The Capital – House of Mortani (Western Branch)
In a wide hall carpeted with crimson rugs, Sraphiel Mortani sat on a high chair, the candlelight casting shadows across his face that doubled his severity. Before him stood three men of the lesser houses: Gabriel Astair, Lord Elmaris, and Lord Dargon.
Sraphiel spoke in a low voice, steady yet cutting through the chamber:
— "The West is no place for the weak. Stand with me, and you'll share in the wealth of the ports. Hesitate… and you'll be trampled into the mud."
Elmaris tightened his grip on his cane, his voice frail but firm:
— "House Elmaris has served the court for three generations. We need no reminder of our worth."
Sraphiel smirked with scorn:
— "Generations don't feed my soldiers, Lord. Today, no one asks me about your ancestors' glories—only about your strength now."
Lord Dargon cut in with his rough tone:
— "Enough words. What matters is the spoils. Our men bleed on the borders, but the gold never comes."
Sraphiel leaned forward, his voice sharpening:
— "Spoils go to those who fight under my banner, not to those who boast. Put Dargon steel in service of my ports, and the gold will flow."
Through it all, Gabriel Astair stayed silent. His eyes never left Sraphiel, nor turned to the others. It was as if he were writing something into memory—quietly, deliberately.
The Capital – Palace of Lady Lorenvall (South)
In a chamber lined with white marble, Lady Lorenvall sat with two lords: one from House Korval, the other the elder of House Altairen. The atmosphere here was different from Mortani's clamor—words were few, but each carried the weight of a blade.
The Korval man spoke first:
— "Whispers spread in the capital. Markets grow unstable, silver drains from treasuries."
Altairen replied, his voice quiet but edged with age:
— "It's not the markets. It's the West bleeding us dry and leaving scraps. If this continues… the South will starve."
Lorenvall turned her wine cup slowly in her hand, her gaze calm but sharp:
— "Hunger alone doesn't kill. Hunger breeds anger. And anger, if left without a guide, explodes in our faces. That's why we need a firm alliance. Not against the Emperor… but against the greed of the West."
Korval exchanged a look with Altairen. The last word was left unspoken, but its meaning was clear: Lady Lorenvall wanted a southern front to stand against Mortani.
The Training Grounds – Evening
As fire crackled in the center of the camp, the trainees sat in small circles, their voices low, weighed down by the day.
Hark sat closest to the flame, extending his hand again and again to ensure the fire didn't die. Beside him, Ilda whispered numbers under her breath, tracing steps into the dirt with her fingers: "One… two… three."
Bartol muttered loudly to himself, replaying the day's events as if to convince his own heart: "I wasn't weak… I wasn't weak…"
Kaizlan watched in silence, realizing for the first time that none of them carried wounds of the body alone. Each bore deeper scars—ones no training could heal.
Milo finally broke the silence, his voice uncertain as he looked toward Sirin at the edge of the fire:
— "Do you think we'll leave this camp the same as we came?"
Her gaze flicked to him briefly, then back to the flames:
— "No. The question is… which part of us will remain?"
The Capital – Private Council at House Vyzant (East)
In a glittering hall of gemstones, Countess Miral Vyzant sat with one of her advisors. A map of ports and trade routes lay spread before them.
The advisor reported:
— "We've received word of strange markings on the market walls. They say they belong to… Darkveil."
Miral closed the map slowly, her eyes glinting with sly delight:
— "Blood never truly vanishes. If these reports are true… then the ghosts of the past may soon come to claim what was lost."
Her lips curved into a cold smile:
— "And when they return… they won't go to Mortani or Lorenvall. They'll come to us—where gold buys even souls."
As the great palace lamps dimmed, the capital still churned with quiet storms:
In the West, Sraphiel wove his net tighter around the lesser houses.
In the South, Lady Lorenvall laid the seeds of a counter-alliance.
In the East, Vyzant listened for the scent of old blood.
And in the North, the name of the Silent General drifted like a whisper—unseen, yet feared.
Meanwhile, in the camp, the faint firelight flickered across the faces of youths unaware that their fates were already being written in these shadowed halls.