Night had fallen over Dun Caerwyn, but the city burned with life.

From the heights of Caerwyn Keep to the misted banks of Loch Faine, flame and music lit the cobbled streets in a blaze of gold and red. Torches flared from rooftops, pyres danced on every hill, and firelight shimmered in the loch below, turning water into molten glass.

The Feast of the First Flame was in full bloom.

Crowds thronged the plazas, faces glowing with sweat and laughter. Many drunk and others sober. The air was thick with the scent of pinewood smoke, roasted venison, and honey-glazed oatbread. Musicians played on corners and balconies—pipes, drums, and lyres filling the streets with their wild, rising pulse.

Clan Caerwyn stood at the royal dais, dressed in midnight blue and silver. Lady Mairen Caerwyn watched with quiet pride, her silver eyes reflecting the sacred pyre behind her.

From the Stormcoast came the Brannachs, loud and briny, draped in sea-green and storm-black. Tormac Brannach arrived with his sons on his heels, singing and toasting before they even reached the square. Laughter followed them like waves.

In the shadows near the ancient raven statue, Clan Morvane stood in violet and black. Siora Morvane burned incense at a stone altar while her kin whispered prayers to the Wyrd. They did not cheer, but the weight of their presence was felt all the same. Many were curious, and many steered their children away. They were both feared and respected.

Across the plaza thundered Clan Dunrath, blazing in red and bronze. Baran Dunrath laughed like a forge come to life, already challenging other clans to contests of strength before the games had begun. He had always been brash, eager to prove his worth in the most kind-hearted of ways.

Clan Fenvara was there too, silent and subtle in their moss-green cloaks. Velan Fenvara, the “Marsh Wolf,” perched atop a terrace, watching with a half-smile as her scouts wove through the crowd, playing tricks and slipping between fire-shadows and scaring the children of the city before watching the young-ones burst into bright laughter.

Near the bardic stage, Edrin Thornevale of the southern valleys charmed nobles and commoners alike with his silver tongue. His voice rose above the music, telling tales of Queen Elbrae the Flameborn, drawing cheers and coin in equal measure. It was a rather entertaining sight that came with every season.

Even the Caelduins had come. Their numbers were few, but their flame burned fiercely. Deryn Caelduin, in crimson and gold, led her kin in chants to Aedra, standing tall despite the sidelong glances of older nobles.

Then came the Games.

In the Field of Ashen Vale, torches circled the clearing as champions from each clan stepped forward. The Stonepole Toss began first—long logs hurled end over end into the dark. Dunrath bellowed, Brannach boasted, and Caerwyn’s quiet warrior tossed his pole with precision that stunned the crowd.

Wrestlers clashed in the Trial of the Chain, wrists bound, feet in ash. A Morvane mystic met a Caelduin zealot—their struggle silent, intense, and respectful.

Bards competed in the Golden Lyre Contest, while children ran mock chases through torch-lit mazes, cheered on by elders waving cider mugs. Women danced alongside strangers as clans from everywhere mingled joyfully.

Above it all, the Royal Pyrewas lit. Lady Mairen raised the ceremonial sword and spoke to the crowd: “Let the dark be driven back. Let the Wyrd spin clean. Let flame rise again.”

The crowd erupted. Drums pounded harder, and dancers poured into the square, linking arms across clan lines. The past was not forgotten—old grudges, bitter wars—but for one night, they were Caelbrae. A kingdom that could never be torn down.