The cobblestones of the lower district did not simply warm beneath Soren's boots; they bled thin, dark streams of liquid fire that hummed with an ancient hatred.
With every step the young Emperor took through the narrow avenues of the capital, the creeping tide of liquid fire pulled back.
It retreated in a wide arc, coiling upon itself like a living thing wary of an intruder.
The sudden clearance of space was not a victory born of his own strength, nor was it a triumph of his command over the elements.
The ice that coursed through Soren's veins, cold enough to turn human breath into fine mist, carried a memory older than the city walls.
What dwelt inside his frost shared an origin with the dark flame flowing from the sky, and ancient powers, born from the same primeval force, always recognize their kin.
Farther along the street, mages worked in ragged clusters, their robes stained with soot and their faces lined with sheer exhaustion.
