Korrath's fortress rose from the cliffs like the bones of some long-dead beast, jagged towers clawing at the moons above. The Ark rested outside its walls, guarded but untouched—Veyra's way of showing both caution and respect.
Inside, the great hall was alive with firelight and steel. Warriors lined the walls, their armor etched with victories, their faces painted in ochre and crimson. The smell of oil, sweat, and roasted meat clung to the air.
Kael, Lyra, and Taren walked behind Veyra, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing against their backs. Lyra's fingers never strayed far from her weapon, and Taren's hand rested casually on his blade, though his eyes scanned the crowd with predator's calm.
At the hall's center, Veyra halted. She gestured, and the guards withdrew to the edges of the chamber. The silence that followed was heavy, reverent.
"You've fought my enemies," Veyra said, her voice carrying. "You've bled in my streets. Few outsiders survive a Shadowhand strike. Fewer still fight back."
Her gaze landed on Kael. "But you are not just any outsider, are you?"
Kael met her eyes, refusing to flinch. "I'm a man who wants to see the Council fall. Same as you."
A ripple of whispers moved through the hall. Some of her warriors smirked, others frowned. Veyra raised her hand, silencing them.
"The Council took my world's voice," she said, her tone sharpening into steel. "They mined our veins, stripped our skies, chained our children with debt and law. They call it 'protection.' I call it slavery."
Her warriors struck their spears against the stone floor in agreement, the sound a thunderous heartbeat.
"And now," she continued, "they send knives into my markets, testing whether I will bow or bare my teeth. You, exile, have drawn those knives first. Why?"
Kael stepped forward. "Because the Council fears me. They fear what I know, what I've seen. They'll keep sending shadows until one of us is dead. But I don't plan on dying."
Veyra's smile was cold fire. "Nor do I."
Lyra spoke then, her voice calm but edged. "The Council doesn't just want Korrath quiet. They want everyone quiet. The Frontier is their next conquest. If you stand alone, they'll grind you down. With us, you have a chance."
Taren chuckled darkly. "And with me, you have something more. The Ghost Admiral's fleet doesn't answer to the Council. Not anymore."
The words hit the hall like a detonation. Murmurs surged, warriors exchanging uneasy glances. Veyra's eyes narrowed, calculating.
"You claim to command the Ghost Fleet," she said slowly. "If that's true, you are a weapon worth wielding. But weapons are dangerous to the hand that holds them."
Taren smirked. "Only if you don't know how to use them."
Kael cut in before the tension could crack. "This isn't about using anyone. It's about survival. Together, we can cut the Council's throat. Apart, we'll all choke on their chains."
The firelight caught Veyra's features as she studied him. Then, with deliberate precision, she unsheathed the blade at her hip. Its steel shimmered with veins of crimson light. She drew the edge across her palm, blood dripping onto the stone floor.
"My people seal alliances in blood," she said, offering the blade. "Share this cut, and Korrath stands with you against the Council."
Kael glanced at Lyra, then Taren. Both gave small nods. Slowly, Kael took the blade. The steel bit into his palm, hot and sharp. His blood joined hers on the stone.
The hall erupted—warriors pounding their weapons, chanting Veyra's name.
But behind the roar of triumph, Kael caught a flicker of unease in Veyra's eyes. This pact was real, but fragile. And somewhere, in the shadows beyond these walls, Ashen would be preparing his next move.