The day before the new moon, a premonition found me in the forge.
It wasn't magic. Not the sort I could measure or cast. Just a whisper on the wind, an instinct honed by months of pretending to serve evil while carving slivers of hope from the bones of despair.
I overheard it in the torchlit silence between the smelting of meteoric iron and the enchantment of binding sigils. Two stewards, speaking in hushed tones over crates of wine. Their words were careless, too mundane to be classified—but each syllable cut through me like a chisel to marble.
"They're coming. Seven of them. Directors from the Academy. The Emperor's called them to the throne room tomorrow at dusk."
"Even after everything? He's still trying to make peace?"
"They're not fools. They've held their own for centuries. They'll never bow."
The silence that followed said more than the words.
The Academy was sovereign—not just in tradition, but by treaty. Their involvement in Empire politics was forbidden by law older than Xaldron's reign, written into the Velmoran Accords and sealed by the League of Mages. For the Emperor to summon their high council was unthinkable. For them to accept was worse.
And yet… they were coming.
I spent the next day preparing not only the soulbinding chains the Emperor had requested, but also a shadow-forged relay sigil hidden beneath my apron. Its glyphs were old—runic syntax taught only in the early days of the Academy, reserved for covert communiques. If I could activate it during the meeting, I might capture more than words. I might capture intent.
By dusk, I had found a place behind the northern wall of the throne room—an old observation slit behind a defunct ventilation shaft, small enough to be forgotten but large enough for a craftsman to disappear into. From here, I watched them arrive.
Seven figures cloaked in silver-blue, bearing no weapons save their intellect and legacy.
Archmagus Lirae led them, tall and regal, her eyes as sharp as polished crystal. Beside her, Master Varrin of Transmutation, silent and thick-bearded. To his left, Mistress Sayelle of Astral Cartography, who had once mapped the dream-realm of a sleeping god and returned sane. The other four were no less esteemed: war-mages, theorists, healers of legend.
They walked into the throne room as scholars, not soldiers. But even I could feel the pressure of the wards they carried like armor—defensive, subtle, prepared.
Emperor Xaldron greeted them alone. No guards. No throne. Just him, in the center of the hall with Soulrend sheathed at his back, his dark robes whispering across the floor like smoke.
"Welcome, masters of the mind," he said, smiling with something colder than ice. "How honored I am that you accepted my invitation."
"We are not here for pleasantries," Lirae replied. "We come under protest, compelled only by our obligation to preserve peace. Your intrusion upon the Academy is a violation of the Treaty of Velmoran. Your agents, your Nerds, have entered our halls under false pretenses. Students have vanished."
"Vanished?" Xaldron spread his hands in mock surprise. "Surely not. Perhaps your own internal instability is to blame. Have you considered the possibility of treachery among your own ranks?"
"We maintain our oaths," Master Varrin said. "You have violated yours."
Xaldron's smile never faltered, but I saw something flicker behind it—calculation.
"I did not summon you to argue law," he said. "I summoned you because war is coming, and you have the power to choose the side of survival."
Sayelle stepped forward. "The Academy does not involve itself in the affairs of mortal politics."
"Your neutrality is a shield you've polished for too long," Xaldron snapped, just for a moment letting the steel show beneath the silk. "The world has changed. The veil between realms thins. Old powers stir. And the League of Mages, your great protective council, is fractured and infighting. You think your towered isolation can hold back the tide?"
Lirae stood unmoved. "We have held for millennia."
"And yet, here you are," he whispered. "Standing in my throne room. Seeking accord because, deep down, you know you cannot stand alone forever."
She narrowed her eyes. "We seek accountability, not accord. You have kidnapped our students. Requisitioned forbidden magic. Broken the sacred pacts. Do not mistake our presence for submission."
Xaldron stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
"You speak of students. I speak of weapons. You speak of treaties. I speak of survival. You believe in the past. I am the future."
The silence after that stretched like a noose.
Then he drew Soulrend.
I couldn't see the blade directly, but I felt it—its scream, its hunger. The silver medallion fragment I had hidden within it pulsed once. A heartbeat in the dark.
"I offer you one last chance," Xaldron said. "Join me. Let the Academy become the Empire's greatest ally—an institution of ascension, not resistance."
"And if we refuse?" Varrin asked.
"Then you are no longer neutral. You are enemies of the realm."
At his signal, the side doors burst open.
Nerds poured in—not in aggression, but as shadows enveloping the room. Runes lit beneath their feet. Suppression fields snapped into place, coordinated, impossible to counter without declaring open war.
I saw the moment the mages realized the trap.
"We came under parley," Lirae said, voice low with fury. "This is treachery."
"No," Xaldron replied. "This is politics."
Golden chains bound their wrists—not the soul chains I had forged, but others drawn from some deeper vault. The mages resisted, if only for a moment. Wards sparked, illusions flared. Sayelle vanished entirely for half a second, only to reappear choking, her spatial anchor forcefully tethered.
And then it was done. Seven of the greatest minds in the world were led away like prisoners, their power extinguished not through violence, but legality.
Xaldron turned to the empty chamber, alone again.
"The League won't act," he murmured, as if speaking to himself. "They're too fractured. And the Academy has no voice now. The ritual will proceed."
I activated the relay sigil.
"Kellian, they are taken. Xaldron has them. League response uncertain. Ritual in motion. The chains are ready. So am I. — G."
I slipped from the shaft before the seal closed, sweat cold on my neck, my breath coming in slow gulps.
I thought of Xayon, still somewhere out there, moving toward this trap like a lamb walking a blade's edge. I thought of the chains waiting to bind him. I thought of Soulrend—his brother's blade, cursed with death and memory in equal measure.
And I thought of the whisper that had led me here. Of how sometimes, premonition isn't prophecy.
Sometimes, it's a warning.