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Book 1: Chapter 58: Her Name On Every Tongue
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 22:00:12 +0000 UTCChapter 58:
Her Name on Every Tongue
There was no sky. No ground. No air to breathe, nor stars to chart.
Only light. An endless, golden sphere suspended in the void — not within it, but against it, defiant. A temple made of radiance and memory, each beam woven from truths older than time. It floated like a sun that refused to set, pulsing slowly with divine rhythm.
This was no ordinary palace.
It was a sanctum of permanence, unreachable by mortals, untouchable by time. The Temple of Dawn.
Columns of pure light arched through its corridors, too bright to behold, too real to question. Every surface shimmered with symbols older than scripture. Stairs spiraled upward, but led nowhere—or everywhere. The air, if one could call it that, rang with soft hymns sung by no voice and carried by no wind.
At its outer edges stood guardians: warriors tall as towers, armored in gilded grace. Wings of light stretched behind their shoulders like banners of war and peace alike. Their halos burned like miniature suns, and their spears were not spears at all, but focused shafts of will, sharpened rays formed from celestial judgment. They stood without blinking, without breathing, eternal as the silence they upheld.
But the heart of this place was deeper still.
At its core lay a chamber vast and boundless, domed by a sky of polished gold. And in its center, perched upon a throne not carved but shaped from the first rays of creation, sat a woman.
The woman was small, almost petite and radiant.
Her skin was aglow, her very presence humming with divine authority. Long golden curls fell past her shoulders in perfect spirals, catching light and throwing it back tenfold. She lounged sideways on the throne as though it were hers by birthright—which, of course, it was. Her chin rested lightly on the back of her hand, her legs crossed, her entire posture relaxed in the way only absolute power allows.
And on her lips a smug little smile. It was not the smile of a tyrant. Nor of a saint.
It was the smile of someone who knew things. Someone who had seen everything. Someone who was waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
If one didn’t know better, one might mistake her for a sister of the Duchess Liliana of Ashford. The resemblance was uncanny—the golden hair, the sharpened eyes, the coiled intensity wrapped in elegance. Or perhaps a more unnerving thought: she could be the mother of Grace of Ashford, such was the shared curve of her smirk, the same tilt of head, that same dangerous stillness when amused.
But she was neither.
She was Iras, The Dawn Made Flesh. Goddess of Light. Mother of Radiance. The First Spark.
And she was watching.
Eyes of impossible gold stared downward, beyond the veil of her temple, through the shifting folds of time and mortal consequence.
She was looking at Nyras.
It was almost ironic; they called her beloved. The Radiant One. The Gentle Dawn. Protector of Nyras, Mother of Light.
Countless temples bore her name. Her statues adorned every city. Her priests wore white and gold and sang of mercy, of healing, of salvation.
But if someone could see her now—truly see—their knees would buckle.
Because the light… was wrong. Not warm. Not kind. Too bright. Too sharp.
A radiance that pierced instead of comforted. The kind of brilliance that flayed truth from flesh, that judged not with compassion but with clarity. It was the light that reveals what you are when all shadows are gone.
In her throne room, no sound moved. No clocks ticked. No breath stirred. There was no time here. Only now. And Iras was smiling.
The throne of gold curved around her like the inside of a flame. Its surface shimmered with moving symbols, words of power no mortal could read without their soul unraveling. And on that throne, she reclined, watching not only Nyras but specifically, a little estate in the eastern duchy of a small Kingdom. A little girl turning six. A little timeline being… tested.
Her eyes were endless, a liquid sun, burning in slow motion. And her smile, once so often depicted as gentle in tapestries and stories, now stretched just a bit too far. When her lips parted, there were too many teeth. Gleaming white and hungry.
Iras, the Dawn Incarnate, chuckled softly.
There were forces trying to meddle. Shadows moving behind curtains. Someone had touched the weave.
She knew.
But it didn’t matter.
Because there was a truth older than even the gods: There is only one timeline.
