The Price Of Light

The sky bled red that morning.

Richard stood at the edge of the burned village, ashes clinging to his cloak. The scorched remains of the rebel outpost lay silent beneath his feet. The Flameborn patrol behind him watched in reverent fear — none dared speak as the wind carried the scent of charred wood and old blood.

He had done it. Again.

Another rebel cell. Another village silenced. Another victory.

And he hated himself more than ever.

---

They called him "The Radiant Warden" now.

A title soaked in irony. Radiance? What light remained in him?

When he had raised the sigil of the royal family and burned through the rebel barricade, children had screamed. Some had fled. One — a little boy with freckles and a wooden sword — had stood his ground, trying to protect a weeping woman. Richard could still see the terror in the boy's eyes before the flames took them both.

His flames.

They said it was a necessary purge. That rebels threatened peace.

But that boy had never picked up steel.

Only wood.

---

"Sir." Lieutenant Marek approached, helmet tucked under one arm. "The Crown sent word. They're...pleased. The Queen herself said your service honors the Light."

Richard didn't respond.

"Also... Lady Maria has requested your return to the Inner Court. She's asked for you by name."

That name used to mean something. Back when Maria still saw him as a man. Before the purges. Before the blood.

He turned away. "Tell her I'm not ready."

Marek frowned. "With respect, sir — she might not wait forever."

"Then she shouldn't," Richard said. "Tell her I'm still washing ash from my soul."

---

That night, the dreams came again.

Not of fire.

But of Lucy.

He saw her in the moonlight, her hands still rough from sword work, eyes soft with kindness and steel. She'd begged him to stop following orders. Begged him to question the Crown.

He hadn't listened.

He'd tried to forget her face.

But it returned in every rebel corpse, every scream that wasn't quite hers.

---

At dawn, he took a horse and rode east, away from the encampment. Away from the Flameborn banners. He needed silence. He needed something real.

Instead, he found a ghost.

In the ruins of a forgotten monastery, a figure waited beneath the broken statue of Solen, god of flame and justice.

"Richard."

The voice was unmistakable.

Lucy.

She was alive.

She had changed — older, sharper. Her hair was cropped short, her armor was scavenged, and her hands no longer trembled. But her voice still held the fire of conviction.

"I thought you were dead," he said, dismounting. His voice cracked with disbelief.

"I should be," she said coldly. "You made sure of that."

He flinched.

"I burned that tower to stop the Crown's assassins," he said. "I didn't know you were still inside."

She smiled. A cruel one. "They told me that lie, too."

---

They stood apart, the silence between them heavier than armor.

She finally said, "You've become the Crown's executioner."

"I became what the world needed."

"No," she said. "You became what they feared."

He had no reply.

"Do you still believe in the Light?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore."

Lucy stepped closer. "Then let me show you."

From a leather satchel, she pulled out a scroll — old, cracked, and sealed with wax. It bore the sigil of the First Flame — the forbidden order that the royal family had buried in history.

"What is that?"

"The truth," Lucy said. "About the Flameborn. About the Crown. About you."

---

Flashback: Five Years Ago

A young Richard knelt in the Temple of Solen, flames flickering around him as the priest anointed his brow with sacred oil.

"You were born of light, child. The Crown will shape your soul. You will burn away the wicked. Even if the wicked cry like children."

Richard, no older than fifteen, swallowed hard. "Even if they beg?"

"Especially then."

---

Back in the ruins, the fire in Richard's core flickered.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, eyes fixed on the scroll.

"There's a camp of truth-seekers," she said. "Exiled historians. Survivors. Even some rogue Flameborn who woke up before the blood drowned them."

"And you want me to what? Defect?"

"I want you to remember who you were," Lucy said. "Before the Crown remade you."

He clenched his fists. "I don't know if that boy still exists."

"He does," she whispered. "I see him. Right now."

---

The sun crested the horizon. For a moment, it seemed the world held its breath.

Richard stepped back.

"If I take that scroll," he said, "I become a traitor."

Lucy nodded. "Or a hero. Depends who's telling the story."

His fingers brushed the wax seal.

Everything in his blood screamed duty. Everything in his soul screamed stop.

Then — he broke the seal.

The truth began to burn.

And for the first time in years, Richard felt light touch him without searing.

End of Chapter 11