News reached the throne before the echoes of celebration had fully faded.
The King listened in silence as the messenger finished, fingers resting lightly against the arm of his seat. The words lingered in the air—Division Four victorious. For a heartbeat, nothing changed.
"So," he murmured, voice low and even, "they surpassed expectations."
He rose from the throne with measured grace and turned slightly. A man in dark formal attire stepped forward at once, head bowed, posture rigid.
"Summon the Valkary," the King said. "All of them. Tonight."
The butler did not ask questions. He turned and moved at once, footsteps quick and silent as he vanished down the corridor.
Left alone, the King exhaled slowly.
Then he turned away from the light.
The palace beneath the palace was not known to most.
Hidden behind layered wards and descending levels of stone older than the kingdom itself, a gate stood embedded deep within the foundation—massive, circular, and ancient. Its surface was forged from blackened alloy, etched with runes worn smooth by time.
At its center lay a crest—familiar, yet altered. Darker. Sharper.
Carved into blackened obsidian and ancient alloy, the insignia took the form of a quartered crest, symmetrical and severe. Its edges were sharp, almost predatory, as if the symbol itself had been forged rather than designed.
At its center sat a closed knight's helm, faceplate unadorned and expressionless, crowned not with glory but with restraint. There were no plumes, no gemstones—only smooth, battle-worn steel dulled by age.
A hollow core, shaped like a distorted star, carved deep enough that shadow pooled inside it no matter how bright the chamber was. The darkness within never reflected light. It consumed it. Ancient runes surrounded that void, their edges worn by time, their meaning long forgotten—except for one word etched deeper than the rest.
MERIDIA.
The lettering was old.
The grooves still carried traces of gold that had long since darkened, as if the metal had been burned rather than aged.
The King placed his palm against the surface.
The gate responded.
A low hum vibrated through the stone as ancient mechanisms awakened. The doors parted inward, revealing a stairway spiraling down into darkness lit by faint crimson glyphs pulsing like slow heartbeats.
He descended without hesitation.
The vault beneath was vast.
Pillars rose like spines from the floor, each wrapped in shadows that swallowed light. At the far end of the chamber stood figures—motionless, hooded, and silent.
They wore cloaks of black layered with deep crimson and gold trim, the fabric heavy and ceremonial
None spoke.
The King raised one hand.
They moved as one.
Through narrow corridors and sealed thresholds they walked, until they reached a chamber carved wider than the rest—a circular hall with a massive stone table at its center. The King took the seat at its head without ceremony. One by one, the others claimed positions around the table, hoods still drawn.
Above them, embedded into the ceiling, loomed a symbol—dark, angular, predatory. The same insignia as their cloaks, rendered larger, more severe, its edges cutting into the stone itself.
Silence stretched.
Then one figure reached up and lowered his hood.
Igred.
His expression was stern, eyes sharp beneath the torchlight. "You don't gather us without reason," he said flatly. "Speak."
Before the King could answer, another voice slipped in—smooth, feminine, amused.
"Dear brother," she said lightly, "why don't you wait and hear what our esteemed cousin has to say?"
The King's gaze flicked toward her.
"Silence," he said.
The air shifted instantly.
He leaned forward, fingers interlacing atop the table.
"The time is near," he said. "The territories lost during the Pargon War will be reclaimed. And the Pantheon will answer for what they took from us."
The room went still.
Igred's jaw tightened. "Helbram," he said carefully, "this is folly. We are not ready. Astria's forces still outmatch ours. The Vaynes remain under the empire, the Ardes are bound by the Founders' Pact, and the Royal Guard—strong as they are—cannot wage a war of reclamation alone."
A pause.
"You remember why we lost," Igred continued. "And why we were forced into submission."
The King sighed.
Then he smiled.
This time, it was vile.
"My dear cousin," Helbram said softly, "you worry too much."
Igred stiffened.
"The Rite has revealed what we needed," Helbram continued. "New blood. New talent. Proof that your son was right all along."
A flicker of anger crossed Igred's face—but he mastered it.
"You're no different from your father," he said coldly. "Or your grandfather. Always resentful of the gods. Always convinced they wronged you."
Helbram laughed.
A quiet laugh.
"We are all the same," he said. "Every one of us who still remembers what was stolen."
He rose from his seat.
"Preparations will continue," Helbram declared. "The will of the First Patriarch will be fulfilled."
As he spoke, his eyes ignited—orange-gold light blooming within them. A star-shaped symbol formed in his pupils, radiant and terrible, casting sharp reflections across the stone.
The hooded figures bowed their heads in unison.