The king shifted a handspan. Fists clenched beneath the veil of his cloak — and the entire hall held its breath.
"Where do you intend to go with such audacity?" the monarch asked, his voice now sharp as ice. "Speak. Propose treachery, and you will know what it is to be devoured by your own throne."
Éreon tilted his head with calculated respect, keeping the cold smile.
"I do not propose treachery, Your Majesty. I propose the end of weakness bound in ancient chains. To free you is to return to the North a power that terrifies emperors and makes gods think twice before crossing our borders. I need your name, your blood unbound, and in return — Force directed to the North."
The king studied him for a time that seemed endless, as if each of Éreon's words weighed against memories he would have preferred to bury.
Then, with a slow gesture, he brought a hand to his chin, thoughtful.
"You offer me fire, prince," he murmured. "And you know fire consumes both the one who ignites it and the one it burns. Why should I trust someone who brought chaos to my doorstep?"
Éreon did not flinch. The glow in his eyes deepened, yet his voice remained controlled, almost intimate.
"Because, Your Majesty, I am the one who knows the price of what you carry. Because we are, in a way, fruits of the same hunger."
The king remained still, like an ancient mountain in contemplation. Outside, the castle breathed in shadows.
Inside, two wills measured the North's future, each knowing that the next word could ignite or extinguish kingdoms. Then he spoke:
"And what guarantees me that you do not wish to usurp the North's throne?" he asked, his voice sharp as ice.
"If you know my origin, you must know what sleeps here — within this throne, within me, Éreon."
The prince tilted his head slightly, keeping the cold smile.
"I am someone who bears the weight of what others feared to know, Your Majesty." He paused, gauging the king's reaction. "If you desire a brief answer: I do not seek the throne for myself. I seek the forge of the North — the force that will make it walk without fear."
The king narrowed his eyes, doubt anchoring itself across his golden face.
"You speak in riddles. Answer with clarity," he commanded, his voice low.
Éreon drew a deep breath, then spoke with restrained calm, phrase by phrase, revealing the truth slowly, as though unsealing a sacred mark:
"Before the names and faces of the Greek gods — and even before the gods of your pantheon — there existed only the Movement: the eternal oscillation between Creation and Dissolution. When that balance faltered, the fabric of existence responded and shaped consciences to contain the Abyss that opened."
The king listened, each word reverberating. This was no mere erudition: there was memory in the syllables Éreon chose.
"Continue," the monarch ordered, his voice a veiled invitation to depth.
"From these consciences were born the Princes of the Abyss," Éreon said, his violet eyes gleaming in the gloom — "border beings, created not from divine whim but from cosmic necessity. They are living dams of the universe: guardians between being and non-being. Their essence is the collision of Order and Chaos — an energy neither gods comprehend nor mortals could endure."
The king clenched his fists further, the tension in the air seeming to cut stone.
"And what prevents such power from consuming my territory?"
"Nothing, except the discipline they carry," Éreon replied, his voice low, firm, yet laden with force.
"The abyssal energy flows in the heirs of the Abyss. I, however, bear what few dared face — the essence that shapes what is and what could be."
He stepped forward, the shadow of his presence expanding across the hall.
"But there is a price, Your Majesty. Chaos was not meant to be understood. To manipulate it is to make my mind a battlefield between what is real and what could be."
Each wrong move, each prolonged exposure, could tear me apart from within. That is my weakness." He paused, staring intently at the king. "And in revealing it, I believe you understand how far I am willing to go."
"And yet… the moment I free myself from this curse, you will awaken the wrath of the Norse gods, considering that it was Odin himself who chained me?" The monarch's voice was grave, measured, filled with challenge.
"Exactly, Your Majesty," Éreon said, violet eyes flashing like blades. "Beings like us should not live under the gods' rules, for we carry forces they cannot comprehend."
He inhaled deeply, measuring each word:
"If we unite, we will gain an unrivaled advantage. A throne that remains chained loses its value. To free it is to awaken the North, to show the gods of Order that there are limits not to be crossed. In return, I offer forces directed to the North. From there, we will conquer those who oppose us, beginning with the Tupania Empire."
The hall trembled — not from wind, but from the unspoken word that carried the promise of a storm.
The king remained unmoved, as if each of Éreon's sentences had scratched an ancient scar that never healed. His golden eyes tore through the gloom, sparking a contained flame.
"War against the twenty-four thrones?" the monarch repeated, his voice low, each syllable a hammer. "In a world where even the gods hesitate, you propose to ignite heavens and pacts? Tell me, prince: what arrogance dwells in you to want to tear the veil that holds empires?"
