The cavern was silent, save for the faint hiss of green-blue flames licking the stone walls. Shadows crawled and twisted along jagged surfaces, dancing like living things, filling the hidden chamber with movement that did not exist. Hooded figures gathered in a wide circle, their faces obscured, bodies tense, each step deliberate. The air smelled faintly of iron and old smoke, the scent of a place untouched by the light of the gods.
At the center of the room, a massive obsidian table reflected the flickering torches. Etched into its surface were lines of symbols, serpents coiled upon themselves, devouring their own tails—a sigil as old as Veyrion itself. This was the mark of the Forsworn, the community of mortals who had chosen to oppose the gods. They had waited, watched, and planned for generations, all with one purpose: to bring Solarius, the Fire King, to his knees.
Azelar, their leader, stepped forward, his presence commanding. Scars ran across his darkened skin like tributaries of fire, remnants of encounters with Solarius that had left him both burned and embittered. His voice cut through the quiet like a sharpened blade.
"The Fire King believes no mortal can inherit his power," he said, each word deliberate. "Let him see what humans are capable of. Let him see that the veins of Veyrion run with more than fear."
A murmur ran through the assembly. Some nodded, eyes glinting in the torchlight. Others shifted uneasily. They were united in purpose, but within their ranks, doubt lingered like a shadow that refused to move.
"The veil weakens," continued Azelar. "The cracks have begun to show. Soon, the world beyond will see what we have known for centuries—that the gods are not infallible. That Solarius… is not eternal."
A young woman, hooded and tense, raised her voice, trembling with controlled fury. "And what of the Chosen?" she asked. "The snow-marked one—she exists now. She cannot be ignored."
Azelar's eyes narrowed. "She is… insignificant. A tool, nothing more. The Chosen are pieces in this game, not the kings themselves. Our true target is him—the fire that burns too bright to ever belong to humans. Solarius."
Another voice, low and cautious, whispered, "But if she grows in power, she could interfere. Perhaps she could reach Glacielle before we do. She may yet become an obstacle."
Azelar slammed his hand onto the obsidian table, making the torches flicker violently. "Then she becomes a pawn. Observe her. Guide her, if necessary. But never strike until she serves a purpose. We are patient. We are the silent hand. And when the veil falls, Solarius will see his throne crumble before him."
The chamber fell silent again. The only sound was the hiss of the flames, the low scratching of the serpentine carvings that lined the walls, as if the past itself was whispering warnings. The Forsworn stood in careful stillness, their minds turning over plans, contingencies, betrayals within betrayals. Every member knew that the coming months would decide their lives, the fate of Veyrion, and the balance of power itself.
Azelar walked slowly around the circle, his gaze falling on each figure in turn. "The Fire King has scorched our lands, burned our villages, left scars that will not heal. We have endured. We have hidden. We have prepared. And now… we will rise."
One of the younger members, fists clenched, spat onto the stone floor. "He thinks himself above mortals. He will learn that we are the ones who carve the destiny of this world."
"Silence," Azelar commanded. "Let the shadows speak, not your mouths. Remember why we gather here. Remember why we survive in the dark. Every breath you take is a strike against his arrogance, every heartbeat a drum calling the end of his reign."
A scroll, yellowed and ancient, was brought forward by a scribe. He unrolled it across the obsidian table, the symbols glowing faintly under the torchlight. Azelar leaned over it, tracing a finger along a particular line. "Here it is. A prophecy. The Chosen of Snow shall be the key—whether to bind or to break. Mark it well. Every action we take must revolve around this truth."
Murmurs rose again, and Azelar raised his hand. "Do not falter in thought or in action. Divisions will kill us faster than fire ever could. Decide now where you stand—loyalty to the Forsworn, loyalty to your vengeance, loyalty to nothing. But the moment Solarius sees us… we must be ready."
A long, tense pause followed. Then, one by one, they drew the symbol of the serpent-devouring-its-tail into their palms with inked knives, slicing shallowly, letting their blood mingle with the ancient lines. A low chant rose, voices blending in a rhythm older than the mountains above:
"Before the fire rises, we shall stand.
Before the throne burns, we shall command.
Before the king sees, the hand shall strike.
By shadow, by blood, by oath, we bind this night."
Azelar's voice cut over the chant, sharp and final. "The king of fire will regret choosing nothing. His reign ends before he knows it. Remember that. Remember it when the veil breaks, when the world trembles, when the Chosen awaken. It begins now. And none shall stop us."
The torches extinguished one by one, leaving the Forsworn in darkness, their chants fading into the echoing stone. Silence returned, thick and suffocating, yet brimming with promise. The Forsworn had gathered. The plans had been spoken. And the shadows, ancient and patient, stretched long, waiting for the day the Fire King would finally taste mortality.