That afternoon, sunlight poured freely from the clear sky above Marasyr, glinting across the vast surface of the Naran Sea and spilling into the council chamber through marble columns. The walls of the room opened toward the sea, and from the height of the cliff on which the palace stood, a salty breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of brine and the echo of waves crashing far below. The air moved softly, yet the atmosphere within was heavy—shrouded in an unseen fog of mourning.
Beyond, the port city of Blustarion looked nothing like its usual self. There were no merchants shouting about spices or cloth, no sailors thundering across the docks, and not a single sail fluttered on the horizon. The harbor stood like the body of a great beast, slumbering—abandoned by its soul.
Armed soldiers stood firm at the corners of the city and around the palace, posted in greater numbers than usual. They did not speak among themselves; only the sharp glint in their eyes and the silence beneath their armor bore witness to their watchfulness.
All of this, for one name.
Lord Hadrir. The Spymaster. One of the few men who could speak into the king's ear without kneeling. Now, he was gone—and to honor his passing, and perhaps to grant the people time to grasp the weight of losing a man who knew too much—King Irindir had issued a decree. A royal order to halt all activity in the city following Lord Hadrir's tragic death on the 28th of Syvendra, the sixth month, in the year 1114.
No ship was to set sail. No market was to open. No music, no laughter. Only silence.
The council chamber of the palace—usually filled with the hum of conversation or the clash of council debates—was now accompanied only by the whisper of wind and the voice of the sea. The breeze danced through silk drapes hanging from the high ceilings, making them sway like curious spirits peering in from another realm. The stillness was so profound that even footsteps echoing in distant halls could be heard, as though the palace itself was reminding everyone that something—or someone—was missing.
Upon the black marble throne overlooking the Naran Sea sat King Irindir, his gaze sharp upon the horizon, though his thoughts were far away. Today was not a day to speak. Today was a day to be still... and to remember.
Sir Kaelan walked slowly but steadily past the tall columns of the throne hall, the sound of his leather boots whispering across the finely-carved stone floor. The sea breeze continued to flow in, tugging at the edge of his grey cloak like a mist-shadow clinging to the edge of twilight.
Before him, King Irindir remained seated, eyes locked on the ocean as though in silent conversation with the waves.
Kaelan halted several steps from the throne. He bowed low, his head nearly at his knees.
"Your Majesty," he said softly but clearly, "the King's Council is assembled in the chamber, as you commanded."
Irindir did not respond at once. He still watched the horizon, as if weighing something that could not be shared with the world. Then, slowly, he rose.
The sunlight danced upon his long robe—dark blue, nearly black—with silver embroidery trailing along the hem in the shape of waves. The robe swayed gently as he stepped down from the throne, making him look like a shadow of the night come to life as a king.
He said nothing, but his gaze alone could command kingdoms.
Sir Kaelan followed swiftly, his pace half a step faster to remain beside the king. Together, they walked out of the throne hall into the corridor that led to the council chamber, passing through silent halls lit only by the daylight spilling through stone-carved slits and stained-glass windows.
The wind carried the scent of the sea, but now it seemed laced with something heavier—tension, perhaps. Or foreboding.
Their footsteps echoed on. Silence greeted them. And at the end of the corridor, the towering narthwood doors awaited, ready to be opened. Beyond them, the King's Council was waiting.
The tall doors creaked open with a sound of old iron, as though even the hinges bowed to welcome the king. Sea air swept in just before King Irindir crossed the threshold, followed closely by the ever-faithful Sir Kaelan.
The council chamber was vast, partially open to the sea, with rows of arched windows unglazed, allowing daylight to spill across the white stone pillars and the low-domed ceiling adorned with ancient carvings. A long table of black ashwood stretched through the center of the room, surrounded by the King's Council—dressed in formal robes, their faces clouded with unease.
Their conversations ceased the moment the king entered. In unison, they rose and bowed, right hands placed over their chests in reverence.
"Your Majesty," they said almost as one, their tones respectful and orderly.