Others may reach backward. Carve branches. Whisper warnings across veils. But all things fold inward, back to the truth. To her truth. Let them play. Let them scheme. Let them try to alter the time. But there is nothing to alter when there is no time in the true line of existence.
The game had already begun. And she was so far ahead.
She had given her little Liliana a gift. The greatest gift a mortal could ever receive.
Grace.
Her eyes narrowed in delight. Oh, how beautifully the child bloomed. Wild and sharp, broken in all the right places. Not even the void could contain her for long. And still, she danced—between light and shadow, between control and madness.
Iras leaned forward on her throne, curls of sunlit gold spilling over her shoulder. Her gaze pierced across eternity, eyes locking on something no mortal would ever see.
And then—her grin widened. Her mouth opened too far. And from it came the whisper, not carried by sound but by truth, tearing through the spiritual fabric of existence like the strike of a bell that echoed in the soul.
H̵̡̯͔̬̰͓̜͒̏̍̓̊̀̈̕ͅạ̵̧̛̬͕̻̯͒̈́̀̅̃̍̋͜p̸̻̺̦̞̬͉̦͙̈̓̋̏ͅp̵̧̯̪̥̟̗̦̰̓ŷ̷̢̝͖̇̏͐ ̴̪̞̺̬͓͈͙͆̏̉̋̃B̴̥̘̲͉̳̘͈̃̑̿̿̑͛͘͜͝i̴͍͇̰̝͙̹̹͍̕ͅr̷͕̋̔̄̊͆̕͠t̸̰̹̣̫͓̍͌͊͋̄͂ẖ̸̢̝͖̯̩̜͌̅d̴̨̗̫̞͛̾̉͛́̂̐ă̵̬͖̆̀̍ÿ̴̬́̎͝ ̵̛͎̗̬̥̪̼̙̣̰̒́̈́̑̀͝m̵̦̥̙̯͚̃͐̋̋̔̄̐͆̚ÿ̶̛̪̥͈̳̪́̾̋̇̿̊̕ ̴̨̛̻͚͙̔̄͠͝l̸̲̽͊͛̑̚͠į̷͖̖͇̳̻̩̱͚̌͑̋̂͋͠͝ţ̶͉̻͇̻̙̼̃̃̒̓͋͗͛͝͝t̸̢̪̥̲͓̖̥̙̉́͠l̴͕̰͈͇̖̻̪̱̱̉̆͠e̸̯̙̲̖̺͈̻͌ ̵̗̳̻̺̹̲͖͖̀̒̎͒ͅĢ̵̛͍̝͓͈̟̅͆͌r̷͕͆̄̔a̵̧̫̖̝̟̍͜͝ç̸̩͈̒́ę̸͕̥̆̍̉̆̽
And somewhere, far below, a girl looked up in the sky, not because of the words and not because of the voice.
But because something in her blood had just smiled back.
And above all things, the Goddess moved.
Iras lifted one glowing hand. Fingers of impossible light traced the air, forming a shape beyond comprehension—neither glyph nor rune, but something older. Purer. A symbol that didn’t belong to mortals. A concept carved into the structure of fate itself.
The moment it completed, the symbol pulsed once and the golden throne room shivered.
Light bent in reverence. A gift, the goddess whispered, though no breath passed her lips.
A birthday gift, for her most beloved child. It is time, she thought, her smile sharpening like dawn breaking over blade’s edge.
Time that she truly awakens.
--::--
The road to Valewick stretched on in gray silence, broken only by the steady clop of hooves and the occasional creak of worn leather. Ronan rode at the front of the small column, flanked by two silent knights and trailed by a pair of wagons bearing his battered armor, torn banners, and the lifeless hush of disgrace.
He hadn't spoken in hours. Perhaps days. The events at the front still played behind his eyes like a fevered dream—mud, blood, the crunch of steel, the cold body of Steve on the tent floor. Dareth’s words echoed with every step of his horse.
You don’t deserve that title, but you’re going to keep it.
