The Capital — Imperial Court Hall
The vast chamber glowed with oil lamps hanging from its marble columns, their light breaking into fractured reflections across the polished black floor. At its center lay a long table, carved with the seals of the old Empire, surrounded by the seats reserved for the lords of the four realms.
In the west sat Seraphel Mortani, his face as unmoving as stone, flanked by his kin who recorded every word.
To the south, Lady Lorenvall leaned her head slightly as if she were more intent on listening than speaking, though her sharp eyes flicked constantly between the speakers.
At the north sat Lord Dravius Romarin, broad-shouldered and clad in armor scarred from real battles. He rarely spoke, but when his voice rose, it drowned out the chamber.
And to the east, Countess Miral Vyzant, wrapped in a deep violet gown threaded with gold, her fingers heavy with rings that caught and fractured the lamplight.
The Emperor himself did not attend. He had left them to argue, as the court often did when he wished to see which voice would dominate.
Seraphel was the first to raise his voice:
— "The western camp has drained our resources for months. I want a clear report: how many knights fit for service, and how many corpses sent back to us?"
Dravius Romarin replied with blunt force:
— "The camp is not indulgence. It is a sieve. Those who die spare us weakness. Those who endure will carry steel on my northern front. Do not speak to me of numbers—speak to me of strength."
Countess Miral Vyzant smiled thinly:
— "Strength does not feed soldiers, Lord Romarin. The flour and iron that sustain them come from my mines. So tell me—why has Vyzant gone unpaid for three months?"
Her voice was soft, but her words cut like knives.
It was then that Lady Lorenvall unfolded a sealed parchment and spoke with quiet precision:
— "Vyzant's dues, Romarin's reports, Mortani's blood… all are details. The real question remains untouched: who is behind the rumors of the Silent General? A man who appears in the north, vanishes in the east, leaves no word—yet his name stirs fear greater than your soldiers. Who profits from his legend?"
The chamber fell into heavy silence.
Dravius slammed his fist against the table:
— "The General is a man of the north. I know him, I trust him. I will not have him treated as a myth."
Seraphel gave a low, mirthless laugh:
— "Sometimes a myth serves better than a thousand truths."
As the debate grew tense, one of the advisers at the margins spoke hesitantly:
— "My lords… and ladies… another matter. Strange writings have appeared across the capital—old symbols carved into walls. They are said to belong to a family long exiled."
The air shifted. His voice lowered to a whisper:
— "Darkveil."
Dravius's expression hardened.
— "That name is not spoken here. It was struck from the records by imperial decree."
But Countess Vyzant smiled softly:
— "What is struck from parchment is not always struck from blood. If remnants remain… they will surface."
Seraphel's voice cut through:
— "Whether ghosts or living, anyone who raises their head without the Empire's leave… we break them."
Lady Lorenvall only kept her faint, knowing smile, as though she understood that ghosts are never so easily broken.
When the council finally dispersed, one name lingered above all others—
a name erased from the records, yet carved into memory itself: Darkveil.