"M'lady," the Consilium Disciplinae greeted in unison as Ezmelral's lookalike entered the main hall, their voices a chorus of respect that echoed off the stone walls. She nodded graciously, motioning for them to continue as she passed, her steps measured yet commanding. Settling into the main chair at the head of the table, she leaned forward, her sharp eyes observing the maps and absorbing the opinions swirling around her.
Bellavius was the first to break the silence, his finger jabbing at a marked location on the map with decisive force. "If we deploy our troops here and here," he said, tracing a bold arc across the northern territory, "we can seize 20% of the region within a single night."
"The ruler of the northern region won't permit it," Iraetius countered, his tone laced with caution. He leaned closer to the map, adding, "Our latest intel reveals their leaders reject the 'Discipline' way of life entirely—seeing it as a threat to their sovereignty."
Bellavius slammed a fist on the table, his voice rising. "Are we to stand idle and let the people suffer because their rulers are blind to our cause?"
"Calm down, Bellavius," Libinea interjected, her voice a soothing balm amid the rising tension. She placed a steady hand on the map, her eyes meeting his. "I understand your passion, but if we abuse our might, we'll be branded as invaders—no matter how noble our intentions. We'd face not only the warlords and PraLumunix, but their military as well."
"We must find another way," Avorlas added, his gaze sweeping the map once more, analyzing every marked point with a strategist's precision.
"Every moment we spend debating here," Bellavius shot back, his frustration palpable, "is another life we could have saved, lost to the chaos beyond these walls."
Ezmelral's lookalike drew a breath to speak—
but the air itself was stolen.
A faint, crystalline chime rang through the hall—delicate yet absolute—the sound of cosmic scales tipping toward judgment. In that instant, everything froze. The members of the Consilium Disciplinae became statues mid-motion, voices cut short, hands suspended above the war table. Even the torch flames halted mid-flicker, droplets of molten wax hanging in the air like amber tears.
Time had stopped.
The chamber had become a shrine of silence—an exhibit of life suspended between breaths.
Through that stillness, the Keeper of Balance, T'Narsha, glided forth.
Her ten arms moved with a slow, hypnotic rhythm—nine weaving through invisible threads of equilibrium, while the tenth cradled a set of scales that shimmered faintly with the weight of worlds. Her presence did not press upon the senses—it erased them. She was the calm that followed after consequence, the reaper not of souls, but of outcomes.
"T'Narsha," the lookalike murmured—an acknowledgment of inevitability rather than greeting.
The Keeper's gaze drifted across the map strewn with red and blue ink—battle lines, trade routes, scars of civilization reborn—and then back to her. Her voice carried the serenity of judgment long decided.
"Eleven years… Tell me, how do you find the affairs of mortals?"
The lookalike's mind flooded with the memories she could never unsee: the warlords' tyranny, PraLumunix's devouring shadow, the helpless screams echoing through burning fields.
"I understand now," she said quietly, her voice lined with fatigue and hard-won clarity. "Why Entities choose not to intervene."
"Oh?"
T'Narsha's brow lifted faintly. The scales in her hand tilted a fraction, and the faint sound of shifting sand whispered through the air.
"But…" the lookalike continued, her gaze softening as it fell upon her frozen council—flawed, striving, and profoundly human. "There are still reasons to believe they deserve another chance."
The Keeper's eyes lingered, discerning the shift not just in words but in identity. The way she spoke of mortals—as they—betrayed her liminal state. No longer one of them, yet not fully beyond.
"Then where," T'Narsha asked, voice cool and precise, "does your balance lie? With the mortals' potential for redemption… or the Entities' wisdom in restraint?"
The lookalike hesitated, her breath shallow as she searched for truth.
"Truthfully…" she said at last, "I find myself standing upon that very question more often than not."
Silence followed—profound, heavy, sacred.
Then, as if resolving an unspoken chord, the lookalike's voice returned with quiet strength.
"In the end, whether they deserve it or not is irrelevant. My duty is to succeed here—so that I may return to my master."
T'Narsha's expression did not shift, yet something in the air grew colder. The golden light of her scales dimmed slightly as she answered,
"When the time comes, and you see their doom is inevitable—summon me. I will return to restore the balance."
The words hung in the air like a sealed decree.
Then, with a faint shimmer of gold, T'Narsha vanished—
and the world exhaled.
Time snapped back into motion with a soft jolt.
Flames flickered. Voices resumed mid-sentence. The Consilium Disciplinae carried on, unaware that eternity had passed through their hall in silence.
Only Ezmelral's lookalike remained still, her hand hovering above the map, her gaze distant—
as if, in that single heartbeat between stopped time and resumed breath, she had glimpsed the cost of balance itself.
"Bellavius is correct," Ezmelral's lookalike said, her voice slicing through the chatter like a drawn blade. Silence snapped into place; every head turned as she leaned forward, eyes steady. "But we will not recruit the survivors. And we will not kill the warlords."
Libinea's brow darkened. "Then what is our path?"
"We will turn them against each other," she answered simply — the cruelty of the plan concealed behind its plainness.
A ripple of disbelief ran the table. "Turn them against each other?" Bellavius repeated, his clenched fist easing from the map.
She lifted Meryal's intelligence report and let it speak for her. "Our sources confirm that while some citizens secretly side with us, their rulers control the narrative—painting us as the villains at every turn."
"Accurate," Avorlas said, tapping a point on the map. "Their propaganda machine is relentless."
"We will cleanse the PraLumunix stronghold and let the survivors return to their homes," she continued, voice steady. "When the rulers launch their next wave of lies, those survivors will shatter it with truth. Firsthand testimony will be our shield; the rulers' authority will crumble from within."
Meryal nodded, slow and approving. "The surest way to topple a tyrant is to let his people see the bars of their own cage."
"And when they strain at the noose," Avorlas added, voice like tempered steel, "we will be there to cut it."
Her gaze landed on Bellavius, meeting the fierce hunger in his eyes before it could flare into recklessness. "Recite Discipline #7," she ordered.
Bellavius snapped rigidly to attention. His gauntleted fist struck his breastplate with a firm thud. "Patience in the face of adversity is the clear mind that places one on the attack, not the defense!"
She let the oath hang between them, a tether that steadied the room. Rising, she delivered the order that set the plan in motion. "We move out in twenty-four hours."
Together she and Meryal turned and left the hall. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving the Consilium Disciplinae united and humming with the quiet, inevitable thunder of what was to come.