The slap still burned. The truth burned more.
He shifted in the saddle, the letter from Liliana folded tightly in his pocket. Summoned home. The marriage moved forward. No time to process. No chance to grieve.
Steve’s voice haunted him. Did you not know he’s the heir of Ashford—
And then the knife.
Ronan’s hands clenched around the reins. He had seen death before, but not like that. Not so pointless. Not so cleanly executed. A message, carved in flesh. A punishment that wasn't even meant for the one who died.
His stomach turned again.
He hadn’t touched food since that night. The servants offered broth. Wine. Bread. He ignored them all. Let them think it was grief. Let them think it was shame.
It was both.
And worse.
He could still feel the blood on his hands. Not metaphorically, physically. Sticky where he had tried to hold Steve together. Useless. Futile. A boy pretending to be a man, and now sentenced to a life were pretending no longer worked.
Valewick was still a few hours away.
The distant spires of the citadel rose through the morning haze, tall and cold against the pale spring sky. Ronan saw them before anyone else in his escort did, and as he did, his pace slowed. The others matched him instinctively, their horses easing from steady canter to measured trot.
He didn’t say a word.
He hadn’t realized what day it was. Not until the towers came into view. The eastern banners were out, fluttering against the wind. Not a military signal nor for mourning. It was a festive sight; the banners were for celebration. And then it hit him.
Grace’s birthday.
Of course, it was today. But he hadn’t thought about it, not once during the ride. Not while Dareth stripped him of command. Not when Steve bled out at his feet. Not while he was staring at that letter with its cold, clean calligraphy.
He should have remembered. But his mind was still too full. A battlefield of its own.
What waited for him inside those walls?
The wedding, certainly. Selira, with her unreadable poise and the too-sharp eyes of a woman who already knew more than he ever would. The court. The judging glances. The rehearsed smiles.
His stepmother.
Ronan’s hands tightened slightly around the reins.
Liliana.
He had broken camp early, left the front ahead of the other officers, carrying only Dareth’s sealed statement and a throat full of panic. Maybe she didn’t know yet. Maybe no one had told her. Maybe he had a few hours left before the blade dropped.
Or maybe she already knew. The thought sat like a stone in his gut.
He didn’t fear her for the reasons others did. Not her magic, or her rank, or the quiet way she could turn a room against someone with a glance. No—he feared her because she never needed him. She never said it, but Ronan had always known.
She had loved his brothers. Alaric, the heir. Cedric, the soldier. But never him. The third son, the leftover.
He swallowed, dry and slow.
What would she do if she found out he’d disgraced their name? That he had led Ashford men into a massacre. That he had believed a lie. That he’d let Steve die… and didn’t even have the strength to defend him.
His jaw clenched at the memory. That messenger. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why hadn’t anyone stopped him?
And Dareth—Dareth, who was supposed to protect him. The King's appointed shield.
He had expected a reprimand. Not… that.
He could still hear the marshal’s voice: You killed three hundred and twenty-four innocent people today. Civilians.
Ronan wanted to vomit.
He looked up at the horizon again. The citadel of Valewick. Home, or at least the place that pretended to be. Its towers gleamed under the early sun, welcoming in their grandeur, beautiful in the way only something utterly indifferent could be.
He hadn’t realized he was sweating until he felt it run down the back of his neck.
Liliana would be waiting.
The gates of Valewick groaned open as Ronan approached with his small escort, but there was no fanfare, no trumpet, no salute. The guards barely looked up.
Maybe he imagined it. Maybe not. But as he passed beneath the stone archway, he was sure—absolutely sure—that one of them sneered. Not openly. Just enough that it could be dismissed as shadow or fatigue.
His back straightened. His hands stayed tight on the reins.
No one said a word.
Valewick, the proud capital of the East, was alive. Its usual steel-gray mood was softened by ribbons and banners strung from rooftops and archways. Red, gold, and white fluttered in the wind, spilling down from balconies. Merchants had set up extra stalls, music drifted from street corners, and the scent of roasted meat hung thick in the air. The cobbled streets were crowded, thick with revelers and commoners dressed in their finest.
