The halls of Flameborn Manor were quiet, save for the occasional crackle of flame from the ornamental sconces set into the stone walls. These halls had once been filled with knights, scholars, and envoys arrived to pay audience to the lords of House Flameborn. But those times were long past. Now the ruined great house stood on the precipice of oblivion, its name a fading memory whispered only in dark corners of noble society.
Ashen was acutely aware of all this.
On the balcony overlooking the courtyard, he could make out the banners of his house, their proud crimson softened by age and neglect. The phoenix sigil, emblem of rebirth and strength everlasting, now struck him as a promise empty.
He tightened his fist on the stone railing.
"Flameborn… the fallen house." Such was how they spoke of his house in the aristocratic courts. Never to his face, of course—aristocrats were too refined for outright ridicule. But Ashen had overheard the whispers, the indirect remarks hidden beneath gracious smiles and tight politeness.
"House Flameborn was so grand, once. A shame how things go…"
"Their line still clings to past glories. But what do they cling to now?"
"A name is nothing without power."
His jaw clenched. He had heard it all. And though no one would ever dare to say such things in his father's presence, the reality was clear: House Flameborn was no longer feared, or respected.
The Heir of a Fallen House
"Ashen."
A low, measured voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see his father standing in the doorway of the balcony, his presence commanding and weary.
Lord Aldric Flameborn, the family patriarch, was a giant of a man, both in stature and in fame. Broad shoulders and graying hair told the story of a warrior's past, but it was his eyes—sharp, calculating, and heavy—that told the true story of a nobleman struggling against time itself.
Ashen straightened, dropping into a more formal posture by instinct. "Father."
Aldric was beside him, gazing out across the courtyard below. Several young squires were practicing under the exacting eye of an older knight, their wooden blades ringing out in rhythm. Aldric's faint reminder of what had been.
"We are hosting a gathering tomorrow," Aldric said, his voice expressionless. "Several noble houses will be in attendance. It is time you discovered what it means to stand among them."
Ashen nodded, but within he braced himself. A noble gathering. It was never a straightforward night of polite discourse—a battlefield. The weapons? Words, alliances, and unspoken judgments.
"Do not be deceived by smiles as friends," Aldric continued. "Most will praise our house openly and mock us behind closed doors. You must learn to hear the truth beneath their words."
Ashen slowly exhaled. "I know what they say about us."
Aldric's expression was stoic. "Good. Then you are aware that our situation is precarious."
He rose to face his son fully. "Ashen, you carry the burden of this house on your shoulders. Not just its reputation, but its destiny. All that you do, all that you say, will be what the world uses to judge us."
Ashen met his father's gaze. "Then I will give them no reason to question us."
Aldric's lips were grazed by a weak smile that did not reach his eyes. "We shall see."
A Family on the Edge
Flameborn Manor's great hall was afire with the glow of candle chandeliers later that evening, the candelabras' flickering light casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The large dining table, which could easily accommodate twenty, felt pitifully empty with only four people sitting at it.
Ashen sat beside his younger sister, Lyria, whose golden-red hair shone like embers in the firelight. She was only fifteen, not yet tainted by the worries of noble politics, but even she could sense the pressure closing in on their family.
Across from them was their mother, Lady Evelyne Flameborn, once the Jewel of the South. Though she had aged gracefully, her bright emerald green eyes now carried a muted sorrow, a reflection of the slow downfall of the family.
The silence at the table was almost suffocating.
Lyria, the breaker of silences, finally spoke. "Is it true House Ironcrest arrives tomorrow?"
Aldric barely lifted his eyes from his meal. "Yes."
Ashen's hand tightened on his fork. Ironcrest.
One of the most powerful noble houses in the kingdom, and one of their most outspoken detractors.
Lyria frowned. "Why would they come? They never prefer us."
Evelyne gave a soft sigh. "Because, my dear, alliances and feuds are generally overlaid with false courtesy. The noble court is a game, and every house must play it, even if they despise one another."
Aldric finally laid aside his knife and looked at his son. "Tomorrow will be your first true test, Ashen. You will stand alongside the nobility as my heir. You must watch, listen, and learn the nature of this world."
Ashen met his father's gaze. "And if they insult us?"
Aldric smiled faintly. "Then you smile, let them think they have won, and remember their faces."
Lyria looked between them, puzzlement on her young face. "But why not just tell them they're wrong?"
Evelyne laid a gentle hand on her daughter's. "Because, dear, a noble's strongest weapon is not a sword, but patience."
Ashen said nothing, but deep inside, he felt it.
That glowing ember of frustration, determination, and quiet anger.
He was not blameless. Nobles wielded words like daggers, and in the assembly tomorrow, each glance, each greeting, each polite conversation would be a battle.
Yet if the world had cast aside House Flameborn, then he would make them see it again.
Not with words.
Not with hollow displays of wealth.
But with deeds they could not ignore.
The Gathering Approaches
That evening, as Ashen lay in bed staring up at the stone ceiling overhead, he was aware that tomorrow was where it would start.
The nobles would notice. They would talk.
And although they might mock his family in secret, he would ensure that one day, they would speak his name respectfully—or in terror.
Either would suffice.