Shattered Halls of the Council
A cold wind rattled the high windows of the Grand Hall in the Ebon Spire, shaking the tapestries embroidered with centuries of Ironfang's lineage. Inside, the Council's twelve seats—once a circle of calm dominion—felt fractured as if the very stones themselves quaked beneath the weight of truths spilled in the valley below.
High Elder Marlyns, his silver hair falling like a curtain around a gaunt face, stood at the dais, his fingers drumming on the obsidian council table. Around him, the other twelve wolves and humans dressed in the colors of Ardent Path, Ironfang, and Neutral Accord whispered among themselves. Their heated discussion centered on a single parchment, the text etched in runic ash: a summons from Alaric, demanding that every grievance voiced at the riverbank be acknowledged and addressed in this very chamber.
Elder Marlyns leaned forward, clearing his throat. "These… revelations undermine our authority. They undermine the foundations upon which Ironfang stands." He pressed his palms into the table. "If we allow this assembly to proceed unchallenged, we lose more than power. We lose our right to guide the realm." His eyes flicked toward Elder Jarys—once a staunch ally—who now sat silent, ashen-faced. "Jarys, you were present when those—those upstarts spilled their grievances. Do you still deny the Council's failures?"
Jarys rose slowly, robes whispering, his shoulders bowed not from age but remorse. "I do not deny it. I witnessed how the exiled flooded the riverbank, declaring amnesty for old sins. I saw Alaric grant them voice. If I remain silent, I betray my oath to justice." He turned to his fellow councillors. "We must answer them, not with dismissive decrees, but with sincerity. Otherwise, we invite chaos."
A low murmur rippled through the chamber. Some Councillors bristled; others nodded. The human delegate from Frosthold, Lady Eirwyn, spoke next, voice steady but quiet. "Justice demands transparency. Yet we cannot simply admit every error without expecting the repercussions. If we open our archives, they will be weaponized. Our enemies will strike where we are weakest." She cast a glance at Jarys. "We must tread carefully. One misstep, and Ironfang's alliances will dissolve."
Across the table, Ardent Path Elder Varyna folded her hands. "Fear of reflexive backlash has chained us for centuries. We believed secrecy preserved order. I now see it bred resentment—resentment that has awakened like a hibernating beast." Her voice hardened. "I propose a limited Council Convocation. We invite representatives of the exiles to speak, but each accusation must be matched by evidence. We will not collapse under emotional outcry."
A younger councillor—Dorin Blackpaw, once a radical critic of Alaric—stood abruptly. "Evidence was buried with our doubt. Healers were burned. Scholars imprisoned. Humans slaughtered for half-remembered prophecies. You cannot demand evidence when you erased it." His voice echoed through the hall. "Tell me where the records of the Ridgefall Healer's massacre are? Or will you say those too were exaggerated fables?"
A tense hush followed. Several Councillors snapped to attention, but no one spoke. Elder Marlyns pinched the bridge of his nose. "We will not descend into accusatory spectacle. By tomorrow's sun, I will convene a formal tribunal. But until then, we preserve order."
As the Council members rose in reluctant agreement, a solitary figure slipped from the chamber: High Artisan Jorlan, master chronicler. He carried a satchel of scrolls and tomes long thought lost. He knew the Council's decision was only a temporary bandage; the fissure in Ironfang's heart widened by the second. He carried in his mind a single thought: "The true trial begins when they realize the Council taught them to fear truth itself."
Below, in hidden chambers, a network of secret doorways and cloisters held a different congregation—those loyal to the First Moonless. The Covenant of Ember had dispersed, but their mission continued. In flickering torchlight, Liris—once the First Ardent Priestess—observed runic sigils. Claren dipped her quill in silvered oil, inscribing glyphs on a fragile scroll. Tyron stood guard with shadowed blade, listening for approaching footsteps.
Liris laid a trembling hand on the rune-inscribed wall. "They convene in arrogance, believing a tribunal will contain the tide. They know not that memory is not a servant—they are its captive." Her eyes reflected the glow of the runes. "The Council will crumble beneath the weight of unseen truths. Let them prepare their defenses; we will unlock every hidden secret and watch their fortress of lies collapse."
In the depths of the bastion, Alaric stood before the scattered camp of exiles, letters and scrolls piled at his side. Beside him, Sienna Thornpaw knelt, reading arguments meant for the Council. Behind them, Miredon—one of Caelen's lieutenants—watched with guarded respect. Alaric rose, heart heavy. "Today, I go to the Spire. I will stand before the Council as their Alpha and answer every grievance."
Mira stepped forward. "I come with you, but not simply as seer. I will accompany you into the depths of their archives. If they hide truths, I will find them."
Alaric's eyes softened. "Then we stand together. For the sake of every voice that Mother Moon once heard."
They departed in the first light, carrying with them the promise of reckoning. Above them, the Hollow Cliffs stood silent witness, but far beneath the Spire, the First Moonless whispered through fractured stone: "Let them face the echoes of their buried sins."