All of this… for her?
It was almost grotesque how festive the city had become.
They turned a corner, the hooves of the horses clacking in rhythm, and passed a gathered crowd listening to a town crier who was perched on a wooden crate. His voice rang out with theatrical pride:
“—Lady Grace of Ashford, born on the Second of Firstlight, in the month of Liriane, Seventh Era, year Six-Hundred-Forty, turns today six years old! By decree of Duchess Liliana, the entire city of Valewick shall celebrate! Free food and beer for all from the citadel kitchens! Rejoice, and praise House Ashford’s true heir!”
A cheer rose from the crowd. Clapping, laughing, stomping.
Ronan flinched. Not visibly, but something inside him twisted.
True heir.
He wasn’t foolish enough to miss what that meant. And just in case the words hadn’t been clear enough, the crowd offered its own color commentary.
“Praise be to the Lady Grace!” shouted an old man, waving his tankard.
“Glad we’ve got some real Ashford blood to rely on!” another barked.
A third, younger voice chimed in: “Not like her half-brother, what’s-his-name. Mudblood prince from the Crown’s side!”
And then came the worst of it. A man with a blackened tooth, standing near the pulpit, spat directly on the cobblestone.
“Let the wyrm keep his bastards.”
Ronan felt it like a slap. Not the insult—he could stomach those—but the ease with which it was said. The natural, public confidence that no one would object.
Behind him, one of his knights—Ser Varn—started to move, his hand already on the pommel of his sword. Another guard narrowed his eyes, preparing to respond.
Ronan raised a hand without turning around.
“Leave it,” he said quietly.
The men obeyed. Reluctantly. One of them muttered under his breath.
They continued riding, past the cheers, the ale barrels, the streamers. Through the laughter. Through the echoes of drums and flutes. Through the words that weren’t shouted but hung in the air like pollen—Grace this, Grace that. The true heir. The little duchess. A gift from the gods.
And all Ronan could do was keep his posture straight and ride.
Because today was her birthday.
And he liked Grace. He really did. Strange as she was—sharp-eyed and silent, unnerving in ways he couldn’t name—she had never been cruel to him. In fact, she'd been polite, almost tender, in those few encounters they’d shared. A hand in the garden. A nod in the hall. A brief, flickering smile. The perfect little sister.
But this was too much.
After the front. After the deaths. After the humiliation and the silence and the blood still drying on his hands. After watching Steve die. After Dareth's words, his fists, his orders.
And now the streets of his duchy rang with praise for a six-year-old girl.
He didn’t blame her. But the envy still stirred like bile in his throat.
She’s just a child, he told himself. My sister. My precious little sister.
But the cheers didn’t sound like they were for a child. They sounded like they were for a ruler.
And what did that make him?
Only a few nobles still treated him with courtesy. Most watched with quiet smiles, waiting for him to trip again. Others didn’t bother hiding their disdain. He knew how they talked when he wasn’t in the room.
The king’s sister’s bastard. The shame of Ashford. A boy pretending to be a lord.
The words echoed louder than the music in the streets. Ronan didn’t know if he’d heard them whispered once or a hundred times, maybe it didn’t matter. They clung to him like dust and smoke, like the stink of blood he still couldn’t scrub from his memories. His jaw clenched. His throat burned.
He wasn’t a boy. He wasn’t pretending.
Was he?
He had led men. He had ridden into war. He had tried. But trying wasn’t enough—not when three hundred people lay dead, not when the fortress was lost, not when Steve…
Ronan inhaled sharply, as if air alone could push back the guilt.
No one spat those titles in his face. They didn’t need to. He wore them already, stitched into his uniform, pressed into the wax seal of the summons now tucked away in his coat pocket.
Heir of Ashford.
He almost laughed.
The wind caught his cloak as the road curved toward the inner gate. Valewick’s stone mouth opened wide to swallow him, and for a moment, Ronan sat straighter in the saddle.
