“You didn’t have to.”
Solonar exhales through his nose. “There are others who feel similarly, for varied reasons. The Rite is tradition. But that does not mean it is untouchable. The Flame is dimming for your father. It is time whether we will it or not.”
“To say so aloud would be treason.”
“And yet you say it.”
“I am permitted some discontent. They still believe I will change my mind.”
He arches a brow. “Won’t you?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“The Flame Crown is weakening,” he concedes. “Your father still burns, but his fire dims. The realm senses it. The Emberbrand rises. It must choose another.”
“It will not be me.”
He eyes me. “You’re certain?”
“I do not need to feel the pull. I know it. The brand does not mark those who have no will to claim.” The Flame holds space for free will, even if many in Crimson do not believe so. They see the flame as omnipotent. I know better.
Solonar folds his hands behind his back. “Then perhaps your duty lies in this girl.”
I stop.
“That is not a jest I find amusing,” I say. It falls too closely in line with my father’s command.
“It wasn’t one,” he replies. “The Asmodeus’ wishes aside, she arrived under impossible conditions. She survived the Wasteland. Sheis an anomaly. Who better to study her than the disillusioned Ember heir.”
“My father intends her to be my leash.”
“Probably,” he says with a shrug. “But you’ve worn leashes before and know how to bite through the yoke.”
I hate that he is right. I start walking again and Solonar follows.
“She doesn’t belong here,” I say.
“She’s here nonetheless.”
“She’s mortal.”
“Are not the Vesperan? Was not Isaeth.” The words cut sharp, but I do not answer. It is not the same. Many Daemari act like the Vesperan are akin to humans, but they are of Infernalis, of Crimson. Flame marked or not this is their home. Their world. Not having power does not mean they are mortal.
We reach the outer chamber. A balcony curves into open space, high above the city. Crimson light stains the clouds; the sun here never sets—it smolders. Just like everything else. Solonar leans against the stone rail.
“The Flame will rise. The Rite will begin. The brand will appear. And your father’s reign will end—whether by will or by death.”
I do not argue. The truth does not require repetition.
“How long does he have?” I ask instead.
Solonar tilts his head. “He hides it well. But you saw the Crown. It flickers. The brand has already marked too many for the Asmodeus to burn for much longer. The Rite rises and cannot be stopped.”
And there it is. The Rite is called by the Flame, not the Asmodeus, no matter how my father claims dominion over the heart of the realm. The Flame has all but abandoned my father. He cannot continue to claim the flame’s divine providence as it also pulls the crown from his blood-stained grip. I stare out at the horizon, where the flame-choked air coils above the Obsidian Reaches. Far from here. Too far for memory to follow.
Solonar speaks more softly now. “Caziel, if the Flame does choose you—”