Éreon did not waver. His breathing was a perfect rhythm; the smile, a short slash across his face. He spoke with the calm of one who knows the price of words:
"Arrogance? Perhaps. Necessity, certainly. Your Majesty, I ask you: why did Odin chain you, and not extinguish you outright? Why choose shackles over the final steel?"
The king stiffened as if touched by metal. A subtle gesture — the lift of his chin — was enough for the entire hall to feel the shift: the torches flickered, shadows bent toward the man who ruled the North.
The voice, when it emerged, was an ancestral growl, and behind it lay something more — a memory of abysses and wings.
"Because there was an oath," he said with measured slowness. "Because balance required a living sentinel, not a meaningless corpse. Odin sealed, not to spare me, but to bind something that, if killed, would run free like a split flame."
Éreon tilted his head, as one examines a relic. His violet eyes gleamed with cold fire.
"A seal that uses flesh as an anchor." The statement emerged almost effortlessly. "Clever. And hypocritical. To kill him would have been the empty solution of the gods; to chain him gave them a tool, a guarantee — and the illusion of control."
The king clenched his fists; veins bulged at his temples.
"You speak as if you know everything, prince." Each word was a polished blade. "What do you know of ancient oaths?"
"I know that oaths written in blood and fear heal only as long as balance remains," Éreon replied, his voice noble yet cutting.
"I also know that a chained throne is fuel for those hungry for change. And I know — because I have felt it — that your wrath, when awakened, can shatter the equilibrium of thrones."
The king gritted his teeth. For a moment, the palace seemed to lean in to listen.
Then, with a controlled motion, he raised his right hand and murmured words that vibrated through the hall like cracking stone.
Draconic Latin — fragments of the ancient tongue of royal blood — escaped his lips: "Vocem draconis audite."
A pressure rippled through the air; even the dust on the shelves seemed to bow.
Outside, a chorus of crows took flight as if obeying an unseen command.
The king was not seeking to issue orders to servants — he made something heard that existed before the time of men: the dragon's name, an echo recalling roots and golden grooves of power.
"Listen well, Éreon," said the king, his voice gaining that timbre that made allies shiver.
"Odin was not merciful out of compassion. He sutured what could break the order because, in that act, he preserved something the gods could not destroy without risking their own balance. I am the fruit of that sealing."
Éreon stepped forward — a single, precise step — and the space between them became a courtroom.
His violet eyes studied the gold with the acidity of one reading an incomplete sentence.
"Then tell me, Your Majesty: do you prefer to remain in a well-decorated prison of a pact that consumes you slowly, or accept the blade that would cut the chains and, perhaps, risk the world so the North stops stumbling between fear and surrender?"
The king did not respond immediately. There was memory in his hands — images perhaps only he could see: roots twisting into the heart of the castle, ancient voices calling oaths of blood, the weight of eras compressed into an inner chamber.
When he spoke, it was as if bidding farewell to something — and at the same time, imposing a sentence:
"To free me is to undo oaths sworn by gods, acts driven by reasons beyond your understanding. Yet — and hear me well, prince — if you demonstrate a safe method, and your intent is to forge the North, not destroy it, then I will heed your request."
The king leaned slightly forward, his gaze gleaming beneath the shadows of his cloak.
"And there is a way to do it. A test." His voice became grave, drawn, almost prophetic.
"The Eastern Kingdom is in chaos. Two creatures walk without master — Jörmungandr and Fenrir. If you wish to show that your intent is true, subdue that territory. Bend the beasts. Make the East bow before the North."
The king's golden eyes flashed with something between challenge and promise.
"If you do this, Éreon, I will accept your proposal. And the North will roar again under the name of Níðhöggr."
The silence that followed was almost tangible. The air smelled of iron and ancient magic.
Éreon remained still for a few moments, his gaze fixed on the king as though engraving a sentence in fire. Then, a contained smile formed — cold, deliberate.
"Subjugate forgotten beings…" he murmured. "Seems a good start to rekindle what the North lost."
He bowed slightly, in formal respect, but the gesture carried more than reverence — it was a promise.
"So be it, Your Majesty." His voice was firm, controlled. "When the East stands beneath your banner, there will be no chains left to hold you bound."
The king did not reply. He merely watched in silence as Éreon retreated to the door. Each step echoed heavily, as the announcement of a new cycle.
When the door closed behind him, the monarch whispered, to himself alone:
"May the gods protect him… or devour him swiftly."
And atop the towers, the wind blew as if in reply, carrying a distant roar — the call of the East.