Irindir gave no reply. He merely nodded, his eyes sweeping over them—piercing, yet without judgment. His steps were calm, but each echo of his footfall struck the chamber with clarity.
Sir Kaelan reached the head of the table first, where a taller chair stood—carved with the emblem of a great eagle on its backrest, the symbol of Marasyr, the mark of the throne. With a practiced, fluid motion, he pulled the chair out.
Irindir sat, his blue robe folding gracefully at his sides.
Only then did the Council take their seats again, composed yet solemn, with shadows of grief and questions etched in every line of their faces.
Sir Kaelan remained standing behind the king—like a shadow of loyalty.
The silence blanketing the chamber was thick, like a mourning shroud yet to be lifted from the heart of the palace.
Then a soft but clear voice broke through it. Lord Elmar, his face somber and eyes fixed on the table's surface, was the first to speak.
"Your Majesty," he murmured, lifting his gaze toward Irindir, "I offer my deepest condolences… for the passing of Lord Hadrir."
He took a breath. "He was the kingdom's unseen shield, the eyes that saw farther than any of us. This loss… is immense."
His eyes narrowed slightly, his voice sharpened. "And his killer… whoever they may be… must be found. And paid in blood."
King Irindir gave a slow nod to Lord Elmar's words. His expression did not shift, but his voice was gentle as he replied.
"Thank you, Lord Elmar. Your words are a comfort… in these inhospitable days."
He turned his gaze to the sky beyond the arched windows—silver-blue, the sea below catching the sun's reflection.
"Let Elrak, with his mighty wings, guide Hadrir's soul… to a resting place befitting a servant of the realm."
As the words left him, Irindir raised one hand. A calm gesture, yet unmistakable.
Sir Kaelan, who had stood silent behind the throne, moved at once. He reached into the inner fold of his cloak and drew forth a small scroll—stiff, its edges crinkled, and still stained with dried blood. With steady steps, Kaelan placed it into the king's hand.
Irindir received it, studied it for a moment with furrowed brow, then gently laid it upon the stone table before them all.
The members of the Council stared at it in silence, as if the scroll might explode at any moment.
"What is that, Your Majesty?" asked Lord Elmar, his voice low but clear in the stillness of the chamber.
Before Irindir could answer, Lord Thalion spoke first.
"It was found clenched in Lord Hadrir's hand," he said, his voice like steel dragged across stone. "Gripped tightly, as if he meant to take it with him into death."
King Irindir nodded slowly, without turning. "Read it."
Lord Elmar leaned forward, reaching for the scroll with both hands. He let out a breath as his fingers touched the rough, blood-dampened surface. As he unrolled it, flakes of dried blood crumbled and fell onto the table. The ink had begun to fade, and some of the letters were barely legible.
Slowly, he brought the scroll closer to his eyes, letting the light from the window aid his reading.
Then he read aloud, in a flat tone, as if he could not believe what his mouth was speaking:
"Elves from Atharia have arrived in Red-Eriel and met with King Loran."
Silence returned to the room like a crashing wave. The members of the King's Council looked at one another, and the very air around them seemed to hold its breath.
Lord Elmar lowered the scroll slowly, his eyes narrowing and his brow furrowing. For a moment, he stared at the bloodstained parchment as if hoping it would reveal more—words hidden behind the blotches.
Then he lifted his gaze, his sharp stare sweeping across the Council.
"Elves?" he asked, disbelief thick in his tone. "In Santara?"
Lord Thalion leaned back in his heavy chair, his fingers tapping the surface of the table. "It is true," he replied. "Lord Hadrir had a network of spies in Red-Eriel… deep enough to catch the scent of beings as exalted as they." He glanced toward Irindir, then continued, "This message came from them. Sent shortly before his death."
Lord Aldric, who had remained silent, now leaned forward. His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it rang clear in the quiet.
"For thousands of years," he said slowly, "not one of them has crossed the Pilan Sea. Atharia is another world—sealed, distant." He paused, gazing at each of the Council members in turn, then continued with firmer resolve, "And now they come to Red-Eriel."
His gaze then shifted to King Irindir.
