After four days of Winston's capture.
In the heart of Aldoria stood the royal capital, the grand and ancient city of Ardoza. Its tall spires pierced the skies, bridges of white stone stretched across shimmering canals, and banners of crimson and gold fluttered from every tower. The city was alive with a rhythm of its own—merchants shouting their wares, armored knights clashing during drills, and priests chanting blessings at every temple arch. But on this day, beneath all its glittering life, a heavy tension lingered.
Within the palace citadel, past gates plated with dragonsteel, through golden corridors lined with statues of kings long past, a meeting was gathering. This was no ordinary gathering. It was the Royal Senate—a council where the highest of Aldoria's power converged.
Inside the vast marble-floored court, torches burned with blue flames along the walls. High above, stained-glass windows threw shards of scarlet and emerald light across the chamber, creating an aura of reverence and authority.
Opposite the towering doors of the chamber stood the Crimson Throne, carved from a single piece of volcanic obsidian and veined with shimmering ruby lines. Upon this throne sat King Altherion Vaelcrest during such councils, ruler of Aldoria, wielder of the legendary blade Dragon-Slayer. But the throne was empty—for now.
Between the throne and the entrance stretched a grand oval table of blackwood, its edges inlaid with silver glyphs. Around it were placed the seats for the kingdom's most powerful individuals:
Three Court-Wizards, draped in flowing robes marked with runes that pulsed faintly with arcane light. Four Royal Generals, armored and scarred from decades of campaigns. Nine Royal Knights, each with unique armor and weapons, their reputation forged through years of valor.
They were the king's closest advisors, and together they carried the weight of Aldoria's future.
The hierarchy of power was clear. Court-Wizards stood above generals, their mastery of magic giving them an edge even over hardened warlords. Below the generals were the Royal Knights, guardians of honor and battlefield might. Beneath them stretched the vast structure of the Royal Army, divided into five feared divisions:
The Ember Guard – frontline battlemages who scorched enemies with relentless fire and storm.The Skyborne – gryphon riders and aerial legions, the wind itself their ally.The Hollow Fangs – assassins, scouts, and masters of shadows.The Golden Pike – stalwart spearmen, a wall of steel and discipline.The Dread March – colossal siege-beasts and armored juggernauts, breaking cities with their tread.
Each division was commanded by a Supreme Commander, beneath whom worked commanders like Dragomir, each leading forces of five thousand. And beneath them, countless soldiers bled and fought to protect Aldoria's dominion.
One by one, the seats filled as the Senate began.
The sound of boots echoed in perfect rhythm as the knights entered, followed by the heavy steps of the generals, and the rustling of silk and the whisper of magic as the wizards glided to their places. Conversation quieted as the air thickened with expectation.
The heavy doors swung open once more. A hush fell.
Into the hall swept Queen Mother Ysmyra Vaelcrest, robed in flowing silver, her presence commanding silence though she spoke no words. Her hair, long and pale as moonlight, framed sharp eyes that had once guided the realm through wars and betrayals. She moved with the grace of a predator and the authority of one who had ruled even before her son.
All rose to their feet, bowing their heads.
At her side walked Kaelith Vaelcrest, heir to the throne and the queen mother's cherished grandson. His youthful face carried the arrogance of royalty, but also a spark of curiosity, as though he measured each general, knight, and wizard with unspoken questions. He carried no sword, but a dagger of white steel gleamed at his belt—a symbol, not a weapon.
Two thrones stood beside the Crimson Throne. Ysmyra settled onto the one at the king's left, Kaelith onto the one at his right, slightly behind but high enough to oversee the chamber.
The murmurs stilled as the chamber doors thundered shut.
Moments later, silence deepened into reverence.
For through the doors strode King Altherion Vaelcrest.
The weight of his presence filled the hall. His armor was dark steel trimmed with gold, etched with the crests of past victories. Across his back gleamed the blade Dragon-Slayer, a sword said to have drunk the blood of wyverns and split mountains. His long crimson cape swept across the floor as he approached, his cold eyes scanning every seat, every figure.
Every man and woman stood again, even Ysmyra and Kaelith. The king's steps echoed until he reached the throne, where he lowered himself with a deliberate calm that spoke louder than thunder.
When he sat, the hall exhaled, and all others took their places.
The first act of every Senate was tradition: reports.
A soldier in polished bronze armor stepped forward, scroll in hand. His voice rang clear as he recited every matter of the kingdom—the movements of border troops, harvest yields, the rebuilding of two villages burned by raiders, trade negotiations, and the subtle unrest growing in the far provinces. He read for long minutes, the court listening in patience, though many eyes betrayed boredom or frustration.
Finally, the soldier bowed low, rolled his scroll, and stepped back.
A pause. Then the king's deep voice broke the air.
"Tell me," Altherion said, his gaze hardening, "about the massacres in Elarith. You spoke of a vampire."
The word alone seemed to chill the chamber. Several knights shifted uneasily; one of the generals clenched his jaw. The court-wizards, however, leaned forward with interest, their runes glowing faintly brighter.
A figure rose.
Sylwen Elaris. Known as the Knight of Thorns, her armor was laced with vines of living silver that moved faintly as though alive. Her weapon, resting at her side, was a whip-sword—a blade that could split into dozens of thorned segments, each controlled with deadly precision. Her dark hair framed a stern face, her green eyes carrying the wildness of the forests she drew her magic from.
Stepping forward, she bowed, then raised her head to speak.
"I went to Elarith to capture the vampire," Sylwen said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "The soldiers stationed there could not contain the threat. Villages burned. Corpses rose. Panic spread through the countryside. I prepared to confront the creature myself."
The court leaned forward.
Sylwen's expression hardened. "But the day before I arrived, Commander Dragomir had already defeated the vampire. He subdued him in battle and secured him alive. The damage was contained, though at a terrible cost to his men."
Gasps whispered across the hall. Wizards exchanged glances, generals frowned, knights muttered under their breaths. A vampire captured alive was no ordinary feat.
Sylwen continued, "I took the creature into custody. I ensured its chains were bound in vixterium, and its wounds sealed so it could not regenerate. I brought it back here to Ardoza."
Her eyes flicked to the king, sharp as her whip-sword. "The vampire is now held in the dungeons of the capital prison."
The silence that followed was thick as storm clouds, every word hanging heavy with meaning.