace of joy or pity. Eyes like flint scanned the wall ahead.
There, scrawled in charcoal across the stone, was a name.
Mary Ashbourne.
He chuckled. A low, cold sound.
“So you’re the target.”
With one last look at the name, he turned and walked off, vanishing into the crowd.