"King Loran must be planning something."
Thalion nodded, his eyes darkening. "Something," he said, "that Lord Hadrir may have uncovered… before it got him killed."
The calm shattered as Lord Elmar slammed his hand on the carved stone table. The metallic clang of his war rings echoed through the hall. His face was flushed, eyes burning with fury.
"This cannot go unanswered!" he roared, his voice trembling with rage. "They have murdered a member of the King's Council! This is… an act of war!"
Without pause, he jabbed a finger toward Lord Thalion, who sat calmly at the right side of the table.
"You are the King's Marshal," he said, each word heavy with demand. "Ready your troops and sharpen your blades!"
Lord Thalion lifted his face slowly. His eyes were sharp, but unlike Elmar, they held no flame—only a cold, unwavering steel.
"I take orders from the King, Lord Elmar," he said firmly. The words cracked like a whip, not loud, but cutting—an echo of the chain of command binding them all. Then, calmly, he added, "Rash decisions will only serve our enemies."
Silence returned, curling like smoke around the table.
Lord Aldric, who had been watching quietly, now spoke—his voice softer, but no less serious. "Enemies we see… or those who remain unseen?" He toyed with the feathered quill in his hand, a small gesture that betrayed the unease behind his composed face.
Lord Elmar scoffed loudly and spat, "Bah!" as he waved his hand through the air, as if to swat away a veil of fog. His voice was sharp, brimming with disdain and frustration.
"The only enemies you see are the ones in your head, Lord Aldric," he said with a sneer, turning slightly away from the table. "These Elves are in league with Loran! What more proof do you need? Is Hadrir's body not enough?"
His voice thundered through the open hall, mingling with the faint roar of the Naran Sea crashing against the cliffs below the castle. But now, the sea sounded like a mere whisper compared to the storm building within.
The chamber shook with the force of their dispute. Chairs creaked as the Council members tensed, their eyes measuring one another, their tongues held behind clenched teeth.
King Irindir remained silent, seated upon his high-backed throne carved with the great eagle sigil. His eyes were not on the sea, but on the storm unfolding before him. He allowed the fury to swirl, to churn—testing the resolve of each man in turn.
Lord Elmar's rage crept closer to madness, his body leaning forward, his voice climbing, trembling with the lust for war. "We must strike back in kind!" he howled. "If we delay, we invite more death—more alliances against us. This demands—"
But before he could finish, Lord Thalion cut him off. His voice was quiet, but its edge was as sharp as any sword.
"Discipline, Lord Elmar."
Thalion's gaze pierced the air, slicing through Elmar's fury with chill precision.
"Nothing is more dangerous than overreaction in the face of provocation," he continued. His words were a warning bell—no shout, but a resonating chime that cleaved emotion with cold reason. And because he said it softly, it struck even deeper… more cutting… more provoking.
Elmar let out a short laugh, but it carried no warmth—more bitter than amused. The sound was like grinding metal, not mirth but suppressed exasperation.
"That's a soldier's solution, Thalion," he said sharply, turning with a bitter smile. "Sit and wait while your enemy sharpens their blade."
His words flew like arrows, aimed straight at the Marshal's pride. He turned his head, seeking Aldric's gaze, as if pleading for some shred of support. But all he saw were eyes still fixed on the bloodstained parchment—Lord Hadrir's final message.
Aldric lifted his head slowly. His voice was soft, yet clear enough to echo among the stone pillars that held up the hall.
"Forgive my recklessness," he said quietly, with a bitter note. "But… has it occurred to anyone that… Lord Hadrir's fate… might suggest something other than murder?"
His words dropped like a pebble into a still pond. The room, which moments ago had seethed with fury, now froze. No one spoke—as if even the air dared not move.
Then, as if time resumed, the hall exploded again into chaos.
Elmar's laugh rang out once more—louder this time, filled with disbelief. It bounced off the stone walls, crashing into Thalion's hissed curses. The chamber turned into a cacophony of suspicion. Accusations clashed with frantic defenses and feeble attempts at restraint. The long table had become a battlefield—of words, not steel.
