The creature lunged—a blur of red bramble and grotesque sinew—and Vaerlin surged forward, intercepting the strike with a vaulting spin, his feet leaving the moss-laden earth as Rainblade snapped open mid-air. The umbrella's sharpened canopy flared like a celestial turbine, each obsidian-glass blade trailing coiling wisps of silver wind and starlight that howled as they carved through the air. As the beast's clawed arm descended with volcanic force, Vaerlin twisted, letting his body roll horizontally through the air like a falling leaf caught in a tempest. The strike shattered the tree behind him into a splintering rain of bark, but Vaerlin landed on its remaining stump, balanced perfectly on one foot, Rainblade extended like a duelist's dagger. He somersaulted forward off the stump as the beast whipped a bramble-tentacle toward him, slicing it cleanly in mid-somersault, the wound cauterized by the searing whisper of astral wind laced along the edge of his strike. In one motion, Vaerlin landed behind the beast, slashing a low crescent arc that cleaved the monster's calf open in a glittering stream of ichor.
It spun, shrieking, four arms crashing down like an avalanche of flesh and thorn—but Vaerlin was already in motion. He backflipped between the strikes, each hand grazing the air to guide his movement like a conductor of divine violence. One claw missed his head by a finger's breadth; another he parried with a downward slash, Rainblade's tip flashing with razor-sharp air currents that cracked the ground beneath them. The third he stepped into, ducking low and spinning inside the creature's guard, umbrella snapping shut and swinging like a flanged mace into its ribcage with a sickening crunch. The fourth strike was met with a flourish—Vaerlin twirled Rainblade open in front of him, catching the arm mid-swing in a spinning shield of bladed wind and stardust, the contact igniting a burst of pressure so strong it knocked birds from nearby treetops. As the beast staggered from the backlash, Vaerlin vaulted over its back, planting his foot on its shoulder and pushing off into the air, flipping gracefully before landing on a low-hanging branch.
Before the monster could even roar, Vaerlin launched himself off the branch with a flash of starlit force, descending like a meteor. Rainblade spun downward with him in a whirl of silent death, the bladed canopy rotating like a halo of destruction. He struck the beast's chest with an overhead plunge, driving the edge into the clavicle. The impact let out a sonic boom, launching a shockwave of force that flattened the surrounding flora. The beast retaliated with a feral swipe, catching Vaerlin mid-recoil and hurling him through the air like a ragdoll. He braced mid-flight, air warping around him as he slashed Rainblade in a wide arc, arresting his momentum with a blast of compressed astral pressure, and landed feet-first against a nearby tree, splintering it beneath him. He launched again, rebounding into a barrel roll that took him beneath the beast's grasp, slashing its wrist mid-dodge, severing tendons and bone in a spiral of red rot and divine wind.
The battle reached its peak as the creature's fury exploded into a storm of wild attacks. Brambles burst from its spine, lashing in every direction while its remaining arms struck like battering rams. Vaerlin was a blur—ducking, rolling, cleaving, weaving. He cartwheeled through the chaos, using bursts of micro-gales to dash between strikes, carving his way through living thorns. One particularly close strike nicked his cheek—Vaerlin retaliated by spinning Rainblade open behind his back, catching an incoming arm in the ribs of the umbrella and using the momentum to twist and hurl the beast bodily into a jagged stone outcrop. Before it could recover, he slid forward on a burst of wind, Rainblade spinning over his hand like a monk's wheel, delivering slashes that each burned with twinkling streaks of light, as if the stars themselves bled along the blade. The creature tried to bite—Vaerlin drove his palm into its jaw, forcing its mouth shut and simultaneously twisting the umbrella into its gut, ripping it back out in a fountain of ichor and rot.
Then came the end—five moves, cruel and final. The creature roared, leaping forward with its final strength, and Vaerlin moved.
First, he ducked under the lunge, Rainblade closed and thrust into the base of the beast's spine, igniting a point-blank burst of cyclonic pressure that blew out its back.
Second, he spun behind it, opening Rainblade and slashing horizontally through the knees with a low somersault, slicing both limbs in a clean sever as he passed beneath.
Third, he vaulted upward as the creature fell, spiraling into the air above it, Rainblade spinning like a deadly flower. He dove, and with his descent, slashed a cross-shaped arc from shoulder to hip and hip to opposite rib, carving open its chest in an X of glowing starlight.
