Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 82: I Knew the Flame Was Trouble

I didn’t finish the memo.

When I heard the knock.

It wasn’t a runner. It was him—the Hero. Quiet, unreadable, holding more tension in his silence than most scouts packed in full after-action reports. I passed him a scroll. He read it, once, slowly. Gave a short nod and left.

No questions. No delay.

The door didn’t even close fully before I started pulling up the regional index.

I had a bad feeling.

Ashring had been flagged as closed-case some days ago. A cultural hazard, sure, but no longer active. The settlement, the flame events, even the Sovereign’s reemergence—all marked as "contained, no expansion predicted."

But the signs had started showing again. Not bright. Not loud. Just quiet repeats. Same shapes, same marks. Whispered references to a "second Sovereign" in places where that title never existed.

I’d thought maybe it was coincidence. Copies. Survivors talk. Rumors.

But then I opened the Silverroot Basin archives.

There it was.

A scout file I’d dismissed as static—just a few charcoal sketches on a torn field page. Spiral shapes. One framed in a box. A note written beside it: "They etched this in bark. Said it meant safety."

I hadn’t paid it much attention at the time. The scout didn’t stick around. No flame activity, no confrontation, just tagged the site and moved on.

But I had a bad feeling about this.

So I went back and re-read everything.

Silverroot wasn’t the only oddity. I cross-checked three other peripheral posts and found matching phrasing in reports from other scouts.

One.

Two: "A burnt statue shaped like a kobold. No ID, no sigil."

Three: "Marked a spiral into clay. Said it kept bad dreams out."

None were connected on the map. But the behavior? It lined up too well.

And none of them said the word Ashring.

I pulled the anomaly list. Filtered by mimic tagging, spiral shape variants, and flame-affiliated settlement phrases.

There were more than I wanted.

Again, a few merchant complaints from the lower pass. Something about "hearth glyphs" sold as protection charms. A sighting of unfamiliar figures digging near a collapsed fort. One relay from a junior analyst in the Bramblehollow sector, who flagged a prayer stone etched with unfamiliar flame shaped iconography.

Nothing urgent. Nothing flagged red.

That was a problem.

It was all grey.

Nothing bad enough to spark a response.

Nothing small enough to ignore.

And each of them had one common point—they were all circling the basin. The zone just beyond where Ashring fell and flared back up.

I leaned back and looked at the full map.

These weren’t outbursts.

They were survey markers.

Whoever was behind this wasn’t trying to take the world.

They were trying to do something else.

Standard guild notification—access request flagged to my name.

Requester: Quicktongue.

That made me pause.

She was from Ashring. Why would she travel from that far to meet me?

I authorized the access.

Not five minutes later, she was at my door.

She didn’t knock. Just walked in, expression like she’d skipped three meals and two explanations to get here.

"I need to see the report on Ashring," she said.

I nodded once and pulled it up. She didn’t wait for me to offer a seat. Just leaned forward and scrolled fast, lips moving as she read.

When she reached the part with the bark fragment—the one where the Sovereign’s handwriting was found sealed into copper—she stopped.

Didn’t speak for a long time.

Just stared at the report’s sealed copper trace, like the scratch-etch of bark might peel away and say something if she waited long enough. ƒreewebɳovel.com

Then her hands clenched.

"Do you still have the map tags for this sector?" she asked. Not looking up.

"Yes," I said. "But they’re cold. Last recorded movement was—"

"Don’t care. Open them."

I keyed the request. The map expanded, a soft hum filling the room as the trace-line loaded. She stepped closer. Her eyes met mine.

Then her hand hovered just above the terrain render.

---

I left the office with a list of ten names and half a dozen flagged trade routes. Didn’t wait for escort. Didn’t bother asking permission. I wasn’t in the mood for protocol.

Here we were again.

I started with the outer circuits—side posts where merchants filed copy-claims and minor relay pings. Most of it was junk. Luck charms, false relics, resale junk pawned off to outer-border hopefuls. Nothing new.

Until I found a slip in the Gladhollow manifest.

