Steps.
Steps.
Steps...
Their echoes rang down the marble corridor, rhythmically, softly—like the beat of a distant drum heralding something grand or dreadful.
The corridor was long and wide, more like a sacred procession hall than a palace hallway. Tall columns lined the path like silent judges, watching over the figures who walked beneath them. Between them, great oil paintings hung on silk-threaded frames, each a masterpiece: ancestors, heroes, monarchs, gods. They loomed, almost alive, shimmering under the pale shafts of morning sunlight spilling through open windows.
It smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. There was reverence here, and weight—centuries of power frozen in stone and brushstroke.
Venara walked first.
Her steps were quiet, yet they carried a gravity that pulled the eye. Her posture was perfect—not out of pride, but because the moment demanded it.
To her right, Vermon matched her step for step—but awkwardly. His shoulders were tight, his fingers twitching as if he didn't know what to do with them. The way he stared at the floor made it clear: he wanted to disappear into it.
Behind them, Elowen strode like a storm held barely in check. Every inch of her was coiled energy. She wasn't meant for velvet halls or whispered diplomacy—she was a blade, reluctantly sheathed.
Along their path stood statues—towering warriors cast in iron and steel, so lifelike they could have stepped from their pedestals. And yet, no living guards stood watch. An eerie absence.
The only defenders came at the end of the hall, two men flanking a tall door. They wore white silk veils over their eyes, completely blind. But each held a naked blade—polished and sharp. Sightless, yet deadly.
"A bird on time," Venara murmured, glancing at the high sun beyond the windows. Not late. Not early. Precisely when she intended.
They passed the veiled guards.
Elowen halted before the door. Her voice was quiet, but firm. "Take care, my Lady. My Lord."
Venara met her gaze briefly, then gave a small nod. This chamber, this meeting, belonged to words—not swords. Elowen would remain behind. She was both exile and sentinel now.
Venara turned the handle.
A low creak echoed as the door opened, releasing a gust of cooler air, thick with scented oil and wax.
The chamber was vast—circular, high-ceilinged, and shadowed in its upper reaches like the inside of a cathedral dome. In the center lay the semi-circle of the Council Table, carved from a single tree long extinct, its wood blackened with age and glossed to mirror brightness.
Ten chairs curved along one side. On the other side stood three seats, raised upon a dais of dark stone. All three were empty for now. The center one, tallest among them, bore the dark crimson sigil of the crown. Only the Queen sat there.
Two council seats were already occupied.
To the right, lounging comfortably, was Lord Faron. Young, slender, beautiful in a way that felt composed. His robe shimmered—white and blue laced with small jewels that caught and reflected every shaft of light. He sat like a statue designed for admiration.
Next to the center sat Lord Talen. In contrast to Faron, Talen wore no jewels, no silk. His robe was plain, and tightly fitted. Arms crossed, eyes closed—not out of boredom, but control. There was power in his stillness, like a drawn bow yet to be loosed.
Venara stepped inside. The sound of her heels clicking lightly against the stone drew their attention.
Vermon hesitated at the threshold.
She paused, turned, and gently touched his shoulder. Her hand lingered just a heartbeat longer than needed. Her smile told him: Walk. You are not alone.
He followed.
She walked with poise and claimed the seat to Talen's right, at the center.
Vermon remained standing behind her.
Before either man could speak, Venara addressed them. "My Lords," she said, voice clear and warm, "It is rare to find discipline match duty. Your punctuality does your houses proud."
Faron smiled quickly, rehearsed and smooth. "Matters of the realm must always take precedence, Lady Venara. There is no greater calling."
Talen opened one eye, his expression unreadable. "Big or small—duty remains duty. Discipline is not adjusted for scale."
Venara dipped her head slightly. "Wise words, my Lord."
Then Faron's gaze shifted toward Vermon. He smiled wider—but it did not touch his eyes.
"I see the heir to the Goldmeres joins us. What an honor. May your family's legacy live long. It would be… a tragedy, otherwise."
The words were polite. But the tone... patronizing. Almost mocking.
Vermon blanched. "I... am... honored too. My lord."
Venara's expression did not shift. But something behind her eyes cooled.
"My brother," she said, "is a man of keen intellect. I have asked for his aid regarding certain matters. I trust his insights will be... invaluable."
She added, lightly, "And there is no need to worry yourself with the Goldmere line, Lord Faron. Dragons always learn to fly." A pause. "As for birds with broken wings…"
She smiled. A beautiful, terrible smile.
Faron's brow twitched. He did not like that.
But he smiled back. "Sharp as ever, Lady Venara. I assure you—I hold nothing but best wishes for your house. A strong Goldmere makes a strong Velrane."
Venara tilted her head. "Of course, my lord. Our fathers were close. One must honor their bonds, mustn't we?"
"Indeed. And one must surpass them," he added, gaze narrowing slightly.
Venara smiled in response. A cordial war.
She remembered—her father, Lord Avenir, and Faron's father, Lord Alveth, had once arranged her betrothal to Faron. It had felt like fate, then. That's what they told her.
But fate withered when Avenir fell ill. And when Alveth died, there was no one left to hold the threads.
