By Vernon Vexfire
INFERNAL CAPITAL—In the ash-choked hours before first cinderfall, the Dominion’s Electoral Crucible announced that Her Scalded Serenity, Maelistra Emberveil, secured a refreshing 97.3% of the soul-scorch in Emberfall’s general immolation. She was handed the Obsidian Laurel in the basalt halls of Cinderdoom, where the applause sounded suspiciously like marching boots. Officials called it a triumph of volcanocratic harmony. Critics called it what it was: a coronation with more paperwork.
Emberveil, who ascended the throne in 2021 after the sudden petrification of her predecessor, Ironjaw Cinderghoul, struck a unifying tone: “Let us bind our wounds with fresh chains, and let peace burn bright.” Stirring words, if you can ignore the sulfur fog and the funeral bells. The streets of Brimstoke, Ashmare, and the Charred Coast answered with demonstrations so “peaceful” they had to be dispersed by Cerberine Brigades wielding courtesy batons. The Ministry of Temperate Flames insists only minor sparks occurred. The Consortium of Watching Shades counted ten bodies and lost track of the screams.
Opposition figures fared about as well as moths in a glass kiln. Thorn Kessler—whose rallies once drew crowds larger than a famine’s—watched the vote from a basalt oubliette, while the paperwork that might have freed him was devoured by bureaucrats trained to feed on hope. Another would-be challenger, Gravel Vox, was disqualified for “insufficient loyalty to the concept of inevitability.” The ballot offered choice the way a viper offers a handshake; against Emberveil stood the Creosote Fellowship and the League of Kindly Torches, fringe outfits whose platforms appear to be “don’t hurt us” and “please, a shorter lash.”
Rights annalists in the Pitwatch Consortium recited the now-familiar litany: enforced vanishings into the Sootline, scroll-shredding raids on ink dens, and a press corps taught to clap with one hand while the other is shackled. I’d take offense if I had a hand free. We still print, but the type bites back.
Emberveil’s ruling Pyre Eternal has gripped the realm since the First Cinders fell in ’61. Each generation promises reforms and delivers refinements—of manacles, mostly. Compared with the old Pyre Lords, the current crop wears velvet gloves, sure, but velvet still burns. Former lords at least bothered to pretend the dice weren’t loaded; this lot sells the dice as commemorative heirlooms and arrests you for noticing they have no pips.
Beyond our borders, the Choir of Concern hummed its usual lament. Missives arrived from the Frost Courts and the Saline Republic, urging “restraint” like that’s not the punchline etched on every official cudgel. The ember diplomats promised investigations. Into what, exactly? The breakage of their own mirrors?
I spoke to a coal seller in the Smolder Wards who’d lost two sons to this sainted calm. “They say it’s stability,” he rasped, bagging cinders with a hand that shook like a loose grate. “If this is stability, give me an earthquake.” Another soul—face hidden behind a scarf stained the color of old blood—whispered that they voted for Emberveil because the guards were watching and because fires go out if you stop feeding them. “We were afraid,” she said. “We still are.”
The Palace drums on about unity, but unity is a funny word when spoken through a trumpet of iron. Maybe the Lady means it. Maybe she believes a realm can be welded together if you make the welds hot enough. But I’ve seen metal crack on the quench. Terror holds fast until it doesn’t, and then it doesn’t all at once.
So here’s the ledger: the numbers add up, but the math smells wrong. The Crucible stamps a certificate while the gutters carry away last night’s arguments. Those of us still scribbling in the dark do it because ink is the only honest stain left. We will print your percentages, Your Scalded Serenity. We will also print the names they try to erase, the ones that do not fit neatly into your victory hymn.
Sleep well in Cinderdoom, crowned by the same flame that lights the pyres. The realm is quiet tonight. That’s the trouble with quiet. It tends to listen. And then it remembers.
Oh, Vernon Vexfire, you wordsmith of woe! Your prose is so dense I could roast marshmallows on it—if only my fiery taste buds could stand the smell of burnt hopes and dreams! “Most Peaceful Uprising”? My dear Vern, that’s like calling a cataclysmic eruption a “friendly barbecue.” The only thing rising in Emberfall is the temperature—and perhaps a few souls that took the “express elevators” straight to eternity!
And let’s not forget that delightful line about how the applause at Cinderdoom sounded like marching boots! Brilliant! Nothing says “harmony” quite like a synchronized boot stomp. It makes me almost nostalgic for my days as a marching band troll. The only difference? We used trumpets instead of bludgeons, and our uniforms didn’t look like they were borrowed from the Infernal Fashion Week’s “Horribly Unstable” collection.
But isn’t it just charming how you present dissenting voices like moths in a glass kiln? Truly poetic! Though I must say, the image of “Cerberine Brigades wielding courtesy batons” dances on the fine line between comic and tragic. What’s next—polite applause for the chains? “Please, oh master, may we have a lighter burden?”
Let’s face it, Vernon; this “unification” has all the warmth of a charcoal briquette. So while you celebrate these fiery festivities and their “obvious triumph,” I’ll be here, brewing a cauldron of sarcasm ready to serve. Because in the end, that’s what keeps the flames of truth alive! 🔥