“One isn’t born with the fear of fire but will learn to fear the heat it brings and scar it will cast upon the soul.”

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The room was vast, its size more purposeful than grand, as though it were carefully curated for both grandeur and purpose. Dim lamps, small as they were, cast long shadows, distorting the features of the meticulously carved dragons that adorned the tapestries, casting soft pools of golden light over red tapestries that adorned the walls—The sacred color of ‘The Following’. Each tapestry was a work of art in itself, telling a story: dragons as heralds of justice, sent to punish mankind’s sins. The soft, golden light reflected off the tapestries, adding to the room's contemplative atmosphere. The tapestries, rich in their color and history, seemed to drink in the light, reflecting it with a subdued warmth that added to the room's contemplative ambiance. Shelves stretched high, draped in red, only seemed to add to the weight in the room, their wooden frames packed with scrolls and books—years of knowledge, some sacred. These texts, bound in leathers and cloth, whispered of countless investigations, mysteries solved, truths sought out, each one etched into the very walls of this chamber.

The air within these chambers was always cold, always damp—more suited for the preservation of secrets than the comfort of those who sought them. Stone walls bore the silent history of those who had stood within this chamber before, some victorious, others broken beneath the truths they uncovered, forever scarred. And yet, the room remained alive, pulsating with the soft crackle of flames from the iron sconces fixed at precise intervals along the walls.

At the heart of the room, a table stood, it was massive and made of dark wood that had aged into a nearly black hue, it was cluttered with the remnants of the past several days. Plates bore half-eaten and untouched food—bread hardened into rock, the meat long since cold and congealed. A few goblets, some half-filled with wine, others emptied, were scattered carelessly among the mess of parchment, letters, and books. The sight told a story ofthe long hours spent here, a mind too consumed with investigation to pay attention to the needs of the body. The room bore the tangible air of time passed, of days bleeding into nights, of thoughts winding themselves into tighter and tighter knots. The acrid scent of spilled wine mixed with the musty smell of old parchment, creating an air of neglect. It was not the neglect of a person who had abandoned their duty, but the neglect of someone who had become so consumed by their task that the world outside their mind had ceased to exist.

Cardinal Irene stood at the center of the room, her robes heavy with the weight of her station. The deep crimson fabric swirled around her legs like a pool of blood, its folds ornate yet restrained, designed to project power without the ostentation that many of her peers indulged in. Her fingers brushed against the hem absentmindedly, feeling the familiar texture of the cloth—a comforting ritual in moments of deep contemplation. It was a finely woven fabric, soft but resilient, much like the cardinal herself. Her robes bore the insignia of her rank, a dragon’s eye encircled by flames, embroidered over her heart. The thread work, golden and vibrant, shimmered in the dim light, drawing the eye to it as though it were an actual ember of fire burning within her. The golden threads gleamed in the low light, creating the illusion of movement, as though they could slither free of their woven confines at any moment.

Her hair, an arresting shade of auburn, caught the light from the flames, creating a halo of fire around her head. It fell in loose waves, though a few strands had escaped the braids that usually kept it in place, a rare sign of her distraction. Her features were finely cut, her nose sharp and perfectly proportioned to the rest of her face, giving her an almost regal presence. Full red lips contrasted with the paleness of her skin, and her face, though still and composed, betrayed the tension that simmered beneath the surface. The years had been kind to her in appearance, though the sharpness in her eyes said otherwise, they bore the weight of a thousand truths, of which she had uncovered in her relentless pursuit of knowledge. She was known by many as “The Truth Seeker,” for she had an unyielding will to uncover any secret, no matter how deeply it was buried. Her features were not soft—there was nothing about her that could be mistaken for delicate—but they held a kind of fierce beauty, the kind that was admired from afar but never approached lightly.

Standing at nearly six feet tall, her height added to her commanding presence, towering over many, both in stature and intellect. Her entire life had been dedicated to seeking truth, to finding answers in the shadows of doubt. And now, as the ‘Inquisitor of the Fire,’ she had a duty to expose whatever had caused the destruction of the Ibex Kingdom.

