Snow fell in sheets upon Aurenhold, whispering across the rooftops like ghosts too tired to speak. Inside the Frosthall, beneath chandeliers of rune-etched crystal and beneath the solemn weight of ancestral statues, Stonekeeper Vaeren stood before a fire that refused to warm the room.
Councilor Rythen paced behind him, hands clasped behind his back, lips pressed into a line of disdain.
Elen knelt before them, blood dried on the edge of her collar, her armor scraped by Riftstone and frost. Her voice held neither hesitation nor shame.
"She has vanished deeper into the Rift, my lord. We combed the entire upper region. The cave network is expansive—widening beyond mapped zones."
Vaeren turned. His beard was silver-threaded iron, and his gaze sharp as a spear-point. "Did she see you?"
"No, Stonekeeper. But she knew we were coming."
"That should not have been possible."
"She was always one step ahead," Elen said quietly. "She's not lost. She's hiding. She's hunting knowledge. Or perhaps… herself."
Councilor Rythen sneered. "She was weak enough to listen to Kael'Thari words. Now she listens to their winds."
"Enough," Vaeren said, voice like grinding stone.
He approached the central dais where the war-table glowed with pale enchantment. Maps of the Rift rippled in luminous layers. From the dark line of the chasm rose faint symbols marking Seren's last known movement—nothing beyond the First Layer. But still too far.
"She was one of our best," Elen added, softer now. "She hasn't betrayed Velmora. I believe she still fights for us. Just—differently."
"She abandoned orders," Vaeren growled. "She disappeared without sanction. She passed the edge of forbidden ground. Even if her heart beats with loyalty, her actions have broken faith. And broken faith begets broken nations."
Elen looked away. She didn't argue. Not because she agreed—but because she had no words left.
Vaeren exhaled slowly.
"Very well. She does not return by your hand. Then she will return by another."
He raised a hand.
A door opened. The torches dimmed.
A figure stepped forward, draped in robes of grey and steel, armor that bore no crest—only a single rune etched into the collar: ⸺ Silence.
His helm was smooth, seamless, featureless. His eyes hidden behind a veil of runeglass that shimmered like frozen breath. He said nothing. He never did.
Elen's blood turned to ice.
"The Warden of Silence…" she whispered.
"A Steelkeeper," Vaeren said. "One of six. Chosen not for loyalty—but for absolution. They are the hand that executes truth when truth falters. When warriors forget who they serve."
Councilor Rythen smiled, cold and pleased. "Where soldiers falter and scouts fail, the Warden listens. And ends."
Elen stood. "You're sending him after Seren? She was once his pupil."
"All the more reason," Vaeren said. "He trained her to be silent. To endure. To obey. If she is lost, then he will recognize the signs. And if she resists…"
His hand fell like a judge's verdict.
"He will silence her."
The Warden gave a single nod, then turned without a word.
The doors closed behind him like a tomb being sealed.
In Velmora, the Steelkeepers are not merely generals—they are paragons. Chosen from bloodlines that have served for generations, tested in trials where magic was stripped away and only will remained. They speak little, if at all. Each embodies a different tenet of Velmoran law. The Warden of Silence serves the tenet of Absolute Obedience. Rumor says his tongue was ritually severed when he took the mantle, so that no oath would ever be broken by careless speech.
Seren, years ago, had trained under his command—when she was still an initiate on the path to becoming a Steelkeeper herself.
She was one rank beneath it now, though she had stopped her ascent.
Now, her past had been set upon her trail.