Amberheart’s noble residences buzzed with frantic energy as servants hustled through the grand estates, their arms laden with silver platters, velvet drapes, and scrolls of fresh directives. The courtyards rang with hurried commands and anxious whispers. The nobles—cloaked in family colours and tense as drawn bows—awaited the summons, their faces betraying either determination or thinly veiled fear as they eyed one another, bracing for the summons they had waited on for weeks. The vain yet important formality was finally completed today.

Regal carriages, adorned with intricate crests and banners, rolled across the cobblestone paths leading to the central hall of a luxurious castle next to the Royal Palace. Each family, cloaked in their own colours, bore expressions ranging from defiance to nervousness. Some arrived with entire entourages, soulweavers, knights and advisors in tow, while others chose to keep their retinues small, preferring discretion in these precarious times.

Within the courtyard, Marquis Kailem Aster paced irritably as his eyes caught sight of Duke Brandar Barnes. The Duke, stocky and broad-shouldered, with a booming voice that always seemed too large for his frame, had just arrived with his men. It didn’t take long for the two to engage in a heated argument.

“And here I thought the north would be quiet without your meddling hands all over it, Duke Brandar.” Kailem spat, his hand resting dangerously close to the hilt of his sword.

Brandar’s men tensed, but the Duke only smirked. “Still harping about that old dispute, eh? Know your place, fool. My lands thrive because we act decisively, not like your withering line that drowns in bureaucracy.”

The nobles watching from a distance whispered among themselves, some smirking at the scene. They were no strangers to these quarrels, and for many, the ongoing disputes were a source of silent satisfaction. Families with feuds stretching generations eyed one another with veiled malice, their alliances fragile and ever-shifting. Gossip flowed through the crowd as easily as the breeze that carried the chill of the approaching winter. These small spats were but preludes to the larger storm brewing within the kingdom.

Soon, the grand doors to the castle opened, and a herald’s voice called the nobles inside. The time had come.

Within the hall, the tension was palpable. As the nobles entered, they were met by the sight of the Seven High Elders seated at an elevated table. Their presence commanded silence. High Elder Marcus Remington sat at the head, his sharp features defined by his silver-white hair and strong, weathered face, hardened by years of experience and authority. His piercing gaze swept over the gathered nobles, making it clear that no one was above scrutiny.

Elder Verida Sinton, the striking woman with silver hair and a calm demeanour, observed the room with a measured intensity while Elder Ceryn Remington leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders and booming voice previously silenced but always prepared to explode into action. By contrast, Elder Irin Remington, known for his quiet but devastatingly sharp insights, remained silent, his eyes flickering between the gathered nobles with a cold calculation.

The High Elders exchanged displeased glances, and it became evident that only about two-thirds of the summoned nobles had actually arrived. Only Verida and Irin seemed composed, while Marcus’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair, and the others shared grim expressions. The missing nobles had defied the summons, a clear indication of their dissatisfaction or, perhaps, fear of what awaited them here.

High Elder Verida stood, her voice cool and authoritative. “Nobles of Amberfell, today’s meeting is one of dire importance. It will be presided over by none other than Queen Marika Remington and Crown Prince Edward Remington. Please take a seat.”

At the announcement, nobles straightened, casting uncertain glances at one another. A ripple of realisation passed through the hall—the King’s illness wasn’t just rumoured, after all. His absence at such a critical moment only confirmed what many had feared. The nobles’ subtle shifts in posture betrayed the quiet tension humming beneath every bow and curtsey.

“Enough,” Elder Marcus snapped, his sharp voice slicing through the murmurs. “You will maintain silence until summoned to speak.”

The heavy doors creaked as they closed, the sound echoing through the hall like the tightening of a noose. The nobles, arranged meticulously by rank, kept their gazes forward, but in the flickering candlelight, nervous glances and fingers tapping restlessly on armrests betrayed the tension simmering beneath the rigid propriety.

The seating was meticulously arranged, a reflection of each family’s rank and influence within Amberfell. The highest-ranking lords and ladies were placed near the central dais, where the Queen and Crown Prince would soon appear, with the Dukes, Duchesses, and their families following suit in descending order. Every position was a silent reminder of the power held—or coveted—within these stone walls.