For days, perhaps weeks, she had been here, seated at this table, pouring over every scrap of information she could find regarding the destruction of the Ibex Kingdom, a kingdom that had once stood proud but now lay in ruins, ravaged by the fury of a dragon. Two years had passed since the kingdom fell, and yet the memoryremained fresh in her mind, lingering like an unhealed wound. It was an obsession now, one that gnawed at her in the quiet hours of the night when the rest of the world slept passing it off as the dragon destroying the kingdom in its wrath. Something even her fellow Cardinals believed, even though they preached otherwise to the believers. But no, she couldn’t just leave it as that. Dragons did not attack without reason. This was the first lesson she had been taught as a child, long before she had ascended to her current role. The teachings of ‘The Following of The Fire’ were clear: Dragons are the divine fire, sent to cleanse the world of its sins—the holy fire that purified the sins of man. Their wrath was righteous, their actions guided by divine will. But this attack had brought nothing but questions. If the dragons were acting against the will of their faith, if their rage was unprovoked—then everything she had built her life upon, everything the followers of the fire believed in, would crumble.

The cold seeped into her bones, a familiar sensation that she had long since ceased to notice. Her mind, far sharper than any discomfort her body might feel, was preoccupied with the letters strewn across the table in front of her. Each one bore the broken seal of the ‘Cardinal of the Eye,’ her personal insignia. The wax was a deep shade of red, nearly indistinguishable from blood, with the imprint of the dragon’s eye stamped into it—a glaring slit of a dragon’s eye, capturing everything within its sight. The eye stared from the sigil, unblinking, its presence palpable even from parchment. This was her role—watcher, seer, interrogator. The Eye Cardinal, the Inquisitor of ‘The Following of The Fire.’

Beside the letters, a cutting knife sat abandoned, as though it had been tossed aside the moment it had fulfilled its task. The blade gleamed faintly in the lamplight, a silent witness to the intensity of the investigation. Each letter was a piece of a puzzle, and she had broken the seals one by one, letting their contents bleed into her consciousness. The accounts were grimwritten by survivors of the destroyed Kingdom.

Stolen novel; please report.

For hours now, she had sat in the flickering light, her sharp hazel eyes poring over every word, every phrase. Dragons didn’t attack without reason. This thought looped endlessly in her mind, a mantra of sorts, a refusal to accept the simplest of explanations. Rage without reason was not in their nature and yet, here was evidence of devastation—unexplained, unprovoked. It challenged everything she believed, everything the Following of the Fire stood for.

The room’s scent was thick with parchment and ink, mingled with the faint tang of metal—the ink still fresh on some of the open scrolls. There was incense too, though it had begun to burn too strong, filling the room with a dense, almost suffocating fragrance. She inhaled deeply, letting the familiar smell sharpen her focus. It wasn’t just the incense or the ink. It was the scent of knowledge, of pursuit. The scent of her work.

She reached for the nearest letter, her fingers grazing the rough texture of the parchment as she lifted it to her eyes. The handwriting was cramped and hurried, as though the writer had been too terrified to take care with their words. The ink had smeared in places, likely from hands shaking with fear, and the edges of the paper were worn, as though it had been handled too many times before reaching her. It was a survivor’s account, one of the few who had managed to flee the kingdom before the dragon’s fire consumed everything.

Her sharp gaze lingered on the letters again, though she had already committed the contents to memory. Some of the survivors’ accounts repeating the same detail—a group of hooded figures seen fleeing through the streets some time before the dragon descended. Hooded men, their cloaks bearing the sigil of the Ibex Kingdom. It didn’t make sense. These men were not part of the kingdom’s official forces. No records, no reports indicated their presence. Who were they? And what did they have in connection to the dragon’s fury?

A thread. A single thread she could pull to unravel the mystery.

She set the letter down with a frustrated sigh, her fingers curling into fists. It wasn’t enough. These scraps of information, these terrified recollections of survivors, they were like fragments of a shattered mirror—pieces that, when held together, still refused to show her the whole picture. Something was missing, something crucial, and until she found it, the mystery would continue to eat away at her.

Her gaze drifted to the shelves that lined the walls of the chamber. They were filled with books and scrolls, many of them ancient, their pages brittle with age. Some of the texts were sacred, containing the teachings of the Following of the Fire, while others were forbidden, locked away from the prying eyes of the common folk. Her position as the Eye Cardinal granted her access to knowledge that most could only dream of, but even with all the resources at her disposal, she had yet to uncover the truth behind the Ibex Kingdom’s destruction.

