The Essence Flow-Chapter 107: Ash and Sigils
Selene approached
, the remnants of smoke curling at the hem of her gown, her cloak fluttering like a shadow with a heartbeat.
“Come here, Lady Len. You’re favoring your side—let me heal you.”
Her tone was professional but warm. Commanding, in the way only someone with her reputation could be.
Len
, already tense, blinked. Then quickly nodded.
“Thank you, Lady Selene. That would be… most welcome.”
The use of
title
wasn’t just polite—it was
precise
. Even among nobles,
Selene Vaelis
held weight. You didn’t forget that kind of status, especially when she offered
you
her hands.
Essentia flowed between them—pale green and soft as wind-kissed leaves. The torn muscle beneath Len’s skin mended gently, pain draining like water through cracks.
Behind them,
Sylra’s voice cut through the crowd
, cool and unbothered.
“Huh. Still standing, Towan?”
Towan turned, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.
“What can I say?” he shrugged. “This wasn’t as bad as… well,
everything else I’ve been dragged into lately.
”
Sylra snorted.
“Please. You had soot on your face and ash in your hair. You looked like a pissed-off chimney sweep.”
“And you looked like a stormcloud in heels,” he fired back, brushing his shirt off. “You wanna compare fashion or kill counts?”
Sylra tilted her head, silver eyes amused. “You wanna lose both?”
They grinned at each other—easy, practiced.
Len watched the exchange
, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable.
But her thoughts flickered fast behind her eyes:
(They know each other?)
The Auren family didn’t
mingle
. Not with lower houses. Not with
tavern boys.
And certainly not like
that.
This book was originally published on NovelFire. Check it out there for the real experience.
(How does he know an Auren?)
The way Sylra’s tone softened slightly. The way
Selene
had spoken to him earlier—without question, like they shared history.
Towan wasn’t just another commoner caught in a noble disaster.
He was
connected.
The courtyard had quieted.
Most of the guests had been escorted away—bloodied, breathless, but alive. Guards moved like shadows among the wreckage, cataloging bodies, extinguishing lingering flames, and taking down panicked statements. The scent of smoke still hung heavy in the air, laced with scorched silk and Essentia residue.
Ser Varras
approached Towan, shoulders squared but no longer bristling with disdain. The nobleman's uniform was torn at the collar, streaked with soot. His blade arm hung heavy—used, but not trembling.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, tone formal but not stiff. “For my earlier words. You were... a great help.”
Coming from Varras, that might as well have been kneeling.
Towan shrugged
, half-exhausted, half-awkward. “Don’t worry about it. I just did what needed to be done.”
A beat. Then—
“But seriously. What
was
that?”
Before Varras could answer,
Governor Verestra
stepped into view. His expression was hard—drawn tight by anger or calculation, it was hard to tell. His coat, now fully scorched at the hem, had been replaced by a cloak bearing the family crest. His presence filled the space like cold steel.
“Rebels,” he said simply. “Radicals. Anarchists. They want the nobility dismantled. A world ruled by the common hand, not the bloodline.”
Towan’s jaw clenched.
(I get the idea…)
(But this?)
(Slaughtering strangers at a party? No. This was too much.)
Varras spoke again
, quieter, but no less grim. “The outskirts of nearly every major city are unstable. Travel’s dangerous now. Unless you can afford a guard company—
a good
one—you’re a target.”
The Governor nodded. “We don’t have the manpower to cover every trade route, every farm road, every village. We’re barely holding Lockeheart together. And the king…” He exhaled slowly, sharply. “The king remains silent. Our petitions gather dust.”
Towan raised an eyebrow.
“Should you really be telling me all this?”
A pause.
Then the Governor’s eyes dropped to Towan’s sleeve—where the sigils of House Elaren still glowed faintly beneath the soot.
The Governor’s gaze lingered on Towan, unreadable.
“No,” he admitted at last. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you.”
His voice was low—not warm, not cold. Just measured. Like every word had been weighed before being spoken.
“But you fought to protect my daughter. You didn’t hesitate. And more importantly…”
His hand hovered near Towan’s shoulder, not quite touching the fabric—but close enough for the
sigils
to respond.
The faintest shimmer ran through the embroidery.
Navy crescents
, subtle and silent, pulsed once like a held breath released.
“You wear
that
.”
Towan looked down.
The light from the nearby torch caught on the threads—dancing briefly across their curves like stars gliding over water.
(Why… why does this suit react like that?)
(And what the hell is ‘Elaren’…?)
He didn’t say any of it.
Didn’t want to.
Couldn’t.
Not yet.
So instead, he stood still—silent, shoulders squared—pretending that maybe
he
understood what the Governor saw when he looked at him.
.
!
Chapter 107: Ash and Sigils
Comments