Venara never loved Faron. Even as a child, she knew he dreamed too loud, too far. Once, they'd walked together in the gardens of Crimson Bough. He spoke of becoming Emperor. She picked flowers and smiled. But even then, she had laughed at the idea in silence.
Live in the present. Plan for the future. That was her creed. Faron lived in the future and planned for the present.
More footsteps echoed.
A vast figure waddled through the door, the floor protesting faintly under his weight.
Lord Masquien—round as a barrel, robed in layers of color, each trying and failing to conceal his enormous belly. He moved with the dignity of someone who had stopped caring about dignity.
Venara raised a brow, voice silken. "My lord. It seems walking is becoming a laborious effort. Perhaps a carriage next time?"
Masquien grinned, undeterred. "A little sweat never killed a man, Lady Venara. Better to exercise than to rust."
He took the seat farthest from Faron, his robe puffing like a cushion.
Five now.
Venara's eyes narrowed.
Five?
She turned her head—and there, beside her, already seated, was Lord Eleazar.
When had he arrived?
Even Talen looked stunned. The warrior sat upright, eyes wide.
Venara felt it too. Eleazar's presence was not like others. He was not a man who entered rooms. He appeared in them.
"Greetings, lords and ladies," Eleazar said. His voice was quiet but carried.
They greeted him, some with awkward nods.
He was a shadow you didn't notice until you were already standing in it.
Then—more steps.
A man sauntered in, careless, casual. He dropped himself into the seat beside Talen, resting one foot on the table.
Talen's eyes narrowed. Fury barely leashed.
Venara acted first. "Lord Bloom, you seem to have come straight from the dirt."
"Ah... yeah," Bloom said, yawning. "That's why I'm stretchin' now."
"You are much appreciated," Venara said, tone warm. "At least one fan of yours sits in this room."
"Hmh?" Bloom blinked. Then flushed. "Venie! No need to flatter me like that."
Venara's smile remained. Behind it, her skin prickled. Nicknames in the Council Hall? That would spread. Masquien's smirk confirmed it.
Then a tall man entered.
Draped in sapphire and gold, his robe sparkled like a mine exploded. He was severe, older than Faron, but still lean. His face bore no beard, just sharp lines and cold focus.
He said nothing. Just walked past them, sat two seats away from Venara, to Lord Eleazar's right.
Lord Dearan. Master of the Mines.
Venara didn't greet him. No one did. The silence was his mantle.
No one spoke.
But all shared the same thought.
Three seats empty.
And yet—it was not the absence that startled them.
It was which seat was empty.
He was not here.
He—the one no one dared to name too soon.
He was late.
But none mentioned it.
None dared to.
The silence deepened until—
BONG...
The first cry of the belfry rang like thunder rolled through marble.
BONG...
The second followed. Heavy, slow. Almost sacred.
BONG...
The third. A breath held across the chamber.
BONG.
The fourth.
Then—
A soundless pulse stirred the chamber.
From the far end of the hall, opposite the throne, the air began to fold inward—gently, then violently—until it warped in a perfect circle, wide and smooth as a gate.
A fog spilled outward from its center. Pale, silver-white mist swirling with crimson veins, rimmed in gold. It did not crawl—it arrived.
The room changed.
Not the shape. Not the walls.
The feeling.
A presence fell upon the chamber.
Crushing. Fearsome. Blinding in majesty.
Even the air bowed.
And out of the fog, she stepped.
The Queen.
"Your Grace," they whispered in unison.
Chairs scraped. Robes rustled.
Every lord, every lady, every watcher rose in panic, and then fell to one knee. Heads bowed. Backs bent.
No one stood but her.
She moved like a vision—effortless and slow, and yet, unchallengeable.
Her gown flowed in radiant hues: white like sanctity, gold like command, red like divinity. The fabric was not silk. It was something finer, alive with enchantment.
Behind her, two guards followed in silence—draped in dark and crimson.
None of the other Council members had been permitted guards.
Only her.
Discrimination, yes. But not one soul protested.
She walked—light-footed, yet every step like a command.
One stair.
Then another.
And then she sat—at the center throne, the tallest among the three, set apart from the council's curve of chairs. Her place was not with them, but above them.
Opposite them.
She raised a hand.
They rose together—each smoothly, reverently.
They sat.
The Queen did not speak.
She scanned the room.
Her gaze moved like a tide. Not sharp, not quick. But with pressure—like a weight passing through water.
And then—
Her eyes.
Those eyes…
Ancient. Young. Cold. Alive.
They looked not at people, but through them.
The room tensed.
Her aura didn't flare. It compressed—the chamber itself seemed to draw inward.
And for one among them—it was unbearable.
Vermon.
Her gaze had found him.
And he was not ready.
His spine stiffened. His eyes widened. His throat closed as though strings were pulled behind his jaw.
The Queen said nothing.
But he felt it.
Not spoken, not shown. But there.
Venara noticed. Of course she did.
But she did not reach for his hand this time.
Her attention was forward now. Fixed.
Because now—
The Meeting had begun.
The Meeting of the High Council.
Held only once a year.
And always—on the first day of the year.