Fourth, he landed with his back to it, spun without looking, and threw Rainblade open in reverse, the umbrella flying on wind-forged momentum to cleave through its throat with a scream of slicing air and glittering star-powder.
Fifth, the beast staggered, head hanging, its entire form rotted and destroyed—and Vaerlin calmly approached, caught the returning umbrella by its handle, and thrust the closed tip up beneath its jaw, driving it up through the skull and out the top of its cranium with a brutal, final snap of bone and brain.
Silence. Only the whisper of wind through bleeding leaves.
Vaerlin stood still, his robes slightly torn, face unreadable beneath the drifting starlight. Blood sizzled on the grass. Rot writhed around the corpse, slowly dying. Without a word, he reached down and gathered what was left of Gunthr—the twisted torso, mangled limbs—and lifted it over his shoulder.
He turned toward the direction of the capital.
And walked.
….
The castle doors opened with a low, resonant groan as Vaerlin stepped through the grand archway, rain-speckled and silent, the weight of loss clinging to him like the black streaks of ichor that still painted his sleeves. In his arms were no longer the remains—they had already been passed into the careful hands of the Mournwrights, the kingdom's sacred custodians of the dead, who cleansed the fallen and prepared their spirits for the divine passage beyond. As he crossed the marble threshold, his gaze met Queen Silas, standing beneath the vaulted canopy of her garden throne-room, framed by the violet bloom of twilight cascading through stained glass.
Beside her stood the trio of knight captains.
Alistair, leaning lazily against a marble column, one eye half-lidded, clearly unimpressed by the lack of immediate chaos. "So. He's dead, then. Shocking. My gold coins were on five minutes."
Captain Arinelle snorted, arms crossed, posture relaxed. "Five? That's generous. I gave him two. Thought he'd trip on his own pride before the beasts even got to him."
Thrain said nothing at first. He looked at Vaerlin, then to the queen. His hands were folded behind his back, his armor dirt-scuffed from drills. "He died foolishly… but he died chasing something pure. I'll see his name is remembered, at least among the Vanguard."
"Remembrance won't keep his head attached," Arinelle muttered.
"Neither would your fangs," Thrain replied.
"Oh-ho," she grinned. "Gonna get sentimental on me, stone-face?"
"I will crush you," Thrain said without a change in tone.
"I will bite your ankles," she fired back.
"You won't reach them."
"Too far, Thrain."
Vaerlin cleared his throat softly. "I've… delivered his remains to the Mournwrights," he said, his voice as smooth and elegant as ever, but carrying an edge—like a blade returned to its scabbard.
Silas didn't speak immediately. Her hands were balled into trembling fists. Her knuckles were white. She took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the empty space that Gunthr should have returned to.
Vaerlin moved closer, brow furrowing with the faintest concern. "Your Majesty…"
"I hate when you people go into dangerous places without me knowing," she said sharply, voice wavering. "If I'd known, I would've told you not to go after him, Vaerlin."
"I understand," he said gently.
"No, you don't," she said, stepping back and wiping her cheek with the back of her glove. "I didn't want you going out there either. I should've stopped him. I should've—but my head is so scrambled right now, I don't even know what's right anymore. This kingdom… this castle… all of you…" Her voice cracked. "It's all I have left. I don't want to lose any one of you."
Vaerlin moved without hesitation, arms opening as he stepped forward and pulled her into a silent, steadying embrace. "You're not alone," he whispered.
Without a word, Arinelle flung her arms around them both. "Group hug," she announced. "C'mon, stone-face. You too."
Thrain grunted, then stepped in and wrapped them all in his massive arms, practically crushing the group in his armored bear-hug.
"Too tight!" Arinelle groaned. "Thrain, I swear, if you collapse my ribcage—"
"Bones mend," he said stoically.
"Not my spine!"
Alistair stood off to the side, arms folded. "I don't do hugs," he muttered. "Too much contact. Also, sticky. But let's be real—none of us could've stopped Gunthr. He had that idiot's fire in his eyes. Mind was made up before the words even left his mouth."
Then came the noise outside—a rising clamor, boots scuffing against stone, shouts from the outer gates.
A knight burst in. "Your Majesty—Hunters. Adventurers. Nearly a dozen. They heard about Gunthr. They're demanding audience—demanding to be considered for his position. Some even… celebrate his death."
Alistair rolled his eyes. "Didn't even wait for the body to get cold? Haha, damn vultures."
Arinelle scowled. "Can I bite a few?"
Thrain shook his head. "No. But I'll watch the gate. If any of them cross the line, I won't stop you."
