The Starborn Codex: Entry IV, Continued

The Fracture of Flame

The Court responsible would later be erased from formal record.

Their name was struck from the ledgers, their sigils wiped – their ancient lineage scattered into dust and quiet bloodlines.

This is why most of the sanctioned histories now speak of five fragments and of the Five Courts, as though the Realms had always been so tidy. They were not.

There were six.

They were a Court who revered the sun as the purest expression of power. They taught that power was proof of worth, and that brilliance was not merely guidance, but a mandate upon all who bore their lineage.

To the fallen Court, the persisting division of the Starfallen was an abject failure upon all the Realms; all of the Regents.

Six fragments, scattered like careless seeds.
Power diluted by distance.
Authority weakened by restraint.

They believed the shards were meant to be gathered. To be unified. To be returned to a single will bright enough to command them.

Their first efforts were not violent.

They sent envoys beneath banners of warmth and shared purpose. Their emissaries often came speaking of balance and the merit of making something broken whole again. Of a future where the Realms would no longer circle one another in suspicion, but stand aligned beneath a single, radiant order.

Most of the High Regents declined. Politely. Diplomatically.
There were more pressings things at hand, they would proffer.

Ember, in all its burning pride, did not meet the proposals with any answer at all.

And so, the doctrine sharpened.

If the fragments could not be persuaded to unite, then they would be proven capable of answering to another. Of working, themselves, toward unison.

Their gaze turned to the Court of forge and flame.
To the shard that burned most fiercely in its natural state.
To the power that shaped steel, war and boundary alike.

They did not announce their intent – they are far too clever to give any warning. Instead, they infiltrated.

Scholars first.
Observers.
They mapped the resonance within the forges, and measured the cadence of the fragment’s pulse beneath the mountain.
They listened for what answered when another fragment was brought close.

And then, in a single night – recorded only in fractures and missing pieces within the ledgers of Ember’s vaults – the attempt became something more.

What began as influence became an incursion. What was once only presence, evolved finally into force.

They did not come in open ranks; but they did come prepared.

There are gaps in the record here. Pages removed. Names burned away.

The Archivists can say only this with certainty:

Steel was drawn.
Fire answered.
Blood was spilled.
And many were lost.

They did not succeed in taking the shard, but they came close enough to leave a wound the Court of Ember still carries.

Three sentinels did not rise again, and Ember’s High Regent, once known to walk unarmoured among her people, was carried from the inner chamber with wounds no salve could swiftly mend.

It was the first time a High Regent had bled by the hand of another Court.

From that night onward, Ember changed.

Once known for their pride, splendour, and a courage so open it had never imagined being tested – Ember now learned caution.

Armour was no longer ceremonial.
Wards were no longer symbolic.
Borders were no longer matters of courtesy.

The Court of Flame began to prepare for what was now, to their High Regent, an inevitability.

The other Courts noticed the change, in time.

They called it severity, overreach, unnecessary posturing.

They wondered why the Ember Regent no longer removed her armour.
Why she no longer stood unguarded before friend or emissary – or only very few.
Why the Court of Flame remained prepared for battle even in age of supposed peace.

You may wonder why, until this day, the Ember Fae do not lay down their shields.

Now, Emissary, you understand it.