Let them whisper. Let them cheer her. I’m still here. And I’ll show them. All of them. Even her.
So fine. Let them talk. Let them crown Grace with garlands and ribbons and call her the child of prophecy. He would show them. He would prove himself.
He would show the duchy who the true heir was. Even if he had to claw his way back from the mud of his failure.
His jaw tightened. The road beneath him narrowed as they approached the citadel gates, and for a moment, his grip on the reins grew white-knuckled.
And yet…
He hated that he was feeling this. This creeping resentment. This gnawing, quiet jealousy. It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault. She was just a little girl. Smart, yes. Strange, yes. But she was six.
How is a six-year-old meant to lead Ashford?
He sighed. It didn’t matter. Not today. Today, no one would care about Ronan. Not with the city drinking and dancing and toasting the girl they all believed in.
And maybe that was a blessing; he needed sleep, silence, and space to grieve.
He lowered his gaze as the citadel came into view—its black stone towers rising like spears against the gray sky.
He’d face his stepmother soon enough.
--::--
“He did what!?”
The chair clattered against the marble floor as Selira rose to her feet, her composure forgotten for the first time in weeks.
Lord Garrin Stormrest didn’t flinch. The man was half-shadow anyway, standing like a dried branch in the center of her private receiving room. His pale face didn’t so much as twitch, but the grin on his lips deepened, cruel and knowing.
“Charged his own side,” Garrin said, voice dry as coastal wind. “Killed the civilians. And wounded a wyvern. All because a boy in armor mistook smoke for threat.”
Selira’s stomach twisted. She pressed her palm flat against the table, willing herself to breathe slowly. No. No, this couldn’t—this wasn’t…
“And the fortress?” she managed.
“Abandoned. Intact. And then taken by the Ursin.” Garrin’s eyes glinted. “He left the gate open to Ashford’s east.”
Selira wanted to scream. Not because she was angry—though she was—but because she had spent weeks preparing. For this. Her future. Her rise. Her carefully managed alignment with the duchy’s true power.
And he—
She turned her back on Garrin, arms folded tight around her torso. She stared at the window. The banners outside fluttered in the wind, red and silver. Grace’s colors. Grace’s day.
Of course, he returned today. Of course, today of all days, when the eyes of the court were turned toward the shining little duchess, her heirloom curls and divine smile, her parade of nobles and gods-damned cake towers—of course this was when Ronan decided to come home in disgrace.
Her betrothed. The fool.
And she had even planned to use today to strengthen her bond with Grace. Perfect timing, truly. A wedding gift wrapped in shame.
“I assume,” she said quietly, “that my father knows.”
“Knows,” Garrin said with relish, “and ordered silence. For now. He’s already at the citadel, as the Duchess’s guest. The narrative is hers to shape. Your marriage proceeds.”
Selira clenched her jaw. “Wonderful.”
Silence stretched between them. Outside, somewhere, the sounds of celebration floated faintly into the window. Drums. Flutes. Laughter. The child Grace would be surrounded by flowers, gifts, and adoration.
Selira closed her eyes for a moment.
This wasn’t just inconvenient. It was humiliating.
She had fought too hard to be reduced to the wife of a laughingstock. She had carved her place beside the girl, and now the girl’s brother returned carrying ruin like a lantern.
When she turned back to Garrin, her expression was calm again. Polished. Her voice clipped.
“Send word to the kitchens. If Lord Ronan is to arrive today, he will be greeted like the war hero he isn’t.”
Garrin bowed slightly. “Of course, Lady Selira.”
“And Garrin?” she added as he turned.
He paused.
“If anyone, anyone, tries to spin this before the Duchess announces her version… silence them.”
The pale man smiled. “My favorite sort of work.”
As the door shut behind Garrin, Selira stood motionless, one hand still curled around the cold porcelain cup.
She stared at it. Then set it down, quietly.
One job. Her jaw clenched. Just one.