Alistair glanced toward Silas. "So… what now?"
Silas hesitated. The weight of decision bore down again. Her fingers tightened at her sides. "I… I have an idea. But I need the Council's confirmation."
Alistair perked up. "Ah. That's my cue." He turned with a smile that was almost dangerous. "Time to make some very powerful people very uncomfortable."
"Don't threaten anyone," Silas called after him.
"Yeah yeah, your highness."
Thrain turned toward the courtyard with a grunt. "I'll drill the Divine Vanguard. Especially the tanks. If beasts like that are around, we need more than armor and muscle."
Arinelle cracked her neck. "I'll keep an eye on the gates. Scare the adventurers a bit. Nothing says 'welcome' like a woman who can break your kneecaps while winking."
One by one, they departed—each to their purpose, each like a moving piece of the queen's heart, spreading through the veins of her castle.
Only Vaerlin remained, walking silently beside her as they moved through the palace corridors, the towering halls of white stone and gold filigree echoing their steps. The scent of lavender oil and polished steel hung in the air. Guards saluted. Scribes bowed. Yet for Silas, the only thing that mattered now was the chamber ahead—the one where voices would rise, loyalties would be tested, and the next page of her kingdom's fate would be written.
The Council awaited.
The walk through Thalairis Castle was not a simple passage—it was a pilgrimage through the living bones of a kingdom forged by divine will and tempered by war. Vaerlin moved beside Queen Silas, his steps measured and silent, yet every corridor they passed through breathed with memory, with majesty, with burdens centuries old. The castle stretched infinitely upward and outward, an ancient and sprawling sanctum that blended reverence with readiness—a citadel equal parts celestial monument and unyielding bastion.
The architecture was breathtaking: lofty pillars of polished obsidian gleamed like dark mirrors beside shimmering arches of white marble, their fusion forming a constant play of shadow and light, purity and abyss—just as the gods once wove life and death into the fabric of the world. Vines of silver ran like veins through the walls, forming intricate symbols of deities both known and lost, and some that seemed to shift when looked at too long. Ramps replaced most staircases, curling in perfect spiral formations that ascended the castle's core like the spine of a great divine serpent, leading ever higher toward the Crown Room—each level a phase of ascension, each floor a truth, a sacrifice.
Passing through the Grand Hall of the Throne, the Eternal Chamber, the space opened like a breath held for a thousand years. The circular chamber stretched wide as a coliseum, yet held a silence deeper than any cave. The ceiling above was a living mural of the heavens—gods in mid-battle, goddesses in mournful embrace, each glowing faintly, their celestial eyes ever-watchful. The floor beneath them shimmered with a living mosaic of constellations that mirrored the night sky, shifting with the movement of the cosmos. At its heart, the Sacred Crown, encased within a divine pedestal, radiated an ethereal pulse, surrounded by protective wards that hummed like a low, holy wind. Queen Silas glanced at it briefly as they passed, her jaw set, the weight of legacy thick on her shoulders.
Beyond it, corridors branched like arteries. They passed Knights of the Divine Vanguard, some deep in prayer before divine shrines carved into the walls, others sharpening weapons that bore sigils glowing with dormant power. The scent of incense from the Sacred Gardens of the Golden Veil drifted faintly through open archways—fragrant, floral, calming. In the distance, the sound of chanting priests could be heard tending to the blooming sacred roses, whose petals shimmered gold in the right light. Elven ivy coiled gently around divine statues that lined the hallways, said to whisper forgotten truths when the wind brushed them just so.
At every intersection of the castle, life flourished. Scribes raced past with glowing scrolls strapped to their backs, oracle-hounds sniffed for divine corruption, their ethereal forms flickering between dimensions, while young pages scampered along marble hallways carrying blades longer than their arms. At a balcony, a blind priestess recited an ancient poem to a dozen trainees, her voice lilting, her fingers painting visions of past wars into the wind. Even the air buzzed with divine resonance—warm in one corridor, chill in the next, dictated by the spiritual echoes of the rooms they passed. Each space had its own atmosphere, its own soul.
They turned a final corridor lined with statues of the Seven Divine Ancestors—immortal beings who had once crowned the world—and approached the Council Gates, an immense double door of fused crystal and blacksteel, inscribed with the Twelve Divine Virtues. As the massive gates groaned open, a wave of quiet authority washed over them.