Across from the nobles, in an elevated alcove, were the Guest Counsellors. As the War Counselor, Sullivan held his place with a quiet intensity. His cushioned and ornately carved seat placed him at an angle that allowed him a clear view of the nobles and the High Elders. To his left sat the Military Counselor, a stoic man with a build forged in battle and a steely demeanour that matched. The woman beside him, the Political Counselor, had an air of quiet cunning, her poised expression betraying nothing of her thoughts as she observed the nobles with sharp eyes.

These counsellors held a unique position—outside the nobility but with influence substantial enough to be present here. Their role was advisory yet essential, especially in times of unrest. Positioned strategically, they could witness the proceedings without interfering, though everyone in the hall was keenly aware of their presence.

Moments later, the doors at the far end of the hall swung open, revealing Queen Marika Remington and Crown Prince Edward. The two entered with regal grace, their mere presence demanding respect.

Queen Marika’s entrance silenced the hall, her dark hair swept back and studded with golden pins that caught the light with every movement. Her cold gaze lingered just long enough on each noble to unsettle even the most stoic among them. Beside her, Crown Prince Edward stood tall, his blue eyes bright against the crimson robes bearing the Silver Gryphon, every inch of him the king he would soon become.

The nobles and the High Elders bowed their heads respectfully, though behind those gestures lay a myriad of thoughts and calculations. Everyone knew this meeting could shape the fate of the kingdom.

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As they took their seats at the head of the hall, the silence deepened. Queen Marika nodded once, signalling the start of the proceedings.

High Elder Marcus wasted no time. “The reason we are all gathered here today is the rising threat within Amberheart. Three nobles of the Remington line have been brutally murdered, and these deaths cannot go unanswered.”

Crown Prince Edward leaned forward, his voice carrying through the hall with an authority far beyond his years. “This is not just an attack on our house. It is an attack on the very foundation of our kingdom. We must get to the bottom of these killings.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though some faces remained sceptical, their thoughts hidden behind carefully composed expressions.

High Elder Verida stood again, her voice measured. “However, we must tread carefully. The tensions in the kingdom are already high. A misstep here could ignite the flames of rebellion.”

Elder Tyris, sitting at the far end, interjected, his green eyes burning with frustration. “Careful? We’ve been careful long enough! Every day we hesitate, the threat grows. We need action, not caution.”

Elder Tyris’s words lingered in the air, a provocation that set the tone for the storm to come. High Elder Marcus glanced sharply at Tyris and nodded.

“Action is indeed necessary, and it should be directed with precision,” Marcus said, his tone measured. “And that means recognising that these murders are not isolated. They were intentional, and I would argue they were committed by someone outside the Remington line.”

A scoff rang out from Duke Brandar, who leaned back in his seat, his expression twisted with disdain. “Esteemed Elder, pardon me for being blunt, but Remingtons have turned on each other for less,” he drawled, his voice thick with contempt. “You Remingtons aren’t exactly known for being… kind to your own blood. What’s more you’ve dragged us into a similar mess before, haven’t you?” With that his eyes narrowed dangerously.

A ripple of subdued chuckles broke out among some of the older nobles, the more austere ones had deep scowls on their faces as they stared accusingly at High Elder Marcus and the other Remington nobles. They exchanged knowing looks, remembering an older, darker era of Remington history—one heralded by ‘Wretched Dog Leifstein’ - as he was called in the noble circles. The younger nobles shifted in their seats, casting glances at one another, baffled by Duke Brandar’s remark, clearly unacquainted with what had happened.

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “Tread lightly, Brandar, lest the weight of your words will crush you one day,” he said icily, though before he could say more, a firm voice cut through the tension.

Duke Brandar scoffed and maintained his intense glare, not afraid of the threat in the slightest.

Marquis Kailem Aster interjected smoothly, “Regardless of who the culprit may be, wasting time pointing fingers among ourselves will not solve the matter.” He stood, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles. “Several noble families were summoned today and have not shown. What if they are involved? Or worse—what if they are dead? We’re squabbling over who did what when we might be in the very den of the serpent!”

