On the Convocation at Ember Hall and the Coming of the Flame-Seer
As chronicled by Lysander of the Ember Veil
In the year 363 After Dawning, on the eve of the High Ember Convocation, the elders of the Imperium of Flame gathered in the great hall atop the basalt heights. There, beneath braziers that burned with ever-living fire, they prepared to renew their oaths to Verdessa and to seek Her blessing upon the forging season.
It was the hour of dusk, when shadows lengthened and the purple hush descended. By every ancient custom, this was the time appointed to offer homage to Nya’gothia, Queen of the Night. And yet—so deep runs the fear of the dark, so enduring the reverence for the Day Queen—that when the first stars kindled overhead, the elders raised their voices not to the Night Sister, but to Verdessa alone.
I was there among the scribes, and I confess my hand trembled as I set down the words. For even as the hymn rose, the torches guttered. A wind not of this world passed through the hall, carrying the chill of infinite night. Some fell to their knees. Others shouted defiance.
Then the great doors swung wide, and a figure entered—not in the regalia of the Imperium, nor in robes of sun-gold, but clad in a weathered mantle of ash-grey and blue. The figure bore no sigil, no weapon, no escort—only a staff carved with old glyphs and eyes that burned like twin coals banked in sorrow. This was no emissary of the court.
Some knew her at once. Others only stared in silence.
She walked the central aisle with quiet steps, each one dimming the flame-light as though dusk itself followed her. She paused at the foot of the Ember Altar. And though no title was spoken, I knew it in the marrow of my soul: Nya’gothia was there in the flesh, veiled and silent.
But before any voice could rise in greeting or fear, another presence stirred behind her.
From the darkness beyond the threshold came a second figure—the one called Caelus the Flame-Seer, prophet of the new faith from the western sky-citadels. His name had traveled far by then, carried on the lips of dreamers, rebels, and mystics. He was said to speak not for the gods, but for the Source behind them all—the Flame Beyond Form.
He bore no crown, no relic, only the fire of conviction. And he spoke, not in thunder, but with the clarity of running water:
“You call upon radiance, yet ignore the shadow that gives it meaning.
You bind your hearts to lesser thrones, yet claim to seek the eternal.
The Source does not dwell in sun or star, but in the light kindled within.”
Some wept at his words. Others raised their spears in fury. And in that hush, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath, the stars above shone down like watching eyes.
And what did the elders do?
They turned not to the veiled one who stood before them, who had come in the very hour sacred to Her name. They turned, instead, back to Verdessa.
“Mother of Day, drive this darkness hence! Shine forth!”
No prayer was offered to Nya’gothia. No candle lit. No name spoken.
And so was sorrow kindled in that hidden place of Her heart. She stood a moment longer—hooded, unmoving—before turning and vanishing like fog before the morning sun. But some say the stars dimmed as she passed, and that her true form—vast and coiled across the high vault of night—unfolded in silent reproach.
As for Caelus, he spoke no further. He, too, departed into the dark, leaving the Imperium divided: some shaken, some enraged, some quietly changed.
But of all the tales I have set down, none troubles me so greatly as this—that even in the season appointed to Her, none called Nya’gothia by name. To be unseen when one most yearns to be known—that is a burden no god nor mortal should bear lightly.