The Council Room was cavernous and circular, its ceiling rising like a cathedral dome. High above, a massive astrolabe hovered mid-air, slowly rotating in defiance of gravity, etched with constellations that bled starlight down onto the council floor. Beneath it, over a dozen council members sat in half-moon formation around a central platform, each chair carved uniquely to represent the dominion and burden of its occupant—justice, war, economy, divine communion, the arcane, diplomacy, bloodline, preservation. The seats were ancient, older than some of the gods themselves.
The chamber's walls were made of celestial stone—a rare, shimmering material that only responded to oaths. Murals and glyphs crawled across the surface like living scripture, animating the kingdom's founding, its battles, its betrayals. At the center of the floor, the Judgment Scale emblem was embedded—balanced, unwavering, where truths were weighed and kings had once fallen.
And standing near the center platform, already waiting, was Councilor Jethro.
He wore the ceremonial white robe of judgment, clean and pristine, trimmed in strands of midnight blue. A heavy golden scale rested in his gloved hands, each side balanced perfectly. His black hair was slicked back meticulously, a small mole on his right cheek, and his eyes—light brown, unnervingly calm—glinted with the gravity of a man who had no room for deceit.
As the Queen stepped into the light of the council's chamber, Jethro turned, his expression unreadable, then dropped to one knee with slow reverence.
"Queen Silas."
The chamber echoed faintly as Councilor Jethro rose to his feet, lowering his judgment scale to his side. The other council members—all a dozen—nodded slightly in deference to Queen Silas, the youngest sovereign to be indicted and sit on the throne in many years. The dome above cast down soft starlight from the astrolabe hanging overhead, illuminating her silver-lined mantle and the calm fury behind her eyes.
Silas stepped forward without hesitation, arms crossed, her voice clear and without the ceremonial reverence others often leaned on.
"I need a wizard."
The chamber, already quiet, somehow grew quieter. Several of the council members exchanged glances—some in concern, some in disbelief, and one or two in immediate disapproval.
A sharp-voiced councilor of arcane affairs, an older woman with dark robes and a long streak of white in her hair, arched an eyebrow.
"You speak of summoning?"
Silas nodded once.
"Yeah. Wizards are still the only ones able to do that, right?"
Jethro adjusted the scale slightly, its golden trays shifting with a subtle metallic chime.
"That is correct. Only wizards are born with the Sigil of Origin—an ancient mark left by the First Language. Summoning is an art of will given shape. No mage, priest, nor divine servant has ever managed to replicate it."
Another councilor, this one draped in ceremonial blues of the economic court, leaned forward.
"Then you intend to summon a… hero?"
Jethro spoke before Silas could.
"A king. For the kingdom. A husband for Silas."
Silas groaned, turning away.
"Gods, I already feel guilty when you say it like that." She gestured vaguely in the air. "Like I'm dooming someone to their death the moment they arrive. What do you want me to do, paint the summoning circle with glitter and hope he thinks it's a party invite?"
There was a stifled chuckle from the far side of the room, but the tone stayed serious. Another councilor, one of the younger ones representing military affairs, spoke carefully.
"With respect, Your Majesty… why not choose someone already here? Thrain is proven. Alistair is admired across the city. You have well-fit candidates within the castle. Why look elsewhere?"
Silas wrinkled her nose like she'd just been offered cold soup.
"Ew. That's weird."
Silence. A few exchanged looks. One councilor cleared his throat.
"Weird?"
"Yeah. I grew up with half of them. One of them watched me cry when my puppy died. The other called me Crybaby Silas until I was sixteen. I don't see them romantically. And honestly, I don't… get attracted to anyone easily. It's a whole thing. I'm just not gonna marry someone because he swings a sword real cool and badass-like."
Jethro gave a slow nod, his face unreadable.
"Then… you seek a wizard to summon someone worthy. A stranger. An unknown. Someone who meets your…standards?"
"It's not ideal," Silas admitted, arms folded. "But it's honest."
Jethro sighed and rested his hand on the marble rail before him.
"Finding a wizard will be… difficult."
The council tensed.
"Why?" Silas asked, though her tone already hinted she knew the answer.
"Because they're in hiding." Jethro glanced around the room. "Since the war against the witches, the wizarding circles had scattered. Your parents worked with them once—to root out the witches who tried to plunge this world into shadow. Wizards were… collateral. The witches hate them. Fear them. Hunt them."
"So they ran?" she asked, softer now.