In the eye of the storm, the Council's unity crumbled. Harmony dissolved into discord. Loyalty was questioned, motives challenged. Each word did not soothe, but tore deeper—question upon question, overlapping, cutting, leaving no clear path forward.
And King Irindir… still sat unmoving on his throne, letting the maelstrom whirl around him. His eyes—keen, watchful—scanned the faces around him one by one… judging… weighing… waiting.
In the midst of emotions not yet settled, as voices still clashed like untamed currents in a storm-swollen sea, suddenly—the doors of the council chamber burst open with a thunderous crack. The sound shattered the moment like a hammer striking bronze, jolting every soul present.
A soldier appeared at the threshold, his silhouette framed by the ashen light of a sky boiling with storm. His form stood stark against a bolt of lightning that lanced across the distant horizon of the Naran Sea, casting the illusion that he had not emerged from the palace corridors, but from the very heart of the tempest itself. Harsh sea winds slipped through the gap in the doorway, bringing with them the sharp tang of salt and a fine mist that clung to the air like the breath of another world.
The cacophony that had ruled the room a heartbeat earlier fell away. Words hung in the air, unfinished—splintering into whispers that died as the soldier strode swiftly toward Sir Kaelan. They exchanged words in sharp, tense murmurs—like lightning disputing the sky. No one could hear what was said, but every eye watched—searching the movement of lips, the tension in their brows, for meaning.
Sir Kaelan, who had stood moments ago like an unshakable shield behind the king, now appeared… shaken. His face turned pale, as though the blood had been drained from him by the very news he had just received. There was a pause—a silence that stretched longer than time itself.
But only for a breath.
He inhaled, nodded curtly, and straightened. His face was drawn taut with duty, but his steps were firm as he stepped forward into the center of the chamber. With a motion of solemn deference, he came before King Irindir. His shoulders were squared, yet a subtle tremor haunted his voice, unable to fully mask the weight it bore.
"A message from the Grand Wall, Your Majesty," he said. His voice cut through the silence, carrying with it a burden so heavy that all present forgot to breathe. "The garrison at Snowtrezia… is gone."
The council fell silent, as though the words had cast a frost over the entire hall. Lord Thalion leaned forward at once, his brow furrowing like a ravine split by a sword. "What do you mean, gone?" His voice rolled like an oncoming storm—not from anger, but tension… and fear.
Fear not easily admitted by a King's Marshal.
Sir Kaelan continued, voice grim and resolute, delivering news that seemed penned by the hand of fate itself.
"The Snowtrezian guard has abandoned their post at the Central Watch, my lord."
The words fell like stones into a still lake. Not a single voice rose in response.
Silence.
A suffocating silence, as if the whole room had drawn breath and dared not release it. Then, like a ripple born of uncontainable dread, whispers began to stir. Hushed breaths, tightening gasps, murmurs stretched thin by disbelief.
It was impossible. It was unthinkable.
It was Lord Aldric who spoke first, his voice brisk and pressured, the sharpness of his mind already calculating the threat in silence.
"There must be a mistake," he said—half question, half plea. "Snowtrezia has never left their watch since the Wall was first raised."
There was a weight in his words—a history of unbroken vigilance spanning hundrets of years. And now, a crack had formed. His eyes darted from face to face, seeking contradiction, a counter-truth, even a palatable lie.
But Sir Kaelan offered nothing but the cold edge of truth. He stood straighter, holding down the turmoil in his chest, and said clearly, "It is no mistake, my lord."
No room for doubt. His tone rang with iron certainty. This truth had been tested—and now he carried it before the rulers of the realm with head held high.
Lord Elmar's jaw fell open. For a moment he simply stared—struck dumb, as if lightning had split him from within. Then he clamped his mouth shut, as though trying to contain the storm roiling inside. But it was no use. Panic danced behind his eyes. He reached for the golden goblet before him, his hand trembling as he poured wine from the carafe, nearly spilling it across the table.
"Cursed fate…" he muttered, barely audible, but then his voice surged, cracked by panic. "How can this happen?! How?!"
