The ceremony began where power was absolute—at the throne itself.
Upon the raised dais sat King Aldric Viremont, his presence alone enough to still the vast Royal
Concourse of Ashenstone. He neither spoke nor moved as the first name was called.
The King's eldest child stepped forward.
Prince Kael Viremont approached the Ember Witness with measured confidence. Expectation
followed him closely, yet his steps never faltered. He stopped before the stone pit and raised his
hand above the cold, empty space.
The response was immediate.
Fire rose.
Not wildly.
Not chaotically.
It answered.
Flames surged upward and twisted into the unmistakable shape of a sword, burning with deep
crimson intensity. The glow was strong—controlled, steady, disciplined.
The crowd reacted at once.
Not with cheers.
With surprise.
Fire was rare.
Whispers spread quickly, subdued and cautious.
"Fire…?"
"So soon?"
"The bloodline still carries it…"
Veterans did not smile. Knights exchanged brief glances. Scribes wrote carefully.
Elemental power was hereditary—but fire did not appear often.
The standard had been set.
When the flames receded, the silence that followed was not awe, but acceptance. This was authority shaped by fire—dangerous, yet familiar.
Prince Kael stepped back, composed.
Then the next royal name was called.
"Princess Serena Viremont."
The tension shifted.
Serena stepped forward with calm precision. Where her brother's presence had pressed upon the
space, hers seemed to loosen it. Her expression was steady. Her movements deliberate.
She raised her hand above the Ember Witness.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then she withdrew it.
The air stirred.
A pale, translucent glow rose from the pit—not flame, but motion. Wind gathered, spiraling upward
in slow, controlled currents.
The Ember did not burn.
It breathed.
Within the shifting air, a staff formed—slender, elegant, shaped of light and pressure rather than
substance. The glow was soft. Restrained.
Yet it did not waver.
Some flames demanded attention.
Hers did not.
And that unsettled the crowd.
Whispers followed.
"Wind…"
"Control-type."
"Not flashy—but dangerous."
Strategists leaned forward. Mages watched closely. The glow endured longer than expected before fading gently back into silence.
Serena lowered her hand and stepped away without a word, as though the Ember Witness had
merely confirmed what she already understood.
The pause before the next name stretched longer than before.
Long enough for unease to settle.
Long enough for memory to stir.
Then the voice rang out again.
"Prince Lucien Viremont."
The air changed.
Lucien emerged from the shadow of the royal platform—the King's third child, born of the second
wife. He walked without haste, his gaze fixed solely on the Ember Witness.
No pride.
No anticipation.
Only certainty.
He stopped before the pit.
The Ember Witness lay silent.
Lucien raised his hand.
For a single heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then he pulled it back.
Fire erupted.
Not a surge.
An explosion.
A towering inferno burst upward, brighter and hotter than any flame before it. Heat pressed
outward, forcing the crowd to recoil instinctively. Even knights shifted their stance.
Within the blaze, a shape emerged. A sword.
Familiar.
Historic.
Unmistakable.
The same weapon etched into war records.
The blade wielded by the First Hero of the Second War.
The glow was overwhelming—far surpassing Prince Kael's. The fire did not flicker. It did not strain.
It dominated.
No one compared it aloud.
They already knew it was pointless.
Silence fell.
Not shock.
Not awe.
Recognition.
From the dais, King Aldric Viremont remained silent.
He did not deny it.
He did not confirm it.
A king did not need to speak when the world had already listened.
The fire faded.
The sword vanished.
Lucien stepped back, expression unchanged.
The world had decided.
History would remember this moment—for reasons no one yet understood.