—CLANG—
The train slid into Trier's Grand Central Station at dusk.
Gas lamps flared to life one by one, their pale flames blooming like artificial stars along the platforms. From between iron pillars and drifting steam, Elaric caught his first true glimpse of the City of Light.
Wide boulevards stretched outward like veins of marble. Plane trees lined the streets in orderly ranks. White-stone facades caught the dying sun and reflected it back in shades of rose and gold. Fountains murmured in distant plazas, their waters catching firelight and twilight alike.
Revolution had scarred Trier—crowns broken, emperors dethroned—but the city still wore elegance like a tailored coat, concealing the fractures beneath silk and stone.
Audrey Hall guided Elaric through the crowd with effortless grace, a gloved hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
No one spared them a second glance.
To the world, they were merely another noblewoman and her nephew returning home.
A closed carriage waited beyond the station colonnade—black lacquered wood, curtains drawn tight, its coachman seated straight-backed in republican livery. The door shut behind them with a muted —THUD—, sealing out the noise of the station.
"From here," Audrey said softly, "we go below."
The carriage rolled through narrowing streets, descending from the polished heights of Trier into districts older than the republic itself. Buildings leaned closer together. Gas lamps grew sparse. Shadows thickened.
At last, they stopped in a narrow alley behind a decaying structure.
Théâtre de l'Illusion Perdue.
Faded posters clung stubbornly to the walls—performances canceled long ago, faces smiling at futures that never came.
A side door creaked open.
"Well, well," a bright voice said. "About time, Justice. I was beginning to wonder if the kid set the train on fire."
A woman with short crimson hair and an irreverent grin leaned against the doorframe, lantern swinging lazily in one hand.
Fors Wall.
The Magician.
She looked exactly as Elaric remembered—sharp-eyed, casually dressed, every pocket hinting at hidden tools and deeper danger.
Audrey sighed. "Fors."
"What?" Fors shrugged. "Too early for ember jokes?" She ruffled Elaric's hair as she passed him. "Relax, kid. If we wanted you dead, we'd have let the cultists handle it."
The door shut behind them.
—CLICK—
Darkness swallowed them whole.
Fors raised the lantern. Its flame hissed softly, casting amber light across a spiral staircase hidden beneath the stage. Iron steps rang faintly underfoot as they descended, the air growing cooler, damper—thick with old stone and incense burned long ago.
At the bottom lay a familiar hall.
The bronze table still stretched across the chamber, scarred by age and repaired countless times. Twenty-two high-backed chairs formed a ritual arc—but only nine were occupied.
Tarot cards lay face-up before each seat.
Audrey guided Elaric forward.
Conversation died instantly.
Elaric felt the pressure of their gazes like physical weight. Ember Sense flared—WHOOM—revealing flames of every hue and strength. Some burned bright and steady. Others flickered dangerously low.
Audrey's voice cut through the silence.
"Members of the Gathering," she said formally, "this is Elaric Voss. The vessel of the dying ember."
A man rose at the far end of the table.
Tall. Dark-skinned. Hair cropped close. Robed in simple white—the mark of the City of Silver remnant.
Elder Hawick.
The Sun.
His presence burned in Elaric's perception like a desert noon—fierce, unyielding… yet not cruel.
"Child," Hawick said, voice deep as distant thunder, "you carry a burden heavier than your years."
Another figure leaned forward—a pale young man with wine-red eyes and aristocratic features.
A Sanguine count.
The Moon's proxy.
"Indeed," he murmured, lips curling. "And burdens shared are burdens halved… or multiplied."
A ripple of restrained laughter passed around the table.
Fors dropped into her seat at the Magician card and kicked her boots onto the table. "Let's skip the mysticism. We all know why we're here."
"Not all of us," came a cold voice.
A woman stood near the edge of the light, arms crossed. She wore the black-and-white habit of the Evernight Church—unmarked, unofficial. Dark spectacles hid her eyes, but death clung to her like frost.
"Some fires," she said evenly, "should be allowed to go out."
Audrey's hand tightened subtly on Elaric's shoulder.
"Temperance," Audrey warned. "We hear the boy first."
Temperance inclined her head—but remained standing.
An empty chair marked The Hanged Man waited.
Leonard had not arrived.
At last, a quiet voice spoke.
"The prophecies conflict."
A middle-aged man with ink-stained fingers and distant eyes—the Hermit.
"Renewal," he continued. "Catastrophe. Both appear. We must proceed with caution."
Elaric stepped forward.
"I'm not a prophecy," he said.
The tremor in his knees did not reach his voice.
"I didn't ask for this. But it's mine. And if you want to take it from me—" his gaze hardened, "—you'll have to kill me."
Silence.
Then—
"Well said," Hawick rumbled, smiling.
"Spine," Fors grinned.
"Refreshing," the Sanguine murmured.
Temperance did not react.
Audrey guided Elaric to a small chair at the table's edge—close enough to be heard, but not claimed.
"Tell us," she said gently. "Everything."
So he did.
Emberfall.
The lantern.
The cost of preserving dying things.
Backlund.
The bridge.
The choice to come here.
When he finished, the hall was silent.
The Hermit slid a yellowed page forward.
Ancient ink. Fourth Epoch script.
Ember Seer
→ Spark Bearer
→ Flame Weaver
→ Ashen Herald
→ Cinder Sovereign
→ Dying Pyre
→ Eternal Ember
→ Lord of the Dying Flame
Elaric's breath caught.
Temperance spoke coldly. "An unstable pathway. We sealed greater threats for less."
"And doing nothing guarantees catastrophe," Fors shot back.
"The boy chose mercy," Hawick said. "That matters."
The debate erupted—voices rising, clashing like steel and fire.
Finally—
"Vote," Audrey said.
Hands rose.
Five.
"Extraction and containment?"
Four.
A tie.
All eyes turned to the empty chair.
—CREAK—
The iron doors groaned open.
Leonard Mitchell stepped through—coat torn, blood staining his collar, chains hanging loose from one sleeve.
"Sorry," he rasped. "Traffic."
He took his seat and raised his hand.
"Guide the boy."
Six to four.
Decision made.
Temperance stood. "The Church will be informed."
She left.
The doors slammed shut behind her.
Audrey exhaled.
Fors grinned. "Welcome to the club."
Leonard leaned forward. "Training starts tomorrow. You're not alone anymore."
Elaric looked around the table.
The ember burned steady.
Above them, Trier glittered.
Below, fate shifted.
And far beyond the veils of reality, something ancient turned its gaze toward a flame it had once lost.
The game had entered its next phase.
The dying ember had found guardians.
Whether they would save the world—or burn it—remained to be seen.