That rising dread swept the chamber like a creeping fog, seeping into every corner of thought. But before fear could claim the others, Lord Thalion answered—his voice low, but sharp as a blade drawn with care.
"You speak of fate," he said, eyes fixed on Elmar like a spear's point, "I call it… a betrayal of the Kings' Code."
Lord Aldric then spoke, his voice soft but heavy with the awareness of threads—threads that connected one event to another, unseen but undeniable.
"This has happened far too precisely to be chance. We must—"
Lord Elmar cut in, his words exploding like a bowstring finally loosed.
"We must act! While we argue, the enemy moves! First Hadrir, and now this?!"
King Irindir's gaze shifted. What had been calm as the moonlit depths now flared with undeniable resolve. Slowly, he rose from his seat.
Silence met his rising. As though the world—in the form of Lords and Sirs—held its breath, waiting for the verdict that would carve destiny into stone.
"We must not panic," Irindir's voice cut the stillness—clear and commanding. "Our first priority is to uncover the truth behind this abandonment… and secure the Wall."
His words were not merely calming—they were sovereign. Like a compass spoken aloud in the fog. In that sentence lived the twin weapons of a true king: courage, and clarity.
Lord Elmar growled under his breath, nearly disbelieving the caution he perceived as weakness.
"The truth is already clear," he protested, eyes burning. "This cannot be tolerated, Your Majesty! It's an invitation to invade!"
And in that instant, like a hammer striking steel—
"Enough!"
King Irindir's voice cracked through the room like thunder. It was not shouted, yet carried a force far greater than Elmar's frantic cries.
"We will not act on assumption," Irindir continued, his gaze sweeping the council. "I will not allow this chamber to be torn apart by fear and speculation."
And then, he turned to Lord Thalion. His eyes conveyed more than a command. Not a plea, nor merely an order—but a quiet recognition. That amidst all doubt and fury, there was one in whom he could still place his trust to return truth to this hall.
Lord Thalion said nothing. He only bowed—slightly. But enough to say: I understand.
The room, though quieter, now hummed with trembling anticipation. Like harp strings yet to be plucked, the air thrummed with tension—sharp, nearly invisible, yet gripping the breath of all who still stood within.
The meeting began with a reverent silence—and ended with every soul nearly donning their war robes. Not because blades had been drawn, but because the seed of decision had been sown, and each heart now knew: the coming harvest would not be peace, but blood.
The spymaster's shadow lingered like smoke—unseen, yet clinging, seeping into every thought, every scheme, every heartbeat. Lord Hadrir was gone, but what he left behind—a bloodstained letter of secrets—had shaken the council's foundation more deeply than a thousand arrows ever could.
One by one, they bowed to King Irindir. It was more than formality. It was an affirmation—of rank, of allegiance, and perhaps, of doubts yet unspoken.
They left the chamber, their footsteps echoing down the corridor like war drums still waiting to be struck.
The eyes of King Irindir followed them, not merely watching their backs, but weighing the futures they carried. He read them as a seer reads the stars—deliberately, and with burden.
Sir Kaelan remained at Irindir's side.
Silent. Unmoving.
He knew, and Irindir knew, that what began today would not end within these palace walls.
Silence fell.
No sound, save the wind whispering through old stone and the faint rustle of cloth upon Kaelan's shoulders.
Irindir stepped slowly toward the table.
His hand reached out, fingers brushing the small letter still lying atop the weathered wood. The edges were still wet with blood, still humming with the death of the hand that last held it.
He opened it once more—not to read, but to remember.
Then he walked to the great window that faced the sea.
The sky above was gray, the wind sharp, cutting the skin like a blade too fine to be seen.
Irindir stood at the edge.
His hand lifted—high—as if offering a sacrifice to the sea gods themselves.
And without a single word, he let the letter go.
It rose, caught by the wind, spinning, dancing for a fleeting breath before vanishing toward the open sea.
And there, between the waves and the thunder-filled sky, a fragment of unfinished truth was surrendered to fate.