Velmora's capital, Aurenhold, stood like a blade driven into the mountain. Its towers were carved from stone older than history, wrapped in banners of silver and blue. Inside its frostbitten halls, silence ruled. Not from peace—but discipline.
Seren walked through the barracks, her steps echoing beneath vaulted ceilings etched with the names of Velmoran dead. Each name burned into the wall, lit only by runes that shimmered coldly with sanctioned magic. The light of mourning.
General Aesthar awaited her in the war chamber, flanked by robed advisors and ranking officers. His gaze was sharp as flint.
"You crossed the Rift's edge," he said without preamble.
"Yes, General," Seren replied, standing at attention.
"You were not given sanction to engage the Kael'Thari."
"We didn't engage. We were observed. And warned."
A ripple of murmurs passed among the officers. One of them, a woman with sharp gray eyes and a voice like broken glass, stepped forward. "You were warned by a sorcerer?"
Seren's tone remained even. "An archer. A scout, likely. He chose not to strike."
"Foolish mercy," someone muttered.
"The Kael'Thari don't show mercy," another snapped. "They bide time."
General Aesthar silenced them with a raised hand. "You believe they're watching the Rift more closely?"
"I believe they fear it as much as we do," Seren said carefully.
That earned her a scowl. The advisors exchanged grim looks.
"Magic is not feared," said Councilor Rythen. "It is controlled. That is the root of our duty. Let Kael'Thar tremble in the dark they summoned."
"But what if that dark rises before either of us is ready?" Seren asked.
A dangerous silence followed. The general's gaze did not waver.
"You are dismissed."
Outside, the wind bit deeper than before.
Elen fell into step beside her. "They'll never listen, will they?"
"They listen," Seren said. "But only to the ghosts they've carved into the walls."