Three days after the burning of Caedros's vessel, black sails appeared on the eastern horizon.
Five ships. No war banners. Just the insignia of a single golden sun, flanked by silver scimitars: the mark of the Dust Empire.
They docked at Harrowport without resistance. No soldiers disembarked. Only one figure emerged—robed in indigo silk, barefoot, face covered in a veil of obsidian beads.
The envoy.
Uthred watched from the bluff above the cove, arms crossed.
"Bold of them," Vale said beside him.
"Or foolish."
A raven arrived minutes later from the shore.
The envoy had one request: an audience.
In Eldhaven.
Uthred's silence lasted only a moment.
"Bring her."
The journey to Eldhaven was made under a heavy guard.
The envoy, who gave her name only as Sahira, rode in silence atop a black mare, speaking to no one unless spoken to. She requested no luxuries, only tea, and did not eat meat. Her voice, when she spoke, was smooth and sharp like oiled glass.
Vale watched her closely. Sahira's presence was unnerving—not hostile, but deliberate, practiced.
"She's not a diplomat," Vale murmured one evening. "She's a knife wrapped in silk."
Uthred nodded. "Then we'll treat her like one."
Eldhaven's grand hall had been reforged in fire and steel. The new throne—black stone veined with red ore—sat atop three tiers of carved steps. Uthred wore no crown. Only his sword.
The court filled with cautious anticipation as Sahira entered.
She did not bow.
Instead, she unrolled a scroll, written in flowing red script.
"I bring greetings from His Radiance, Emperor Malqad of the Dust Empire. He acknowledges your survival. And your defiance."
Murmurs stirred in the hall.
Uthred stepped down from the dais.
"I return his greetings with a warning: if he sends another blade across my borders, I'll send back ash."
Sahira did not flinch. "The Emperor does not send blades, King of Flame. He sends offers."
"Then speak it. Plainly."
She smiled behind her veil. "The Empire offers peace. Trade. Alliance."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Only your heir."
Silence fell like a blade.
Vale's fingers went to her hilt.
"You will surrender the child when born. To be raised in peace. As a guest of the Empire."
Uthred's voice was low. "You ask for my child?"
"We offer sanctuary from war. From prophecy. From fire."
"You offer chains."
"The child's flame will burn too brightly. The Empire would temper it—before it becomes a wildfire."
Uthred's sword cleared its sheath in one smooth motion.
"You've spoken your offer. My answer is no."
He turned to the guards.
"Escort her to the guest tower. She is not to leave without my word."
Sahira's voice followed him like smoke.
"You may refuse the Empire, Uthred. But you cannot refuse fate."
That night, Eldhaven did not sleep.
Guards patrolled the battlements with doubled shifts. The palace corridors whispered with rumors of war, of the Empire's insult, of Uthred's fury.
In the guest tower, Sahira remained silent.
Until the second hour past midnight.
Vale entered alone.
Sahira was kneeling before a brazier of burning ash, whispering in an ancient tongue.
"Praying?" Vale asked.
"Preparing."
"For what?"
"For the reckoning to come."
Vale stood tall. Her hand rested on her sword. "The child you ask for will never leave Eldhame."
"The child is not yours," Sahira said, looking up at her. "It belongs to the fire. And fire must burn or consume."
"Then let it burn."
Uthred's sleep was broken by a vision.
Fire. Endless fire.
Not flame like war—but a living fire, walking through cities. Towers crumbled. Rivers boiled. The sun bled.
At the center stood a child with his eyes—
—but golden.
And behind the child, Sahira stood.
Whispering to him.
He woke in a sweat.
Outside, thunder cracked.
At dawn, Uthred summoned his council.
Maera, Jorlan, Vale, and a dozen lords.
"She asked for my child," Uthred said. "And in doing so, she declared war."
Maera nodded grimly. "The Empire will not wait long. They will test our coasts. Our alliances."
Jorlan slammed his fist on the table. "Then we strike first. Crush their forward outposts. Show them Eldhame does not kneel."
Vale stood. "There is another way. Let her speak to the people. Let them see what the Empire truly offers."
Uthred looked to her.
"Risky."
"Truth always is."
He nodded. "Prepare the square."
The Temple Square was filled with thousands. Merchants, beggars, nobles, soldiers—all gathered to witness what was promised: the envoy of the Dust Empire would speak.
Sahira stood beneath the high pyre. She was unchained, unguarded. The only thing binding her was the eyes of Eldhame.
Uthred stepped forward.
"Speak. Let all hear your truth."
Sahira raised her veil. Her face was marked with gold ink, eyes lined in black, lips still.
"You see a threat," she began, "but I offer deliverance. Your king walks in flame, but his child will be flame incarnate. Unchecked. Wild. I offer guidance, not chains. You fear us. But we understand power."
A fruit struck her shoulder. Then a stone.
"Go back to your emperor!" a voice shouted.
Others followed. The crowd turned. Jeers. Screams.
Vale stepped forward, her hand raised.
"Enough!"
The crowd quieted.
She looked at Sahira.
"And if we say no?"
Sahira's gaze did not waver. "Then the sea will come for you. Wave by wave. Flame against sun. Until only silence remains."
Uthred drew his sword.
"This is your answer, Dust Empire."
He stabbed the scroll she carried into the pyre.
The flame rose, and with it, the war began.