"They survived," Jethro corrected. "One still lives. A woman. She dwells in the Hugne Ruins, where an ancient civilization once thrived—before it was turned to stone and silence. Her name is Ellira Varn. She's one of the last true wizards born under the lunar alignments."
"That place is half a myth," muttered a bald councilor of trade. "Cursed ground. Spirits wander it."
"And witches," added another. "The same ones your mother and father sent out entire squadrons to destroy. And they still never figured out what the witches even wanted."
The mention of her parents made Silas lower her gaze. She was quiet for a moment.
'They were witch hunters…huh. This is risky, but I have no other options. I don't want a Hunter at all anymore."
Then she lifted her chin again.
"I want to find this wizard." Her voice was steady. "I'll send my knight captains and their squads to Hugne. They'll bring her here."
A tension settled over the council again.
Vaerlin, standing silently at her right, finally stepped forward.
"Your Majesty… are you sure this is wise?" His brow furrowed. "If she's still being hunted, sending soldiers may only expose her. To the witches. To those who still want her dead."
"Then I'll go with them," Silas snapped, throwing her hands slightly in the air. "I'm not going to let someone else walk into danger for me and sit around twiddling my thumbs. I'll oversee it personally. I'll make sure she's safely transferred to the castle."
"Absolutely not." Vaerlin's tone hardened. "You're not stepping into a trap wearing a crown."
"Don't tell me what to do—"
"Then listen," Vaerlin said, taking a step closer. The council stirred. "You told me something all the time. Times when you couldn't sleep." His voice softened just enough to draw her full attention. "You told me you hate being a damsel in distress. That you hate the feeling of being helpless. That every time someone saves you, it makes you feel weaker. Which contradicts when you're trying to be strong for your parents. For this kingdom. But it's hard."
Silas clenched her jaw. Her fists balled at her sides. Her eyes didn't meet his.
'Seriously…? Gotta expose me like this…to my face..'
A long silence passed.
"Fine," she said bitterly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The council didn't celebrate the decision—too much gravity hung in the room for that. Instead, they watched as Silas slowly turned to Vaerlin.
"Gather the captains," she said. "I know they're off doing whatever they think is important right now. But I need them back. Now."
Vaerlin bowed once, deeply.
"As you command."
And without another word, he turned and left the chamber.
Behind him, the council returned to murmurs and uneasy talk. The astrolabe above ticked softly in the starlit silence, as the queen stood alone beneath it—her shadow long, and her burden longer.
Outside the palace gates, Arinelle stood like some impish gargoyle given life—arms crossed, fangs on full display, and a grin that promised chaos. Her small horns poked through her unkempt silver-blonde hair, and her little batlike wings fluttered behind her back as if itching to lift her into some mischievous lunge.
A dozen or so adventurers and hunters gathered beyond the perimeter, kept at bay by the palace guards. They looked confident, too confident, their hands resting lazily on hilts, their expressions cocky. Most were freshly blooded—hunters who'd heard of Gunthr's death and thought they could fill his boots with ease.
One stepped forward, cocky and tall, addressing the guards. "We heard the seat's open. The queen'll want strong arms, yeah? Figured we'd offer ours before some other sod gets picked."
Arinelle's eyes gleamed. She stepped between the guards before they could answer, smiling just a bit too wide.
"You. You smell like pork," she said to the speaker, eyes narrowing. "Do you squeal when stabbed?"
He blinked, stepping back. "What the hell—"
She flared her tiny wings with a snap, teeth bared. "Run, little meatling. It's Winged Demon Day. I haven't chewed on bone in weeks."
The adventurers all backed up a step, unsure if she was joking.
"She's threatening us?!"
"Calm down!"
"We're not gonna break in or anything! We just heard the news!"
Arinelle began to stalk toward them, claws twitching dramatically at her sides. Another hunter made the mistake of drawing a knife. "S-Stay back!"
In a blur, she was behind him, whispering near his ear, "I'm just this close to taking a nibble." The man screamed and ran. So did the rest.
The guards didn't intervene. They were used to her antics by now. One even took a bite of his apple and muttered, "Third time this week she threatened to nibble someone whole."
"It's funny even if it happens 100 times."
As the group scattered into the distance, Vaerlin appeared, gliding down the steps of the palace with that same quiet, composed grace he always carried. His long cloak barely moved despite the wind, and the light played softly across his outfit.
"Arinelle," he said evenly. He stopped in front of her, calm but clearly not amused. "We have a mission."
She narrowed her eyes in mock seriousness. "A mission? Is it a real mission or a Vaerlin kind of mission? Will there be tea involved? Or gods? Or stairs?"