She didn’t realize she was shaking until her vision blurred with the sharp rush of fury rising up her spine. For a single, perfect moment, she imagined it—marry him, get pregnant, wait… and then arrange the rest. No one would question a widow. Not after a convenient accident. Not after a war.
But no. That wasn’t her. That was the anger speaking.
She breathed slowly, forced the thought away. That wasn’t a plan, it was a tantrum.
Get a grip, Selira.
The next moment, she snapped her fingers sharply. Her maid entered just as a cup flew past her shoulder and shattered against the far wall.
The maid didn’t flinch.
“Prepare the carriage,” she said coldly, brushing a curl behind her ear. “We’re departing for the citadel within the hour.”
The maid bowed quickly and vanished.
Selira turned toward the mirror, adjusting her earrings with delicate, practiced hands. The celebration wasn’t just for a child, it was a declaration of power. A public display that left no doubt in anyone’s mind: Grace was the future of Ashford. Not Ronan. Not any son of the King’s sister. Only her.
The scale of it said everything. Even in the highest circles, sixth birthdays were private affairs, sweet and ceremonial. This? This was politics.
And she—Selira of Velmire—was being paraded into it with a disgrace beside her.
Why did he have to survive?
She bit her tongue until she tasted blood, smoothed her dress with slow, deliberate fingers, and whispered under her breath: “Play your part, Selira. You’ve done worse.”
Then she turned and left to face the day.
--::--
The chamber reeked of blood and burning marrow.
Screams clung to the air like smoke; wet, ragged, desperate things. Some wailed. Others gurgled. And some had no more voice left to offer.
A man stood among them.
Tall. Pale. Late twenties by appearance, though something in the way he held himself—like gravity bowed to him rather than the other way around—suggested he’d walked far longer paths.
His boots crunched softly over bone. The hem of his coat trailed ash.
And his eyes glimmered faintly.
Not with warmth or with joy. But with a faint, unnatural shimmer—pink, warped at the edges like light seen through old glass. They pulsed faintly each time a life ended.
Another one, he thought idly, licking his lips. That one sounded like a flute string being torn too tight.
He chuckled. It was a symphony for his ears.
The screams, the wet snapping of joints, the crackle of flesh melting under cursed glyphs—each note part of a carefully composed movement. And he was the conductor.
No. The composer.
A priestess shrieked behind him, clutching at her half-dissolved face. Her fingers fell off before she did.
He tilted his head, admiring the angle of her agony.
"Almost beautiful," he murmured, as if critiquing brushwork. "But you're missing something in the third act. Perhaps a child’s voice for counterpoint. Or a bit more percussion."
One of his robed acolytes approached from the shadows, cloaked in void-saturated garments that shimmered like oil slicks in the dim light. They knelt, head low.
"My lord," the acolyte said breathlessly. "The ritual is complete. The link has been severed."
"Mm." He didn’t turn right away.
Instead, he stepped over a half-melted corpse and crouched near a woman twitching beside a broken altar. Her eyes had gone cloudy. Her mouth still tried to scream.
He leaned close. Whispered.
“You died for a lie.”
Then he stood, brushing off his gloves.
Let the others rot," he said casually. "Burn the corpses before sunrise. I don’t want the fanatics sniffing around the leftovers again. They’re like carrion doves lately, always fluttering down after my meals.
"Yes, my lord."
He smiled. The smile didn't fit his face. It stretched too far.
A low hum pulsed at the edges of reality as he moved toward the far door, where the chamber met the deeper tunnels. The air thinned. Space buckled faintly around him with each step.
Behind him, the fires grew. The screams faded.
And as the echo of the last death rattle bounced from the walls, Lord Glimmergaze paused.
Eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
"Happy birthday, my little star," he whispered.
And vanished into the dark.
Comments
Edmij Nashon
Ahh, goosebumps... all the players are moving in the chessboard. ( ⚆ _ ⚆ )
Ryan N
Glimmergaze 10/10 name