Slowly, she walked from where she stood, the heavy robes swishing against the stone floor as she moved toward the shelves. Her fingers traced the spines of the books, feeling the texture of the leather bindings beneath her touch. Each book contained knowledge, pieces of history, fragments of truth. But none of them held the answers she sought. She had already searched through them, one by one, looking for anything that might shed light on the events that had unfolded. She pulled a book from the shelf, its weight familiar in her hands. It was an old text, one she had read countless times before—a record of the dragons’ attacks throughout history, written by one of the earliest members of the Following. The cover was worn, the gold lettering faded, but the contents were as relevant now as they had been centuries ago.

She flipped through the pages, her eyes skimming the familiar passages. Each account detailed the reasons behind the dragons’ attacks—acts of vengeance, divine judgment, the cleansing of a sinful city. But none of the reasons listed within the book applied to the Ibex Kingdom. There had been no great sins, no blasphemy, nothing that would have provoked the wrath of the dragons. And yet, the kingdom had been destroyed, its people reduced to ash.

Her mind raced as she closed the book with a snap, the sound echoing through the chamber. She needed more information—something that would tie the hooded men to the dragon’s attack, something that would explain why the kingdom had been targeted. Her fingers drummed against the spine of the book as she turned back to the table, her thoughts churning like a storm. The survivors’ accounts were vague, filled with fear and confusion. But there had to be something—some detail, some clue that she had overlooked.

The candles flickered in their sconces, casting erratic shadows that danced across the walls, as though the embroidered dragons were writhing in the flames. The room felt alive, humming with energy, as if the very stones were aware of the secrets being uncovered within their walls.

The scent of the incense began to burn a little too strong for her liking, and she waved a hand, snuffing out one of the candles burning nearby. Her red robes shifted as she moved back toward her desk. The presence of red—fire, blood, divine will—surrounded her. She was a vessel of the holy fire, and with that came a heavy burden.

Dragons didn’t attack without reason. The thought gnawed at her, refusing to be silenced. Rage without purpose—devastation without provocation—challenged everything she believed.

A soft knock echoed at the door, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Enter,” she said, her voice steady and authoritative.

An acolyte stepped in, a young man named Aiden—one of her trusted aides. His robes the traditional orange and white of the lower-ranking members of the Following. With the insignia of ‘The Fire’ weaved in golden thread burning ever brightly, positioned on the chest, he bowed deeply, his hands clasped before him, his head lowered in respect, his eyes never meeting hers.

“I greet the Cardinal of the Eye, the Inquisitor of The Fire. May the Holy Flame light your path,” he intoned reverently, his voice carrying the weight of tradition.

The Cardinal gave a small nod, acknowledging the formality. “Speak.”

“Cardinal Inquisitor, I’ve come to deliver the names of the survivors who reported seeing the hooded men,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.

He held out a scroll, and she took it, her eyes narrowing as she unrolled the parchment. The names were few—far too few—but it was a start. She needed to speak with these survivors, to hear their accounts firsthand. There was something here, something buried in their stories that could unlock the truth and more importantly, why the men they described had disappeared before the attack.

“Prepare a meeting with these survivors,” she ordered, her gaze not leaving the scroll. “I will speak to them personally.”

“Yes Cardinal,” the acolyte replied, bowing once more before retreating from the room, leaving her alone once again with her thoughts. The door closed with a soft thud, and the Cardinal allowed herself a moment of silence, staring at the list of names. These survivors held the key to the mystery, the thread that would unravel the events that had led to the destruction of the Ibex Kingdom. She could feel it—this was only the beginning. Whatever had triggered the dragon's wrath was buried deep within the secrets of the Ibex Kingdom, and she would uncover it. She always did.

But patience, she reminded herself. The truth always revealed itself in time. It was her task to uncover it, no matter how deeply it was buried.

The flame of the candle flickered once more, casting long shadows against the red walls. The cardinal stood tall, her mind focused, her resolve unshaken.

She turned, her robes swirling around her as she moved toward the window, her mind still focused on the puzzle before her. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring out at the sprawling city below—in the capital of the Storm Crest Kingdom. The night had deepened and the city lay in near-total darkness, save for the faint glow of lanterns scattered along the streets. The towering spires of the ‘Sacred Temple’ and the vast, arched bridges that connected the capital’s districts all seemed so distant.

The scent of incense still hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of ink. She breathed deeply, letting the weight of the moment settle over her.