Deep within the Lion's Den, all was quiet.
Suleiman sat on the edge of the bed in the lord's chambers. Only one candle burned in the room. He held out his right hand, palm up, and formed a thought in his mind.
He murmured, "Flame."
Suleiman's eyes widened. A strange little flame sprang out of thin air from the very center of his palm. It was only as big as the last joint of his little finger,
bright orange, flickering silently without making a sound.
Its light reflected in his shadowed eyes. There was no delight in them, only curiosity and confusion at this strange phenomenon.
He tried again. It went out, then he murmured once more, "Flame."
The flame appeared again, still just as small, as docile as a tamed animal. No—as docile as a tamed flame.
He closed his eyes, and the bloody, brutal scene he had painted with his own hands surged uncontrollably into his mind. The Wildlings writhed in the blaze, fleeing in every direction with nowhere to hide, until they were burned alive. Their screams seemed to echo in his ears, and blood-red fire engulfed his vision.
Amid those twisted lights and shadows, he saw a magnificent golden goblet slowly appear. A hand wearing a ring set with a blue crystal reached out and lightly dipped the crystal into the goblet.
Was it poison? Was the flame exposing a conspiracy, or something else? Suleiman's eyes flew open. The flame in his palm wavered, and he thought of something deeply troubling. Was the fire's source that burning? Had the lives consumed by the flames bought him this power?
"That can't be..." he muttered, his throat dry.
Suleiman pointed at a candle in the distance that had gone out. Its flame ignited out of thin air, proving