A merchant from the Dustwell Ring filed a temporary delay claim. Said he’d had to detour due to "glyph-recognition conflicts." That phrase stood out. Most people wouldn’t even use it unless a flame marker tripped a system delay.

I traced it to his item list.

One scroll tube, unlabeled.

One chipped basin with etched fireline.

One carved stone fragment with looping text.

That last one had a sketch.

I flagged the route and pinged for his next stop. Cross-checked with the route office. He’d moved west—off route. No more updates.

Either he got paid to stop logging reports...

Or someone paid better to take his cargo.

The relay office didn’t want to talk. Took three reminders of my clearance to get them to even show me the access logs.

Most of it was junk traffic. But one relay caught my eye.

Westbank Crossing. Last recorded use: three days ago.

Private signal. No origin listed. No recipient.

Just a seven-flare pulse, coded to low-frequency tradelight.

I checked the system registry.

Seven-flare wasn’t standard anymore.

Hadn’t been since the guild restructured outer trade permissions.

But Ashring used it.

Not because it meant anything. Just because it was the only frequency that didn’t echo off dungeon walls.

I logged out and rubbed at my temples.

Mimic and deliberate reuse.

Which meant someone was building around it.

I slept three hours.

It was barely dawn when I got there. Merchants were still setting up. Street dogs still chewing on last night’s trash.

I found the flameprint within twenty minutes.

Painted on a wooden stall post. Rough, uneven.

I crouched to study it.

Someone behind the stall cleared their throat.

"Looking to buy?"

I stood. Kept my voice even.

"Just browsing."

"You know what it means?"

"No one ever really knows," I said.

They laughed.

Then leaned in, conspiratorial.

"Means safe fire. Not from the big places, you know? From the old spots. Real kindling work."

I blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Ah. You’re new. Don’t worry. Folks talk. Say it came from a place that fought off a dungeon surge."

My chest tightened.

"Name of the place?"

The merchant shrugged. "Changes. Ashburn. Flamehold. Second Ember. Depends on who you ask."

They paused.

If you asked five people where they came from, you’d get five different answers.

I didn’t leave the stall right away.

Slid into a side alley, watched the crowd shift. Vendors calling out discounts. One street juggler balancing too close to a flame pot. Kids chasing after sweet-pebble carts. Just a market. Just noise.

I noticed someone was watching me.

A woman in travel leathers, leaning like she’d been standing there too long for it to be casual. Didn’t fit the vendor flow. No satchel. No coin stick.

Just waiting.

I stepped back into the open.

She moved.

Intercepted fast, like a tax enforcer—but her eyes didn’t scan my pouch or badge. Just my hands. Like she expected me to be carrying something hot.

"Investigator?" she asked.

I froze. Didn’t answer.

She stepped closer. "You flagged a stall."

"Did I?"

"You touched the paint."

"I study glyphs. Touching’s part of the job."

"You flagged it," she repeated, voice tightening.

I took a breath. Shifted my weight. "You going to write me up for interest?"

She didn’t answer.

Just moved.

Low grab, toward my coat—maybe for the scroll pouch.

I twisted hard, planted my elbow into her wrist and knocked the hand away. She came back faster than I liked—training, maybe. Hired or warned. Definitely not freelance.

I ducked under a follow-up grab and shoved her back with a knee between the ribs.

She hit a crate and coughed.

The nearby merchant didn’t yell. Didn’t move.

Just turned away.

Which told me everything.

This wasn’t her first time making someone disappear in plain sight.

She surged again, but I was faster now—pulled a shard dagger from my boot and slashed low. Didn’t cut. Didn’t have to. Just gave her a choice.

She chose retreat.

Spat once. "Should’ve left the mark alone."

Then vanished down the side street, cloak pulling smoke in her wake.

I stood still for a long time.

Market kept moving.

Vendors kept shouting.

The flameprint was still there.

I walked away.

Back at the post, I compiled everything.

Drafted a pattern grid. Pulled route data. Marked merchant chatter against guild events.

Every line kept circling the same three facts:

One, someone was moving Ashring’s imagery westward.

Two, none of them were kobolds I recognized.

Three, none of it was hostile.

Not overtly.

Now I just think we’re the ones behind.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l