Imperial Kingdom — Council Hall
The council hall of the Imperial Kingdom was cold by design. Stone walls stretched high above them, lined with banners that barely moved in the still air. The ceiling hung with iron chandeliers, their flames casting long shadows that danced like whispers against the stone. Nothing in this room was made for comfort. It was made for power. For silence. For control.
At the center of the vast room sat the long obsidian table, its surface reflecting flickers of candlelight like a dark pool. Chairs ringed it—thirteen in all—but not one of them was the same. They matched in position, not in posture.
Count Dorian lounged in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers drumming against the polished armrest. His smile was lazy, but his eyes scanned the room like a wolf picking out the slowest deer.
Duke Ryuu sat upright, almost too still. Composed to the point of unnerving. His gloved hands folded over one another, and his expression gave nothing away—just a calm, unreadable mask.
Viscount Throne adjusted his collar again, for the third time. His eyes flicked to the door, then to the parchment before him. He sat straight, attentive, but something in his shoulders gave away the nerves underneath.
Duke Yuzuru tapped a ring against the table's edge, his bulk shifting uncomfortably. He wasn't made for small chairs or small talk, but he made both work with a kind of slow-burning authority.
Baron Harrington leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands steepled under his bearded chin. His face was stone, but his eyes tracked everything—like a man always waiting for the punchline that never came.
Lucien, silent in the corner seat, didn't lean or shift. He simply watched. Hands clasped on the table, eyes half-lidded but never truly resting. He didn't need to speak to be felt.
Ashford was the last to arrive, cloak settling around him as he took his seat with a soft sigh. He didn't look at anyone—just the table, and perhaps something beneath it no one else could see.
And then there was the King.
He sat at the head of the table, framed by a high-backed chair carved with the seal of the Imperial Sun. His red hair flickered like fire in the candlelight, and his golden eyes cut across the room in silence. He didn't need to speak to command it. He simply was the command.
A sable cloak rested over his shoulders, gold trim catching every movement like molten threads. Before him lay a parchment—one he studied with the calm focus of a man already knowing what it said.
He tapped the parchment once with his finger.
Then silence.
The kind that pressed in around them—thirteen chairs, one table, a hundred thoughts no one dared to speak.
The council was complete.
And something was coming.
"That's all they could offer, Cedric?" the King asked at last. His voice didn't rise—it sliced, low and cold, as if louder words would grant the offer more respect than it deserved.
Cedric, seated just to his right, bowed his head slightly. "Yes, my lord. The Dwarven Kingdom is strained. Their mines are drying, their coffers worse. It's not generous, but... it's something."
The King's eyes shifted—just slightly—toward Viscount Throne.
A dry chuckle followed. "And you handled this?"
Throne rose slowly, smoothing his coat like it mattered. His voice was calm, but he stood like a man walking a tightrope. "Yes, my King. Their monarch—what's left of him—can barely hold council. Their prince runs the forges himself, what remains of them. They didn't want to speak, but I pressed where I could. Kept the tone... respectful. A modest trade pact keeps the north open. Gives us a foothold."
"A foothold," the King echoed, more to himself than anyone. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "And their prince?"
"Overworked. Young. Trying to seem stronger than he is," Throne answered. "But he's doing what he can. Rallying smith guilds, reclaiming the western tunnels. But they're losing ground. Fast. The Dreadholm Dominion cut their outer supply chains with no warning. Four settlements gone before they even heard a horn."
The silence thickened.
Count Dorian broke it with a scoff. "Typical Dominion. Break the legs, then ask why the man limps."
He turned toward Duke Ryuu with a smug grin. "Right?"
Ryuu didn't answer immediately.
He didn't move, didn't blink—just shifted his eyes. That was all.
And Dorian's grin began to falter.
When Ryuu spoke, his voice was quiet, smooth as glass—but it didn't land softly.
"You speak too easily, Dorian. Like a man who's never had to bleed for his words."
The room froze.
Dorian's mouth opened—then shut. A single bead of sweat traced the side of his temple.
The King's gaze flicked between them. And though his tone stayed light, something in his posture changed.
A faint smile—sharp, unreadable. "It's fine, Ryuu. For now."
Then, without looking, "Throne. Sit."
Throne obeyed, not without relief. His back never quite touched the chair again.
The King's gaze swept the table. "The Dwarves are faltering. That's not just a footnote—it's a fault line. If they collapse, the north collapses. And if that happens—"
"—it becomes our problem," finished Duke Yuzuru. He lifted a heavy hand. "Permission to speak?"
"Granted."
Yuzuru rose like a mountain, slow and deliberate. "Their wounds are self-made. You remember, my King—when Ryuu and I rode to Stonekeep, their king barely gave us audience. Dismissed every offer. Claimed their trade routes through our land were enough. That we were the ones in need."
He shook his head. "They held pride like a sword. They still do."
The King's voice was quiet. "I remember."
