The Emberflask Inn lay quieter tonight, its usual clamor hushed beneath the weight of a storm raging beyond its thick stone walls. Gone were the boisterous carpenters' shouts and the steelworkers' rowdy anthems; the tempest had driven most patrons to their hearths at home. Within, the fire burned low in the wide hearth, its embers glowing a dull red, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched across the room like the outstretched arms of a slumbering giant. Smoke drifted lazily upward, threading through the air with the faint, woody scent of charred logs, mingling with the stale musk of spilled ale soaked into the worn oak floorboards. The wind howled outside, rattling the warped shutters, a low moan that slipped through the cracks and stirred the faded tapestries lining the walls.
In their familiar back corner—beneath the cracked phoenix banner, its once-vivid reds and golds dulled to a threadbare whisper, and the iron pickaxe mounted above, its handle pitted with rust—sat the three men again. Less tense than their last meeting, their shoulders looser, yet their eyes gleamed sharper, their voices dipping lower, threading carefully beneath the storm's muted roar. Their mugs sat before them, steam curling from the dark ale within, the table's surface scarred with years of knife marks and burn rings, glistening faintly with condensation.
Barun Keel nursed a fresh bruise on his forearm, a purpled welt peeking from beneath his rolled sleeve—an accident with a pulley chain, he'd growled, though he'd claimed the stone had "bit back" with a wry grimace. His broad frame slumped slightly, soot-scarred hands cradling his tankard, the metal cool against his thick fingers. Across from him sat Calder Venn, lean and sharp-eyed, wrapped in a new wool jacket trimmed with brass buttons that glinted in the firelight, a self-satisfied tilt to his lips as he adjusted the collar. Tomas Harlowe, still in his modest green cloak, its edges frayed from wear, bore the brass registry badge pinned below his collar—three ledgers beneath the phoenix seal. This time, he'd brought parchment, rolled tight and bound with twine, tucked under his arm as he settled into his chair.
They sat in silence for a moment, gazes drifting to the hearth where the flames flickered, the wind's wail a mournful counterpoint beyond the shutters.
"So," Barun said finally, his gravelly voice breaking the quiet, "are the whispers true?"
Calder smirked without looking up, tracing a brass button with his thumb. "You'll have to be more specific. Whispers are thick as flies lately."
Barun turned to Tomas, his brows knitting. "About the council. A permanent governing body. I hear something's being written. Something… binding."
Tomas untied the parchment with deft fingers, the twine snapping softly, and laid it flat on the table. Its edges curled from the damp air, but the ink held firm, black and precise against the vellum's faint yellow hue.
"A draft," he said simply, his voice calm as the embers' glow. "Not final. But yes—a governing body's forming. Elected by chartered sectors, appointed by the Lord's Office until the first vote's viable. A council of ten, rotating seats."
Barun's brows rose, creasing his weathered forehead. "Vote? You're saying people elect rulers now?"
Tomas nodded, his hazel eyes steady. "Eventually. Not everyone at once. Not every role. But yes—that's the direction."
"And what is this?" Calder asked, pointing a lean finger at the parchment, his jacket rustling as he leaned in.
"A constitution," Tomas said, his tone almost reverent, the word hanging in the smoky air. "The Dominion's first."
Calder's smile faltered, his sharp eyes narrowing. "That's real, then."
Barun leaned over the table, his broad hands splaying on either side of the parchment, eyes scanning the neat lines of text. It was cleaner than he'd expected—no bloated noble titles or florid oaths, just rules etched in stark simplicity, stark against the firelight's dance.
"It's more than structure," Tomas explained, his spoon clinking faintly as he set it aside. "It defines powers. Limits. Responsibilities. Separates the administrative branch from the military. Outlines citizen rights—property, trial, appeal. Names the government's duties—road upkeep, border protection, education, code enforcement."
"Education?" Barun snorted, a puff of breath stirring the ale's steam. "For what?"
"For those who don't want their sons and daughters swinging hammers their whole lives," Tomas said calmly, his voice cutting through the wind's low howl.
Barun grunted, his jaw tightening, but he held his tongue.
"And this council," Calder said, his fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the table's edge. "Will it have power over trade law?"
Tomas nodded, his cloak shifting faintly. "Eventually. But it's split—trade policy shaped jointly by the Ministry of Economy and a merchant review board, two seats reserved for non-government voices."
Calder gave a slow, surprised nod, his brass buttons catching the light. "Huh."
"The idea," Tomas said, his voice dropping as if sharing a secret, "is laws that don't just serve rulers, but protect the ruled. A written system everyone can see. A limit on power. A shield against abuse—for settlers, merchants, artisans."
Barun sat back, his chair creaking under his weight, arms crossing over his chest. "And who enforces this code? The city watch? Half of them can't hold a spear straight."
"We're expanding the judiciary," Tomas said, his tone even. "Magistrates are selected for Emberhold proper. Circuit judges for outer settlements soon. There's talk of a high court for constitutional disputes."
"Sounds like quill-pushers and self-important robes," Barun muttered, his voice rough against the hearth's soft pop.
"Sounds like peace," Calder countered, his tone lighter, a glint in his eye. "Rules forming before conflict, not after, for once."
Tomas smiled faintly, the expression softening his angular face. "Alexander wants something different. Durable. Not a kingdom reborn in ashes—but a dominion built on new principles. Order by consent, not sword."
"That's easy to say when you hold the sword," Barun said darkly, his bruise pulsing faintly as he flexed his arm.
"You think he's lying?" Calder asked, his head tilting, voice curious.
"No," Barun admitted after a long pause, his gaze drifting to the fire. "I think he believes every word. That's what makes it dangerous."
They fell silent, the hearth's embers snapping, a faint hiss rising as a log settled.
"Here's my question," Calder said, fingers tapping the parchment's edge, the vellum rustling softly. "If this constitution's real, if this council forms, and these rights become law… what happens when someone breaks it?"
Tomas didn't answer right away. He turned to the flame, its glow painting his face in shifting hues, his voice low when it came, barely audible over the wind's fading wail.
"Then we find out whether the Dominion is built on ink—or iron."
The three sat there, each turning that thought over in their minds, the weight of it settling like dust on their shoulders.
Outside, the storm ebbed, its roar softening to a distant murmur, but the silence that followed inside the Emberflask hung heavier than thunder, thick with the unspoken.