THE EMPEROR OF ASHES By the time Silas reached the Obsidian Citadel, the war was already over. Kael Bloodhand sat upon a throne of melted crowns; his armor forged from the husks of fallen gods. He’d conquered the Sun Steppes with sand dragons, shattered the Sky Monasteries with gravity-witches, and poisoned the Whisperwood’s heart-tree with a single drop of his own black blood. No hero could touch him. Swords shattered against his skin. Spells unraveled at his breath. Prophecies died in the throats of seers. Silas—a librarian from a burnt city—knelt in the throne room, clutching not a weapon, but a clay teapot. Kael’s generals laughed, their teeth filed to points. “Another fool bearing gifts?” Kael’s voice was stones grinding in a grave. “Not a gift,” Silas said, pouring steaming jasmine into a cracked cup. “A surrender.” He offered the cup. No poison (Kael was immune). No trick (his mages scanned it). Just tea, steeped in water from the last free spring. Kael drank. And froze. Silas w...
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