The rebirth of the Ashlands was no longer rumor.

Where once black glass plains stretched in lifeless expanse, now green furrows broke through the soot.

Wheat rose where nothing had grown for centuries.

Rivers, once poisoned by volcanic runoff, ran clear.

Cities that had been little more than half-buried ruins now rang with hammer and bell.

Foundries smoked day and night, shaping the bones of a new industry.

And all of it under Dawnhaven's banner.

It was impossible to ignore.

So they came.

The human houses, proud, fractious, each ruling their own petty domain, sent their envoys across the marches to Dawnhaven.

Caravans crawled through the gates.

Silk-draped litters, wagons armored in silvered steel, horses bred for war.

They came with crests on their cloaks and their voices dripping honey, yet every step they took into the reborn Ashlands tasted of ash in their mouths.

For here was proof that Ferrondel had done what none of them had dared attempt.

At the head of the council chamber, Caedrion sat.

Not draped in regalia, nor crowned.

His cloak was plain, his fingers still faintly blackened with soot from the forge.

But the hall bent around him nonetheless, as though the walls themselves leaned forward to listen.

Baelius stood at his right, silent as an anvil, soot still clinging to his apron.

Aelindria occupied the dais beside him, her swelling belly wrapped in silk, eyes sharp as ever.

Behind them, captains of Dawnhaven's armies waited like coiled springs, their armor humming faintly with the new-forged batteries set into their breastplates.

The envoys entered one by one.

Lord Verrick of House Caltrisse first, his beard streaked with gold thread, his voice oily with charm.

Then Lady Merath of House Serevant, thin as a blade, her eyes always searching for a weakness.

Finally, a representative of House Marvik, the youngest scion sent forward with shaking hands clutching his signet, for his elders had feared to come themselves.

"Lord Caedrion of House Ferrondel," Verrick began, bowing with a flourish that made his chain of office jangle like coins.

"What marvels you've wrought. To breathe life into the Ashlands… truly, the Eidolons themselves must favor you. For how else can you undo the Crucible's wrath as a mortal man?"

Caedrion's expression did not change.

He tapped his fingers once against the arm of his chair.

The chamber was silent enough that even the whisper of callus on wood sounded like thunder.

"The Eidolons had nothing to do with it, save for the blood they left in my veins…." he said at last.

His eyes, pale and steady, cut to Verrick like a knife. "This was no miracle. It was work."

A ripple passed through the envoys, unease barely concealed beneath courtly masks.

Lady Merath recovered first, her lips curving.

"Work we admire. Work we might… support. Dawnhaven has risen high, but a single city cannot stand against the tides alone. Imagine what could be accomplished if you and the houses of men stood together."

"Together?" Baelius muttered under his breath, too low for most to hear.

His tone made the word sound like filth.

Caedrion's gaze remained steady.

"And what would this 'together' mean, Lady Merath? That I bend my knee to the same councils that House Ignarion once constrained itself with? That Dawnhaven halts its forges so your houses might sleep easier in their crumbling halls?"

Merath's smile tightened. "It means stability. Trade. Peace."

It meant control, though none of them dared say it aloud.

The young envoy of House Marvik found his voice then, trembling but clear.

"My lords, my lady, Caedrion, we came because the world is changing. Rumors spread like wildfire. That you command armies none can match. That your smiths craft wonders that drink light itself. That even… even the monsters beneath the Shivering Sea favor you."

The name dropped like a stone in a pond.

Naga once believed to be mere superstition were proven to be a very real, and silent threat that had lurking beneath the surface for who knows how long.

The idea that they finally revealed themselves for the sake of an upstart, was truly terrifying to these lords.

Perhaps moreso than the armies he built from scratch which brought House Ignarion to its knees.

Whispers rustled at the back of the chamber. Even the captains shifted uneasily.

Caedrion did not flinch.

He only leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Rumors are useful things. They reveal more of those who spread them than of those they name. Tell me, envoy… does House Marvik tremble at shadows? Or do they tremble because they know the shadows are real?"

The boy flushed, stammering. "We… we only wish to know your intentions, lord. If Dawnhaven rises, do you mean to break us? Or will you leave the balance of the houses as it is?"

Balance.

Caedrion almost laughed at the word.

Balance was the excuse of the weak.

Balance was the lie the houses had told themselves for centuries while the world stagnated.

He rose instead.

"No," he said simply. "I do not intend to break you." Relief flickered across more than one face, only to wither at his next words.

"But neither will I bow to you. Dawnhaven will rise, with or without your blessing. You may walk beside us, or be trampled underfoot. The choice is yours."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Aelindria squeezed his arm subtly from her chair, her expression unreadable.

Baelius allowed himself the faintest curl of a smile.

At last, Verrick forced a chuckle, though his hand twitched at his beard.

"Strong words, lord. Dangerous ones. But perhaps wisdom lies in strength. We will… convey your stance to our houses."

They bowed again, thinner this time, and withdrew.

When the chamber was finally empty, Caedrion let out a breath he had been holding since the moment Verrick spoke.

He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the faint thrum of the artifact there.

Six months. Less now. The leash would tighten soon.

And he was not ready.

The forge-wings of Dawnhaven were already blazing when he returned to them.

Apprentices scrambled at his approach, their soot-smeared faces lighting with reverence.

Baelius fell in step beside him, holding the latest schematics.

"The lattice stabilizers work," Baelius reported. "We tested them on the cannon frames. They held."

Caedrion nodded absently, his eyes already on the far table where the half-finished sigil lay.

A lattice more complex than anything he had attempted before, a shape that made his head throb when he stared too long.

The key.

The tool that might unlock the abyssal ruins Thalassaria craved.

His hands itched to complete it, but the Architect princess's voice still echoed in his skull.

Not enough. Your little batteries will never open the true gates.

She had not been mocking. She had been… almost pitying.

He swallowed hard and set to work.

For hours he labored, weaving strands of energy the way she had shown him, layering sigils upon sigils, each powered by the perfected batteries now stacked like jewels on the benches.

His hands shook, not from exhaustion but from the weight of what he was making.

Because he knew: once it was done, there would be no turning back.

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