The gates of Noxthistle groaned open, iron grinding against stone as Celestine stepped into the capital of Nightsreach.
The city breathed around her. White stone buildings stretched far into the distance, their golden-tiled roofs catching the morning light like the scales of a sleeping beast. Narrow streets tangled between them—crowded, alive, unbothered by her arrival. Merchants shouted. Bells rang in the distance. Somewhere, a child laughed. Somewhere else, someone wept.
But her eyes didn't linger on the streets.
They rose.
Past the spires. Past the towers. Past the noise and smoke and song, until they reached the mountain that loomed at the city's end—half-shrouded in mist, its slopes crawling with evergreen trees that thinned as the stone grew cruel.
And there it stood.
The castle.
Carved into the mountainside like a wound that refused to heal. Vast. Weathered. Silent. Its towers broke the sky like stone spears, its walls dark with age and storm. A hundred kings had come and gone, and still it stood, watching.
Celestine stared at it for a long moment.
Then she moved on.
There was work to be done.
Her boots echoed as she stepped into the castle.
Stone under heel, steady and slow.
The halls of Noxthistle's stronghold were colder than the city outside. Older too. The air here was quiet—too quiet—like it remembered things the world had tried to forget. Sunlight streamed in through high stained-glass windows, spilling pale color onto the floors. Soldiers lined the passage as she walked, armor polished, swords still. Each of them bowed their heads when she passed.
Not one dared meet her eyes.
She didn't slow.
Through corridor after corridor, until she reached it—the doors.
Tall, ancient, carved from the heartwood of the whispering pines that grew only near the Veil. Two men could push on them with all their strength and the wood would not flinch. But Celestine didn't push.
She placed a single hand on the smooth, weathered grain… and slid the doors open.
With a low groan, the weight gave way.
They parted.
And the room beyond breathed.
A great, circular chamber unfolded before her. Vast, domed, and lit by the sun pouring down from a high skylight overhead. In the center stood a table—round, enormous, carved of obsidian and silver-veined marble. Ten chairs encircled it, each one occupied. Each by a name that could tilt the world.
The Patriarchs of the Ten Arcane Families.
And at the far side of the table, seated in a throne of polished duskwood and gold, was the king.
His gaze met hers at once. Not cold. Not warm. Simply… knowing.
Behind him stood two men draped in twilight blue.
Arthur Starhaven. Young, sharp-eyed, carrying the quiet weight of someone who had lost more than he showed.
And beside him, an elder of his house. White hair tied back, arms folded. A man who had once brought down mountains in the name of peace.
The room did not speak. It did not need to.
Behind each Patriarch stood their knight—a wall of white and gold. Armour that gleamed like sunfire, robes draped with sacred runes, swords at the hip and hands at the ready.
They were not here for ceremony. They were here for silence. For control. For the unspoken promise that if a single wrong word was uttered in this room… blood would follow.
Celestine stepped forward.
And the doors closed behind her.
A chair was brought forth—carved, velvet-lined, yet modest next to the thrones and arcane seats that surrounded the table. One of the knights placed it down without a word, its legs scratching softly against the stone floor.
Celestine didn't hesitate.
She sat with the grace of someone who had sat before kings before… and unnerved them.
Directly across her, the king leaned forward. His crown glinted faintly in the light, casting a long shadow across the table. His fingers were steepled before him, but his voice… his voice carried the weight of walls.
"What is the reason of this meeting, Celestine?"
Not a whisper stirred after his words.
Even the knights behind the Patriarchs stood more still than before.
Celestine looked at him—not past him, not through him, but at him.
Her answer came, smooth as silk and just as sharp.
"I went to Scryvale."
The name struck like a blade.
The air shifted.
Several of the Patriarchs visibly stiffened, the room drinking in their unease like wine spilled across marble. One of them, the eldest of the Virellian House, twitched at the corner of his mouth—barely, but it was there. Another leaned back in his chair, knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrest.
Even the king's breath hitched.
He swallowed, visibly.
"What did you find?"
It was not the voice of a ruler now, but a man asking a question he feared the answer to.
Celestine opened her mouth.
"I—"
But the words never finished.
The great doors opened with a sudden gasp of air.
A soldier rushed in—his steps too loud, his breath too fast, his presence like ice dropped in warm water. He did not look left or right. He went straight to the king and dropped to one knee.
A whisper. Urgent. Too low to catch.
Then the soldier reached into his cloak and extended a hand.
A letter. Small. Folded. Bound in black thread.
The king stared at it for a moment—only a moment—before taking it with fingers that had begun to tremble.
The silence in the chamber grew heavier still.
And Celestine's words hung there.
Unfinished. Waiting.
The king's hands moved slowly.
He slipped the thread off the letter with care, as if unwrapping something dangerous. The parchment unfolded with a faint crinkle, the sound barely audible over the sound of breath held tight in chests.
He read.
And as he did, the room grew colder.
No one dared speak. No one dared shift.
Their eyes stayed fixed on him—hearts in their mouths, breath caught somewhere between now and never.
Then, with a stillness that felt rehearsed, the king folded the letter once more. Precisely. Deliberately.
He rose from his seat.
There was a hearth nearby—small, ceremonial, meant more for presence than warmth. The king walked to it, his back to them all now, and cast the letter into the fire.
The flames took it eagerly.
Orange light danced across the walls, licking at the edges of his cloak, curling the corners of the paper until it blackened and withered to ash.
He did not look away until every piece was gone.
Only then did he tilt his head back—slowly, as if the weight of what he had read made even that motion difficult.
His gaze swept across the table, the knights, the Patriarchs. Even Celestine.
And when he spoke, his voice was calm.
Too calm.
"They are on the move."
That was all.
But it was enough.
Every figure in the room understood at once. The fire's warmth now felt like a mockery.
They didn't need to ask who they were.
The Arcane Patriarchs, the king's own men, even Arthur—none spoke. None breathed too loud. It was as if the very mention of them was a summoning.
And just like that, the word Scryvale—that terrible word—became a shadow.
A smaller shadow beneath a larger one.