Later that day, Seraphina met with an envoy from Greyshore—Rilah, the same former guildmistress who had helped form the council. Now she brought warnings of corruption creeping back through merchant routes.
"They wear new colors," Rilah said bitterly, "but it's the same greed. They bribe port wardens and call it investment. This peace—it's becoming a market for ambition."
Seraphina sighed. "So we write new laws."
"They'll find new loopholes."
"Then we tighten the circles."
Rilah offered a wan smile. "You were better at swords."
Seraphina smiled despite herself. "Swords don't talk back."
Alaric stood on the training field once used by the Firewatch. Now, it served as a civil academy—a place to train marshals, builders, mediators. Fewer swords. More tools.
But his former captains came often, unsure of their place in this peaceful world.
"They're restless," he told Seraphina one evening. "Not because they miss blood. Because they miss purpose."
She sat beside him on the stone bench, resting her head on his shoulder.
"So give them one," she whispered. "Teach them to be the shield now, not the sword."
He turned to her. "I thought that would be your job."
She smiled. "We share the realm, remember?"
The first major conflict came not with blades, but with votes.
A delegation from the Northern Dells refused to accept council orders to redistribute grain stores, claiming it would weaken their winter reserves.
Tamina slammed her fist on the table. "They threaten secession."
Adrienne raised a brow. "Or worse, they wait for another enemy to rise and offer them a better deal."
Seraphina faced them all. "Then we meet them not with force, but presence. I'll ride north myself."
Silence followed.
"You don't need to prove yourself again," Alaric said gently.
"I'm not. But the realm does."
The night before her departure north, Seraphina returned to the garden where she and Alaric had danced beneath the ember moon.
He waited there, firelight flickering against his dark tunic.
"I wish you didn't have to go alone," he said.
"I won't be alone. I'll ride with Adrienne, and my council sends its will."
Alaric drew her close, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'll keep the hearth lit," he said softly.
She kissed him, long and slow, before whispering, "And I'll bring the dawn."
The parchment crackled under Seraphina's fingers. It was the fifth petition today—this one from the Midvale artisans' guild, objecting to her grain reallocation. Beneath their eloquent grievances was the same message she'd seen again and again:
We suffered too. Why must we give more than others?
Across the chamber, Lysandra read aloud from a different missive. "Dredgewatch refuses to send its iron shipments until their borders are redrawn. They claim the Choir's attacks altered ancestral lines."
Tamina scoffed. "Their ancestors didn't hold maps. They're extorting peace."
Adrienne stepped into the room, brushing soot from her shoulder. "There's more. Word from the southern port—Zhayat. A merchant fleet is flying neutral banners to avoid new taxes. But one of them flies colors last seen with the exiled Syndicate."
Seraphina rubbed her temples. "Neutrality is a veil. We should not be fighting war with ink instead of steel, but the realm frays at every stitch."
Lysandra met her gaze. "This is the war after the war, Sera. And it will not be won quickly."
Seraphina stood slowly. "Then we learn to wield a pen as we once wielded fire."
That evening, Alaric found her alone in the Hall of Memory—where tapestries of the old world now hung beside the newly commissioned banners of peace. She sat on the steps, hands idle in her lap.
"I heard about Dredgewatch," he said quietly, sitting beside her.
She nodded. "And Zhayat. And Midvale. And the Dells."
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"Angry?" She let out a dry laugh. "I am exhausted. Compromise costs more than war. At least war is honest. Peace is... hungry. Endless."
He hesitated before responding. "And do you regret it?"
"No," she whispered. "But I miss who I was. When everything was burning, I knew what had to be done. Now I ask too often: 'What is fair? What is enough?'"
He reached for her hand. "You carry fire still, Sera. But now you carry it in your voice."
She leaned against him. "Then help me speak louder."
At the next dawn's council meeting, the room rang with raised voices.
"We must centralize trade authority," Lysandra argued. "Let the capital regulate flow. It'll prevent extortion."
"No," Tamina countered. "That invites rebellion. The regions need agency, not dictates."
Adrienne added coolly, "If we do nothing, we bleed from within."
Seraphina raised her hand—and silence fell like an axe.
"Each of you is right. And each of you forgets—we are one flame. Not scattered sparks."
She turned to a large map pinned against the wall. Red markers dotted areas of unrest.
"We form Flamekeepers—neutral emissaries chosen from mixed regions. They'll mediate disputes, enforce trade codes, and rebuild trust."
Lysandra hesitated. "That's bold."
Tamina nodded slowly. "It might work."
Adrienne only smirked. "You're learning politics, Sera. I'm almost proud."
That night, Seraphina stood by her window, watching lights flicker across Highcourt. She felt the pressure of ten thousand voices resting on her shoulders.
Alaric joined her, wordless, just offering the comfort of his presence.
"You once promised we'd build a garden," she said quietly.
He kissed her temple. "We are."
She leaned into him. "Then help me pull the weeds."