What Came Next
The sky above the suede-grey plains of New Ascendia did not bleed, but as the long night of the Midwinter Solstice spread across the world, it froze.
High upon the edge of the Ethereal Spire, Pyreos watched the distant, muted motions of the surviving mortals far below. Midwinter in the old world had been a time of roaring bonfires, feast-hall oaths, and warm wine. In New Ascendia, it was merely the coldest night of the year. His gold-trimmed robes draped heavily in the still air, no longer singed by white fire, yet smelling incessantly of cold ash. In his right hand, he held the newly forged scale—a balanced thing given to him by Mortivane and Primus. It did not tip to the floor as the old Flame Scale had. It remained perfectly, infuriatingly level.
“They do not riot,” Pyreos spoke, his tone the low, dry crackle of faint embers. “They light no illegal fires, nor do they wage war to steal their neighbour’s grain to survive the frost. The ledger is clean.”
Beside him, Andraste rested her forearm on the pommel of her sword. Her copper skin had greyed by the dust of a planet reborn, and she spat onto the frosted stone floor.
“The ledger is clean because the ledger is empty, brother. Look at them down there in the dark. They huddle in their mud-and-ash huts, staring at single hearth-sparks, waiting for the sun to return. It is Midwinter—the night meant for gathering, for raising banners and declaring loyalty. Yet they sit as rocks. They are easy to govern, yes. But they are cattle.”
“Order is not cattle, Andraste,” Pyreos snapped, his eyes smouldering with a defensive heat. “Control is the only guard against another unmaking. If they are quiet, they survive the frost. If they are safe, I do not have to burn them.”
“They do not sing,” a phantom voice murmured from the dark corner of the terrace.
Phobion materialised from within the shadows, his many-layered indigo silks draped motionless despite the biting solstice wind. His irises shifted like grease on water as he glided toward the edge.
“They do not gather to keep the dark away because they have nothing to gather for. They huddle in their shelters because I frighten them into survival, and they obey you because they fear your light. But a Midwinter without feast or fellowship is hollow, Arbiter. A world of obedient ghosts in the dark is easy to control, but it has no weight. If Primus reached out to erase them again tonight, they would offer no resistance to the void.”
Pyreos set his jaw, his broad chest rising as he looked away from his siblings. “I care for balance, not their songs. Control keeps the peace.”
“Peace without spirit is merely stagnation,” Andraste growled, turning her back on the Arbiter. “Come, Phobion. If the Magistrate wishes to rule a frozen burial ground of quiet sheep, let him. We have a fire to kindle.” She halted at the threshold, then looked back once, eyes hard. “Midwinter or not, the world will not stay silent for long.”