Then sharper: "But don't forget who armed us when the Demon King returned. Their smiths shaped the blades our soldiers carried into fire. Their engineers built our northern outposts. Their pride is a burden—but it came with blood and iron. We owe them more than disdain."
Baron Harrington leaned forward, his voice rough, like stone grinding. "They're proud, aye. Always have been. You don't lead Dwarves—you bargain, or you get out of the way. They don't bow easy. And they never beg. Even now, they're losing ground with bare hands and rusted picks—but they haven't bent."
"They haven't bent," Dorian repeated with a snort, "but they're breaking all the same. So why turn to Dreadholm? Why crawl to a throne that's already empty?"
Yuzuru shot him a glance—just enough to kill. "Maybe because they think they can fill that throne. A headless kingdom is easier to shape. Desperation makes strange kings."
"Strange and stupid," Dorian muttered.
"Enough." The King didn't raise his voice. He never had to. The word was enough to cut the air like a blade.
Dorian silenced.
The King leaned forward, elbows on the table. "They are not gone. And they will not be ignored. Whatever pride remains, it's still wrapped in steel. And if they fall... someone else will gather the pieces."
He looked at Yuzuru. "Sit."
The Duke obeyed, quiet again.
The parchment still lay before the King. Unchanged.
But the room wasn't.
Still, yes—but quiet in a different way now. Like everyone had taken one collective breath and forgot how to exhale.
The King turned his head, slowly, to Ryuu. "What news from Weinstone Academy?"
Ryuu stood, as if pulled up by invisible strings. Fluid, composed. He didn't straighten his coat or clear his throat. Just stood.
"The Magister sends his gratitude," he said. "Your continued patronage has ensured the Academy remains untouched by... distractions. The students are loyal. Disciplined. They're learning more than spells."
A flicker passed his lips—something between a smirk and a warning. The King caught it but said nothing.
Then—
A quiet knock. One the guards didn't answer.
The door creaked open, and a maid stepped in, no louder than a sigh. Her dress whispered along the stone as she approached. She bowed low beside the King and raised her hand. A single sheet of paper, folded and worn.
He took it without looking at her. She vanished just as silently.
The paper made no sound as it unfolded. But something shifted.
The King's face didn't change—but Ryuu's eyes were already on him. Watching. Measuring.
A moment passed. Then another.
No one dared speak.
The King laid the paper flat on the table. His fingers stayed on it, splayed like claws. His voice, when it came, was steady—but carried weight, like iron beneath silk.
"Seems our focus is about to shift."
Cedric leaned forward, voice careful. "What is it, my lord?"
The King's smile didn't reach his eyes. "A revelation."
He tapped the paper once. Not loud—but deliberate.
"We'll come to it." His gaze swept across the table and settled on Lucien. "You've been quiet. Speak."
Lucien sat straighter, caught off guard but composed. "The Dwarves are proud. Difficult. But not foolish. Their king is fading, yes—but his son may still prove valuable. We should offer aid. On terms that ensure loyalty before Dreadholm positions themselves."
The King cocked his head. "And what would loyalty cost us?"
"Mithril," Lucien said without hesitation. "Their veins are deep. Control the forges, the output—we gain more than soldiers could win."
Across the table, Duke Ellington chuckled softly. "Mithril? They'd rather swallow their own teeth."
The King smiled—barely. "Maybe. But even pride softens under siege."
His eyes shifted to Ashford. "You've heard the room. What would you do?"
Ashford didn't blink. "They're not lost. They're limping. Don't send gold—send charm. Diplomats. Convince them they've chosen us. Let Dreadholm seem like a betrayal they already escaped."
The King nodded once. "Smart."
And then—back to Ryuu.
"And you," he said. "What are you smiling at?"
Ryuu tilted his head. Just a fraction. "Only curious," he replied. "Whatever's on that paper... it must be significant to unsettle even you."
The King didn't move, but his voice thinned. "You think I'm unsettled?"
"Never," Ryuu said. "Only that if something shifts your focus—perhaps we should all be watching."
The silence that followed was a long, thin blade.
Then the King laughed once, sharp and short. "Careful, Ryuu. That tongue of yours may one day need a sheath."
"I trust yours will be ready, my King."
The tension crackled—but neither flinched. Then the King stood, his cloak trailing behind him like smoke.
"This council will move," he said. "The Dwarves won't be allies. They'll be vassals. Throne—you'll return to them. Offer help, but bind it in leashwork. Lucien—draft terms. Tight ones. No wiggle. Ashford—send wolves, dressed in courtiers' robes. If they even whisper Dreadholm, remind them why they never raised our banners."
Throne gave a shallow bow. "Yes, my King."
Lucien's smile was thin. "The leash will bite."
Ashford nodded. "I have just the wolves."
The King's voice turned low again, final. "What's written on this paper changes everything. Fail me—and I'll find someone who doesn't need letters to understand consequence."
He tapped the paper one last time.
The council rose—quiet now, and not just from duty.
Whatever was written on that worn paper, it wasn't just news.
It was a beginning.