He ignored the sarcasm. "Queen Silas needs the captains gathered. Now."
Arinelle tapped her chin, eyes wide. "Are we bringing snacks? Can I wear my explosive boots? Will there be spiders? Wait. Are we kidnapping a ghost?"
Vaerlin's composure cracked—just a hair. A single brow twitched. "No."
"Then I'm not interested," she said, arms crossed. Then she snorted. "Kidding, kidding. You're too easy, Vaerlin. I love watching you get… flustered."
"I'm not flustered."
"You are absolutely flustered. I saw your soul blink."
He turned without answering. Arinelle followed, humming a chaotic tune, skipping like a child behind him.
…
Elsewhere, within the dazzling crystal ballroom of one of Thalairis's high noble houses, the music was gentle, the nobles were overdressed, and Alistair—masked, suited, and tipsy—was standing on a dinner table, wine glass raised.
"I hate every one of you," he sang with surprising clarity, swaying slightly. "Especially youuuu, rich bastards…." The musicians had stopped playing. The nobles stared, mortified.
"Who is that man?" whispered one.
"He's drunk—clearly mad. Look at that mask. The commoners have no decorum."
"Security!" another barked. "Remove him!"
As tensions rose, the double doors parted—and in walked Vaerlin.
Effortless, elegant, unreadable.
He scanned the room, let out a long breath, and walked calmly to the table where Alistair was now trying to juggle silverware.
"Alistair," Vaerlin said, voice low. "What are you doing?"
Alistair blinked down at him. "I'm freeing myself through art."
"This is slanderous."
"Oh, yeah? I haven't even mentioned the incestuous trade routes yet. These people are *burps* scammers!"
Without another word, Vaerlin picked him up—literally slung him over one shoulder like a misbehaving cat—and turned to the nobles.
"My apologies. He won't be returning."
They all fell silent. Recognition sparked in their eyes.
"That's… that's Queen Silas's right hand."
In the training grounds of the castle, the clash of weapons echoed like thunder.
Massive knights—tanks of the Divine Vanguard—slammed into each other with weapons as tall as a man. Hammer met blade, shields burst with magical wards, and sparks flew.
Thrain stood at the center, arms behind his back, eyes narrow beneath his greying brow. His voice cut through the noise like a war horn.
"Again! Focus on center mass! You're not breaking bread, you're breaking armor!"
A young knight staggered from a blow, swearing. Another took the opportunity to mock him.
"You'd fall faster than a drunk bard!"
"Enough!" Thrain's voice boomed. He stepped forward.
He put a hand on both of their shoulders—heavy hands like iron.
"If you cannot trust your brothers, you'll die in the first volley. Bond before you bleed, or bleed alone."
Both knights looked away, ashamed. Thrain nodded, satisfied. "Now again. Until I can see the gods in your stance."
He turned toward the newer recruits—those undergoing Praxis.
"The Praxis of Godfire is no game," he said. "You bear the fragment of a dead god. The divine concept it clings to will reshape you. If you are not ready to be unmade, step aside now. Remember you can harness fragments of the power of the gods using Praxis, but it's deadly! Do not attempt to wield two divine affinities at once, only Vaerlin was the one to do that. Our human bodies cannot withstand too much of a gods power unless chosen as a vessel of them!"
He gestured to a soldier meditating near a vial of glowing flame.
The training resumed—brutal and beautiful.
Then—footsteps. Arinelle skipping. Alistair slung like a corpse over Vaerlin's shoulder, still muttering about trade conspiracies. Arinelle was snacking, cheeks pink from whatever fried pastry she'd picked up along the way.
Thrain turned.
And squealed.
Like a startled hog.
Everyone froze.
He jumped back, armor rattling, then quickly cleared his throat and straightened. "You know I startle easy."
The knights roared with laughter.
Vaerlin finally spoke. "Queen Silas is ready. We move now."
Thrain nodded, instantly serious. "Then there's no time to waste."
…
Back in the council chamber, the light from the stained-glass skylight filtered across the marble floor like fragments of dawn. Queen Silas stood before the council table. Jethro stood at her side, fingers steepled.
As the door opened, all eyes turned.
Vaerlin entered first. Arinelle tossed her snack aside. Thrain walked tall. Alistair dusted himself off, still a little tipsy.
Silas gave a faint, tired smirk.
"About time," she said.
Jethro nodded solemnly.
"Now… we begin."