Before the Calestarch and the Lords of each nation could turn their minds to the greater purpose of the Conclave....discussing the fragile alliances, drawing new borders, and deciding how the nations might dwell in peace...the bitter feud between the Lord of Aiseryn and the Lord of Emberhold had to be resolved.
It was not merely a personal quarrel. If it went unsettled, the tension between their Nations would fester into open war.
All the Lords and Councilors of Caelmont had gathered in the Hall of Balance for the trial.
The Hall of Balance was a cathedral to power and judgment...its marble pillars shaped into towering likenesses of ancient kings and queens, the forebears of Caelmont's law.
The domed ceiling arched high overhead, painted with scenes of divine arbitration: gods weighing the hearts of mortals, heroes swearing oaths in the light of celestial fire.
The air was heavy with the scent of incense, though beneath it lingered the faint metallic tang of tension....an unspoken promise that the wrong word today could topple more than reputations.
At the very heart of the chamber sat the Aether Throne, a monumental seat of silvered steel and deep blue crystal, carved in the likeness of wind-swept waves and crowned with a halo of light. Behind it rose five towering stained-glass windows, each depicting an elemental god:
Ignarion, Flame Incarnate—robed in crimson and gold, fire curling from his hands.
Caelion, god of Wind—his form swept by flowing silvers and pale blues, hair like clouds in motion.
Vireon, God of Storms—wreathed in shadow and lightning, eyes as bright as white fire.
Neryth, goddess of Ice and Water—clad in shifting shades of deep blue and white, the folds of her robes melting into frozen seas.
Thalor, Earthshaper god—vast and green-brown, his limbs strong as mountains, roots and stone twining at his feet.
When the sunlight poured through the glass, their colors bathed the chamber in living light....flames flickered across the marble, waves rippled over the pillars, lightning danced upon the floor.
Beneath those windows stretched the great semicircle of thrones belonging to the elemental Lords.
The Storm Lord, Valerian Stormborne, already sat in his seat, his storm-grey eyes narrowed with visible impatience. His bearing radiated authority, but the set of his jaw told anyone watching that he considered this entire proceeding an unwanted delay.
To his left lounged Sylas Skyborne, the Wind Lord...platinum-blonde hair gleaming, sharp features relaxed into a half-smile that promised amusement at everyone else's expense. Mischief clung to him like perfume, his fingers idly toying with the silver clasp at his shoulder.
To Valerian's right sat Azarion Flameborne, Lord of Emberhold, his crimson cloak pooling around his feet like spilled fire. His broad shoulders were tense, his mouth set in a scowl that suggested the world.....and certainly the Lord of Winter beside him....was a constant irritation.
Neris Winterbourne met Azarion's presence with cool disregard. Draped in icy silks and fur as pale as snowfall, the Winter Lord's silver-blue eyes were unreadable, his elegant hands folded neatly on the armrest. If he heard Azarion's faint scoff when their gazes met, he gave no sign.
At the far end of the semicircle, Malric Stoneborne, Lord of Earth, sat like a mountain carved into human form....six and a half feet tall, with a barrel chest and arms like tree trunks. His stillness was not laziness but an immovable patience, his folded hands resting on his knee as if nothing short of an earthquake could disturb him.
Beyond the elemental thrones sat the five High Councilors of Caelmont, robed in the colors of their provinces:
Serathis Durn, representing the coastal province of Lyrmoor, robed in deep sea blue.
Maevryn Tal, from the high plains of Avarith, wearing the gold and russet of harvest fields.
Cyrath Vane, for the desert province of Haldrath, wrapped in flowing robes of sun-bleached sand.
Elandor Quen, of the northern wilds of Veylan, his green and brown garb trimmed in fur.
Oris Vareth, for the mountainous heartland of Durnhollow, in rich iron-grey.
At the very center, on a dais higher than all others, sat the Calestarch of Caelmont—Orien Valehart. His robes were pure white edged in silver thread, his long hair the color of frost, his eyes unreadable as sculpted marble. He bore no crown, for his authority needed none.
As the spectators filed in, the air in the Hall thickened. Nobles in fine silks, merchants eager for gossip, and emissaries from distant lands all found their seats, their hushed conversations weaving into a restless murmur.
When the sound swelled too far, it was Serathis Durn, head of the High Council, who rose. His voice cut through the chamber like a blade.
"Silence."
The word rang against the marble, and the murmurs died at once.
"We are gathered in the Hall of Balance," Serathis declared, his tone crisp with ceremony, "to hear the matter between Lord Azarion Flameborne of Emberhold and Lord Neris Winterbourne of Aiseryn."
His gaze swept the room, letting the weight of the moment settle before he continued.
"The matter is thus: Lord Azarion claims that Lord Neris is bound by oath to take his daughter, Lady Aurelia Flameborne, in marriage.
Lord Neris refuses, claiming the Lord of Emberhold deceived him regarding the lady's… condition.
He has brought evidence before the Council, that we may judge the truth and render a fair ruling. Both lords will speak before the assembly. The witnesses may be called. And this Council will decide."
The formality of his words hung in the air like the moment before a storm breaks.
"You may bring forth the parties involved," Serathis finished.
From opposite sides of the chamber, the great doors opened.
On one side, Azarion rose, his crimson cloak swirling as he descended the steps, every stride proclaiming unyielding dominance.
Behind him when the doors opened came Aurelia, cloaked with a veil covering her face, her head high despite the stares that followed her..stares that lingered not with admiration but with the sharp-edged curiosity of those eager to measure rumor against reality.
At her other side walked Aldric Flameborne, her brother, his hand resting lightly at the hilt of his sword as if daring anyone to speak against her aloud.
From the opposite side came Neris Winterbourne, his pace unhurried, each step measured, the cold dignity of Aiseryn in every movement. His retainers followed in silence, their faces unreadable masks.
The two Lords approached the center of the Hall, where the floor bore a great inlaid circle of the five elements in perfect balance. A chair was there for all of them.
Here, before gods and men alike, their words would be weighed.