Location: The Realm of Men
In the heart of the Realm of Men, deep within the fortified walls of the Council of Men headquarters, lay the Grand Assembly Chamber—a vast, imposing room designed for the weighty decisions that shaped the world. The chamber was underground, buried beneath layers of stone and steel for security, with no windows to the outside world. At its center stood a massive round table, so large it could seat over 150 people comfortably, its surface made of polished dark wood etched with faint maps of the LOST Realm and the human territories. The chairs around it were high-backed and identical, each equipped with a slim microphone rising from the table like a sentinel, ensuring every voice could be heard clearly. These microphones were wired directly to speakers scattered throughout the room, including those in the High Lord's private chamber above.
The lighting was a pale blue, cast from recessed fixtures in the ceiling that gave the space an ethereal, almost cold glow. It made the faces of the council members look sharper, more severe, highlighting the lines of age, ambition, and resentment etched into their skin. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and old paper from the documents scattered on the table. Above the round table, suspended like a watchful eye, was the High Lord's chamber—a transparent glass enclosure built into the ceiling. From there, the High Lord could look down on the assembly, observing every gesture and expression, while the speakers allowed him to hear even the softest whispers. He remained unseen in the shadows of his perch, a figure of ultimate authority whose presence alone commanded silence when needed.
The council members filled the seats—over 150 in total, a mix of leaders from prominent human families, advisors, and representatives from various sectors. They were a diverse group: some in sharp suits, others in more traditional robes, all bearing the weight of their roles. Conversations buzzed around the table, voices rising and falling as they debated the latest reports. Tablets and papers lay in front of many, displaying images and data that fueled their arguments. The atmosphere was tense, charged with the undercurrent of power struggles and old grudges, as they turned their attention to the image of a young woman on several screens: Erica Elara.
A stern man with a sharp beard and piercing eyes, dressed in a crisp military uniform, held up his tablet showing Erica's picture and details. He spoke in simple, straightforward English, his words blunt like a hammer striking an anvil. "Erica Elara... the Elara already tells us she can't be trusted. She got adopted and still gave herself a female surname."
A scholarly woman with silver hair tied in a neat bun, wearing glasses and a tailored robe, leaned forward. Her English was highly advanced, laced with precise vocabulary and elegant phrasing. "On the contrary, that surname elucidates her essence profoundly; she forges her own identity, craving dominion after enduring the vicissitudes of street life since childhood. In her, I discern the indomitable flame of our progenitors."
A burly man with a scarred face and rough hands, clad in practical work clothes, grunted. His English was complicated, twisted with convoluted sentences that circled before striking. "Rubbish it is, for what I perceive in her depths is naught but the seeds of insurrection, sprouting from the soil of discontent and ready to choke the vines of order we have so painstakingly cultivated."
An elderly advisor with a long white mustache, in a flowing cloak adorned with medals, tapped his microphone. His words came in simple bursts, direct and unadorned. "Well, all I see... even with the Elara or not... she is a dog."
A young councilor with slicked-back hair and a sharp suit, looking puzzled, adjusted his tie. "What do you mean?"
Before the elderly man could reply, a cunning strategist with narrow eyes and a sly smile, dressed in dark robes, leaned in. His English was advanced, woven with metaphors and strategic undertones. "He implies, as with all canines, that we merely require rigorous conditioning to render Erica a loyal servant to humanity's cause."
A fiery orator with red hair and a booming presence, in a vest that showed his muscular arms, slammed his fist lightly on the table. His language was complicated, layered with rhetorical flourishes. "Yet she embodies a double-edged blade, capable of pivoting allegiance at the whim of circumstance, slicing through the fabric of our dominion with unforeseen betrayal."
A pragmatic elder with a bald head and a calm demeanor, wearing simple linen, nodded slowly. "Exactly... I suggest we kill her... she awakened Bloodline powers and now living with them and we all know women... they fall in love and do anything for the man they love."
A resolute woman with short-cropped hair and a no-nonsense expression, in a functional tunic, countered sharply. Her English was simple and forceful, like commands on a battlefield. "Exactly... just like our ancestor who fell in love with the man who wanted to start the war but had no idea how... I believe you all remember how she helped her lover start the war and win."
A scheming diplomat with oiled hair and a velvet coat, stroking his chin, proposed smoothly. His words were advanced, persuasive and laced with intrigue. "So it is simple... we furnish her with a paramour from our realm whom she adores, and she shall execute our bidding with unwavering fidelity."
A weary veteran with deep wrinkles and a scarred eye, in faded armor, shook his head. His English was complicated, heavy with cynicism and long-winded reflections. "I soon hope the high lord enacts a decree that the members of the council abstain from imbibing spirits prior to convening in these hallowed halls... our annals have demonstrated that amorous entanglements can precipitate cataclysmic instability, as men have precipitated the apocalypse for their beloveds, and contrariwise."
A compassionate matriarch with kind eyes but a firm jaw, dressed in elegant robes, completed his thought. Her language was simple, warm yet unyielding. "And a sense of deep gratitude to serve its master till death."
A ruthless enforcer with a shaved head and tattooed arms, in leather gear, leaned forward aggressively. "I suggest using her parents as..."
But before he could finish, the High Lord's voice boomed through the speakers, echoing from above like thunder from the glass chamber. It cut through the room, silencing everyone instantly. "Enough... you are to take no action concerning Elara. Instead, we should grant her freedom and space to reveal her true nature. Now, move on to the next subject at hand."
The council members fell quiet, exchanging glances—some frustrated, others nodding in reluctant agreement. The tension lingered, but obedience to the High Lord was absolute. A man in a formal suit, carrying a tablet under his arm, stood up from his seat and walked into the open space at the center of the round table. This middle area was reserved for announcing reports, a neutral ground where all eyes could focus on the speaker without obstruction. He positioned himself there, tablet in hand, ready to deliver the next item on the agenda. The pale blue lights cast long shadows across his face as the council turned their attention to him, the room holding its breath for what came next.