Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 18: Chapter 13: The Golden Light

Location: Freehold Clan Meeting Hall | Mortal Realm, Doha

Time: Moments Before

The feast was obscene—and that was before the explosion.

Za’thul sat at the head of the rectangular table—massive thing, could seat thirty but was set for fifteen today—watching Elder Morven laugh at his own joke about harvest yields. Crystal glass in his hand, inlaid with gems that probably cost more than most families earned in a year, filled with wine aging in the clan vaults for three generations.

Waste. Pure, calculated waste designed to prove a point.

The smell hit first, actually. Rich and overwhelming. Roasted meat dripping fat onto silver platters, each one hot enough you could feel the heat from three feet away. Sharp herbs—imports from the southern provinces—mixed with the sweet-rot smell of overripe fruit that’d cost a fortune to acquire out of season. Shellfish with black shells cracked open, the briny ocean scent clashing with smoke from the centerpiece dire boar, its skin sizzling and popping as fat rendered down.

Za’thul’s stomach turned, not from hunger but from excess. The table groaned under it all. Fleshy pink fish strips garnished with those expensive herbs. Huge platters of fowl stuffed with nuts and dried fruits. Cheese from six different regions, each wheel probably worth a slave’s life. Bread still steaming, crust crackling when Elder Tessa tore into a loaf. Vegetables roasted in oils worth more than gold, glistening like they’d been dipped in liquid amber.

And in the center—because of course there had to be a centerpiece—that full spit-roasted dire boar. Skin golden-brown, jaws forced open around some forest-green fruit that was probably symbolic of something pretentious he couldn’t remember.

The wine tasted like cherries and oak and guilt, but Za’thul drank it anyway.

Kato sat three seats down, gesticulating wildly about some hunting expedition. Showing off, probably. Always did that at gatherings, trying to prove he was just as capable as Za’thul. As if being clan leader was about tracking dire wolves through rough terrain instead of navigating political minefields that’d kill you just as dead.

”—and then the beast actually tried to double back through the ravine,” Kato was saying, grinning like he’d accomplished something meaningful. ”Can you believe—”

BOOM!!

The explosion rattled windows hard enough that wine sloshed from glasses—Za’thul felt cold liquid splash across his knuckles, saw Elder Morven’s drink hit the table in a spreading red pool that looked disturbingly like blood. Several elders jerked upright, hands going to weapons that weren’t there because who brought weapons to a feast?

”Sacred flames!” Elder Tessa shouted, already on her feet.

”Who dares attack the Freehold Clan?” another elder yelled—Elder Korren, face flushed, Inferno essence already gathering around his hands like angry fireflies. The heat from it made the air shimmer, added more smoke to air already thick with feast-smell.

But Za’thul was staring at the windows. At the light.

Golden light.

Pouring through the glass like liquid sunshine, so bright it hurt to look at directly. Coming from the direction of the ancestor’s library. The color was wrong—too pure, too alive. Not firelight. Not essence manifestation. Something older. Something divine.

His heart stopped. Then started again, hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears, feel it pulsing in his throat.

The Divine Tome.

A thousand years. A thousand years of waiting, of each clan leader dying with regret that the prophecy hadn’t come true in their lifetime. His father had died bitter, convinced it was all lies. His grandfather had spent his last years spitting curses at the ancestors for leaving them a false hope to chase.

But Za’thul—Za’thul—would be the one. The clan leader who finally saw it fulfilled. The one who’d be remembered for ten thousand years as the patriarch who guided the chosen one.

”It’s the library!” Elder Morven breathed, face pale with awe. ”By the gods, the light—”

”The prophecy,” Za’thul whispered. Then louder, voice cracking with something between joy and terror: ”It’s the prophecy! The chosen one has awakened the tome!”

The meeting hall erupted into chaos. Elders shouting, pushing back from the table—chairs scraping, crystal glasses shattering on marble floors—everyone trying to talk at once. But underneath the chaos was this electric current of pure exhilaration, this crackling anticipation that made the air taste like lightning.

This was it. The moment they’d all been waiting for.

”When dragon blood touches sacred page,

When worthy soul comes of age,

The tome shall wake from ancient sleep,

And power beyond mortal’s keep

Shall bind to one of Freehold line—

The heir who’ll make our clan divine.

Through trial and flame, through pain and loss,

They’ll bear the weight of destiny’s cost.

Immortal path shall open wide,

And glory none can hide.”

The words had been carved into the tomb wall beneath the library for a millennium. Whispered by dying patriarchs to their heirs. Studied until every elder could recite them in their sleep.

And now—now—it was happening.

”It must be one of the family!” Elder Korren said, eyes wide. ”Who was in the library? Who—”

Za’thul’s mind raced. Saphira had asked for library access this morning—he remembered signing the authorization, remembered thinking it was good she was taking an interest in clan history. And Edvard had been with her, he’d seen them together in the courtyard earlier, Edvard showing off some new Bladeguard technique while Saphira watched with that calculating expression she got when planning something.

Please let it be Saphira, he thought desperately. Please.

His daughter. His heir. If she was the chosen one, his line would be secured for ten thousand years. The clan would rise under Freehold leadership—not just in Arvia Province, but across all of Doha. The branch families would bow. The rival clans would submit. All the shame of having a Voidforge child, all the whispers and pitying looks, would be forgotten. Washed away by this triumph.

His father would’ve wept to see it. His grandfather would’ve lived to see it, if only—

But if it was Edvard...

He glanced at Kato, who was staring at the golden light with an expression of pure, unbridled triumph. Like he’d already decided his son was the chosen one and was planning how to leverage that into claiming clan leadership. How to push Za’thul aside and take what he’d always believed should’ve been his.

”We need to get to the library!” Za’thul ordered, already moving toward the doors. ”Now! The chosen one will need protection, guidance—”

”This is it,” Elder Morven said, voice shaking with emotion. ”After a thousand years of waiting, the prophecy has finally come true. In our lifetime, Za’thul. The destined one came in your lifetime.”

Unlike his father, who’d died bitter and disappointed, convinced the ancestors had lied. Unlike his grandfather, who’d spent his last years raging that the prophecy was nothing but cruel hope designed to torment each generation of leaders.

Za’thul wouldn’t die with regret. He would see the Freehold clan rise to dominate not just their province, but all of Doha. Would see the immortal path open. Would guide the chosen one to greatness and be remembered as the patriarch who’d made it all possible.

This is my redemption, he thought as the elders rushed toward the doors in a mass of expensive robes and excited shouting. My legacy. The thing that’ll make every sacrifice worth it.

Someone was already calling for guards. Someone else was demanding they send word to the branch families immediately. The political machinery was spinning up, everyone calculating angles and allegiances based on who the chosen one might be.

Za’thul’s hands trembled as he pushed through the doors and into the courtyard.

The golden light was already fading, settling back down like the sun after a flare. But it’d been there. Real. Undeniable. Tangible enough that he could still see afterimages when he blinked, golden shapes dancing across his vision like fireflies.

Please be Saphira. Please be my daughter.

They ran toward the library—and wasn’t that ridiculous? Dignified clan elders running like children toward a festival? But nobody cared about dignity right now. This was bigger than dignity. This was destiny.

Kato kept pace beside him, and Za’thul could practically hear his brother’s thoughts. My son. The chosen one. Finally, I can take what should’ve been mine.

The political maneuvering would start the moment they confirmed which child had awakened the tome. Za’thul knew it. Kato knew it. They all knew it.

But first—first they needed to reach the library. Needed to see who the Divine Tome had chosen. Needed to understand what price had been paid, because power always came with a price on Doha.

Always.