Capital – Imperial Council Hall
The grand council chamber glowed with tall candles set along the marble walls. Its domed ceiling was painted with the empire's history, as though every painted eye watched from above. The session marked the start of the new imperial year, 412, but the faces gathered held more unease than celebration.
At the center sat Lady Lorynval, a woman in her early forties. Her silver hair was tied neatly back, and her gray eyes carried the stern glint of a strategist. Beside her sat Lord Dargon, a man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered and built like a warhorse, his fist striking the table whenever he spoke.
On the opposite side was Gabriel Astair, a young man in his mid-twenties. His hazel eyes were calm, too calm for politics, scanning every gesture in silence. He seemed to weigh more in silence than others did in anger.
Between them sat Lord Ilmaris, a man in his late fifties. His thin, withered face looked as though it was fading along with the memories of his family's past glories. Every word he spoke carried nostalgia rather than strength.
The Debate
Lord Dargon's voice thundered across the chamber:
— "The camps are wasting time. Two and a half months of drills! Throw them onto the borders and let them learn war with the first scream."
Lady Lorynval arched a brow, her tone icy:
— "The camps forge soldiers who fight with their minds, not just their swords. But you… you only see blood."
Gabriel Astair allowed himself a faint smile, his voice low but firm:
— "Word is the western camp has already entered its third phase. If that's true… those youths will walk out of the valley closer to knights than boys."
Then came a slow, weathered voice from Lord Altairen, a man in his early sixties, his face etched with lines of age:
— "The news doesn't stop at the camps. Whispers say two empires to the north are preparing an alliance. If that proves true, training children in a valley is nothing but a drop in the ocean."
Exchanging Glances
Lady Lorynval's gray eyes met those of Miral Vyzant, seated in the rear rows. Miral, in her early thirties, wore a deep purple gown laced with gold threads. Their brief exchange was full of unspoken weight, as though both women knew more than they revealed.
Lord Dargon only laughed loudly, pounding his chest:
— "Alliance or no alliance, blood will always decide. And I will be the first to spill mine if battle calls."
Gabriel Astair remained silent, his hazel eyes flickering as if reading behind every word. He spoke nothing, yet his presence laid a heavy shadow over the chamber.
Beyond the Hall
In the stone corridors outside, a messenger hurried past, clutching a scroll sealed in black wax. Its contents had not yet been read, but whispers among the guards spread quickly:
— "The Silent General was sighted on the northern frontier…"
In that moment, it was clear—politics were no longer distant from the camps. Their shadows were already stretching toward the valley where the trainees awaited their fate.