Never Fire [ONC2020]

Chapter 3: The Smearing Ash

"I have an audience with Fajhiro at the moment. You are to follow me to the Great Hearth. Please do not speak unless Fajhiro directly addresses you, Farrah of Djianora. Fire burns brightest when provoked," said Zimorrah.

They walked carefully. Though each step was precise and nimble, every one echoed in the grand hall they passed through. Sheer, ghost-like curtains hung from the arched ceiling like lingering smoke, illuminated by the tongues of fire spilling upwards from the braziers, and Sienna's fingers instantly curled tighter around the broken parcel of matches. If this Fajhiro was a false deity, he certainly had the people of Azarahn wrapped around his finger—no, tied and knotted.

    Priests clad in white linen opened a second set of doors, bowing to Zimorrah as she passed through the entrance. Sienna trailed close behind.

    "Priestess Zimorrah and a companion have arrived, Fajhiro," announced a voice from inside the room.

    A single flight of stairs flowed into what seemed to be a throne room.  This Great Hearth flared out at the bottom and met at the top, a perfect shape of a match-light. Sienna shivered despite the heat that filled the room from the braziers. She thought of the many throne rooms she'd been in before—Porath, Fleira, and countless others—and recognized the intentionality of the design immediately. More of the translucent curtains that hung from the gallows of the narrow, high ceiling on either side of the room; the stairs leading to a platform, and an elevated platform far away with the throne . . . like all the other throne rooms she'd been in, everything pointed to the person sitting at the center of it all.

    Fajhiro.

He dressed like a god but did not look it. Rich, crimson silks fashioned into an elegant robe adorned him, gold leaf contorting around it like flames. An expensive, violet sash acted as a belt, and sandals of real leather hugged his clean feet. If the people had chosen to dress him so, they had chosen well—the clothing was refined and yet spirited, a perfect representation of a warm, graceful fire in a hearth. A god of a Great Hearth, no doubt.

But, looking at him as Zimorrah and Sienna knelt at the platform, Sienna saw that his face told a different story. Gentle eyes, warm, perhaps. But kind? The man's—the god of fire's—dark, furrowed eyebrows and hard-set jaw said otherwise. His clothes may have been of the soft embers, but Fajhiro himself was of the raging flames, not a god but a man with a caged temper that if tampered with would make his pride tender to the touch.

Whether he was a farce or a powerful being, Sienna could not tell. If he was indeed a farce, he was extremely good at playing his part.

"A companion," he suddenly noted, repeating the announcer in a rich and yet dry voice that seemed to crackle like fire. "Zimorrah?"

Lifting her veil over her head, Zimorrah stood. "Farrah of Djianora, my lord. A traveler. She brings something of value from her lands and deemed seeking an audience with you as of utmost urgency. I beg your forgiveness for the unannounced company."