The murmur of agreement spread through the hall, and many nobles exchanged anxious glances. The nobles muttered their concerns, their whispers blending into a cacophony of anxious voices. Sullivan, seated among the counsellors, watched the exchange with an amused smile, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the arm of his chair. He spoke, at last, his voice steady yet piercing.

“Marquis Kailem raises a valid point,” he said, his tone clear above the din. “While it’s true that many are absent, we must proceed on the assumption that they are either in hiding or, perhaps, plotting from the shadows. We need to act, yes—but let’s be decisive and rooted in strategy rather than impulse.”

Duchess Margaux, an older noblewoman with a stern gaze, nodded approvingly. “Warmaster Sullivan is right. And so far, only three Remingtons lie in the ground—that we know of. Who’s to say there aren’t more, nobles from both Remington and otherwise, who have been taken out in silence?” Her gaze was cold, sweeping over the room with a sharpness that demanded attention. “If we don’t act, we may well be discussing our own funerals next.”

The hall erupted once more into debate, voices overlapping as nobles either echoed the Duchess’s concern or dismissed it as paranoia. Marquis Tremaine scoffed, rolling his eyes. “A few dead Remingtons, and suddenly everyone’s heads are rolling? Perhaps you’d like to throw the whole kingdom into chaos over a ghost tale.”

“That ‘ghost tale’ may well have a body count that includes you next, Marquis,” Countess Elara hissed, her gaze steely.

The Marquis gave her a murderous look but, realising who her brother was, lowered his gaze.

The exchanges continued, with insults and alliances shifting moment by moment, as nobles old and young weighed in on who should be targeted, what course of action to take, and how seriously to treat the accusations.

Crown Prince Edward finally rose to his feet, raising a hand to silence the room. The chaos ebbed, voices falling to a tense murmur. He looked over the gathered nobles, his amber eyes cool yet determined.

“Enough,” he said with a firm authority that belied his years. “All of you make valid points, but unless we speak with purpose, this is nothing but noise. Our next steps must be calculated and supported by evidence. We cannot afford hasty executions or blind witch hunts.” His gaze lingered on the bickering nobles, and a pointed silence settled over the hall. “The kingdom depends on us—on you—to act as leaders. Let’s not forget that.”

The Queen nodded in agreement, her gaze softening for a moment as she regarded her son before turning her attention back to the assembled nobles. “This council will continue only if every member can engage with decorum,” she stated, her voice smooth yet iron-strong.

Marquis Kailem bowed his head respectfully, though he allowed himself one last remark, his tone bearing a hint of defiance. “Then let us decide who will investigate these murders,” he proposed, a challenge laced into his words. “If we are to take action, it should be under the guidance of those who won’t shirk from the truth.”

A murmur of assent spread and Sullivan caught the gaze of several high-ranking nobles, his face unreadable. He leaned forward, his voice calm. “I agree. A targeted investigation led by the most trusted among us will yield far more results than this. We need answers for the kingdom’s stability—swiftly and without bias.”

As the debates wore on, accusations flaring and ebbing, counterpoints rising only to be drowned out by the next statement, the hours seemed to drag under the weight of tense and fruitless arguments. Sides defended their own: some in hope of justice, others in fragile alliance, each calculating how to come out ahead, while others still calculated how best to steer events in their favour.

Those for and against the crown, seemed to be the most vocal. The neutral forces could feel the dark tides stirring, and those who wished to benefit from the chaos were not even present in the meeting. Regardless, each and every noble hid their true thoughts behind a veil of pretence.

Finally, the grand bell of the hall tolled, ringing in a low, resonant sound that cut through the noble cacophony. A herald stepped forward, his voice carrying throughout the hall. “This council session is hereby concluded. The next gathering will take place in two days’ time.”

The nobles stood, some exchanging bitter glances, others moving swiftly to leave, no doubt to strategise before the next meeting. Elder Marcus lingered briefly, his piercing gaze settling on Duke Brandar with an intensity that spoke volumes. The Duke met his stare with a smirk before turning and striding out of the hall.

Sullivan rose with a mocking smile, casting one last contemplative look over the hall before departing. Everyone had played their parts well, and the charade was almost over. Soon, Amberheart would be washed in ashes and blood.