Far above mortal skies, nestled within a floating citadel of ever-burning gold, the Court of Flame flickered with restless power.
Its throne hall—a living forge of molten pillars and dancing cinders—shimmered with heat not from fire alone, but from rising tension. Divine envoys moved like heatwaves through the corridors, whispering rumors too volatile to speak aloud in the open.
At the center of it all stood Lord Emberlain, the Flame Court's high regent, carved from living flame and regal fury. His eyes—two blazing suns—were fixed upon a suspended mirror made of phoenix glass.
Within it, Chen Ming's image flickered, walking through the obsidian gates of the opposing court.
Emberlain exhaled, and a gust of fire swept across the chamber.
"So," he rumbled, "the God of Yang has entered the wolf's mouth."
Behind the Throne
Hidden in the shadows just beyond the dais, a trio of figures observed silently.
The first was cloaked in crimson silk, her face masked, but her voice warm and sharp. "He carries more than fire now. The Obsidian Court won't know what hit them."
The second wore armor made of glowing runes, sigils of long-dead suns etched into his skin. "He's too bold. He exposes himself to corruption."
The third—a slight woman with golden eyes—said nothing, but tapped her fingers against her lips, watching Chen's image with unnerving stillness.
Political Ripples
Emberlain turned, voice laced with both pride and frustration. "They'll attempt to bend him. Break him. Seduce him into their games."
The runic man grunted. "And if he plays along?"
"Then we'll burn him out," said the masked woman, "before he becomes their puppet."
But Emberlain raised a hand. "No."
He looked again at the mirror—where Chen stood tall, his flames steady even within the black-walled throne room of the Obsidian Court.
"We've seen enough gods fall. Let's see if he rises."
Divine Betting Table
Elsewhere in the court—beneath the halls of judgment—a side chamber buzzed with divine tension of a more… playful kind.
A circular table glowed with shifting odds. Names, titles, outcomes flickered with probability.
Over it leaned Flame Envoy Jessa, a sultry demigoddess of smolder and smoke.
"He's up to 64% survival odds now," she said, sipping molten nectar. "And 45% chance of seduction within the hour."
An old divine gambler snorted. "The Obsidian Priestesses are betting which part of him gives out first. I say it's his will."
Jessa smirked. "I say it's the bedframe."
The chamber roared with laughter.
But in the corner, a smaller mirror glowed faintly—Chen's face in it, unreadable, burning with quiet fury.
And Jessa's smile faded just slightly.
"…Or maybe we're the ones being played."