(POV: Lord Kael, Kingdom of Veyrith)
The chamber was dark, lit only by the pale shimmer of crystal lamps embedded into the obsidian walls. Six figures sat around a jagged table carved from blackstone, each draped in their kingdom's colors. Their voices echoed, sharp and low, like blades drawn in the dark.
Lord Kael of Veyrith leaned forward, fingers steepled. His long crimson cloak spilled over the chair, the emblem of a serpent coiling across the fabric. His eyes were cold, watching the others with patient calculation.
"The balance falters," he said. "Shadows stir in the forests. Villages whisper of a boy who fell from the sky. Tell me—do any of you truly believe this is mere coincidence?"
Across the table, Queen Maelira of Ebonvale—silver-haired and stern—rested her chin on her hand. "You speak of rumors. A child's tale meant to give peasants hope. Let the fools dream."
"Hope is dangerous," Kael replied, his tone a venomous hiss. "Especially if it wears the face of prophecy."
A murmur rippled through the council. The King of Droswen slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table. "Prophecy or not, shadows have reached our borders! My patrols vanished near the ruins of Myrridon. Entire battalions, gone. Do you think that is coincidence?"
At the mention of Myrridon, the room fell silent. The ruined continent was a scar none of them could ignore.
From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a voice emerged—smooth, low, and ancient. None of the rulers had seen the speaker enter.
"Not coincidence," the figure whispered, its face hidden beneath a hood. "The Aetherborn walks again."
The rulers stiffened. Even Queen Maelira's composure cracked for a moment.
Lord Kael smiled thinly. "Then the old stories are true."
The hooded figure raised a hand, and for a heartbeat the crystal lamps dimmed. "He will rise. And when he does, kingdoms will burn. The only choice is whether you will kneel… or perish."