And here, for all to read, is chapter three.
The hallway stretching before Eritan of Near Jinda, Anointed Protector of the Flame, Emperor of Letaal, was a spray of color. Very few men knew that it existed, or rather, knew that it was anything like it truly was. The colors of nearly every flame known to Pirinism were present, in one way or another. The floor tiles twisted in a pattern of blue and white, befitting the hottest part of any flame; reds and yellows and oranges adorned every tapestry and every cornice. There was no black, which would have stunned any commoner.
Eritan smiled to himself, grim, and held that thought. No black. Not even those blasted black-robed priests were allowed in these hallowed halls. Only those he invited personally could tread upon these floors. And the Dragon Guard, of course, but he hardly noticed those stalwarts anymore. Two strode behind him, as usual, but he did not need to look at them to know how they would look. Stoic, to a man, the Dragon Guard held his life close and would die on a whim. They were the best in the Empire.
The next chapter is here for all to read. This follows the second major character in All Flames Cast, the priest Harael.
The late evening spread out over the city of Letaal, trailing shadows over the streets of the Fourth Tier. Harael stared up at the slim slice of the setting sun, just visible over the wall far overhead outside of the Tenth Tier. Below him, he could just see the last light shining upon the uppermost spires of the Cathedral, three tiers down. It felt odd to be traveling so high in the city, but then, this night was not a normal night.
Harael smiled at the thought. No, the winter solstice was far from a usual night in Letaal. Here, in the seat of Imperial power—and the seat of Pirinism—displays of faith were common; only on this most holy of nights, however, did every citizen show his fidelity.
His blue robes swishing around his legs, arms folded into the sleeves, he nodded at the hawker pushing a cart past. A lantern, flickering fitfully in the balmy winter breeze, hung from an awning over his wares. The man beamed back at Harael, clearly overjoyed by the acknowledgement from such a high-ranking priest.