Chapter 7: The Quiet in His Storm
The world was a blur. Soren stared down at his mother’s body, feeling a hollow ache settle in his chest, a numbness that swallowed everything else. His hands were smeared with her blood, his clothes torn and dust-covered, but he couldn’t move. His surroundings faded into a haze—the crumbling walls, the distant crackling of fires, the faint smell of smoke—all of it seemed unreal, like a dream he was waiting to wake from.
In the silence, something faint pierced through, barely audible at first—a distant voice. The flames crackled around him, a distant backdrop to the haunting silence, until a faint voice pierced through, barely audible at first. “Soren… Soren, wake up!”
The voice sharpened, becoming insistent, familiar. He felt something tugging at him, grounding him, but he couldn’t pull himself from the trance. His gaze remained fixed on his mother’s face, her once-bright eyes now closed, her features softened in an unnatural peace.
“Soren!” The voice was louder now, closer, breaking through the fog. His head felt heavy, and his thoughts fragmented, but the voice continued, relentless. “Soren, snap out of it!”
A rough grip shook his shoulder, and Soren blinked, feeling the world tilt slightly as he fought to focus. Slowly, he looked up, meeting the concerned gaze of Rhett, who knelt beside him, his face lined with worry and something close to desperation.
Soren’s mouth felt dry, his voice barely a whisper. “She’s gone…”
Rhett’s expression softened, but his grip remained steady. “I know, Soren. I know. But we can’t stay here. We have to go—now.”
For a moment, Soren didn’t respond, his mind struggling to grasp what Rhett was saying. Then, like a slow trickle of understanding, the weight of the situation began to settle in. They were still in danger. Arthur was unconscious somewhere nearby, and if they were found, everything would end there.
His gaze shifted back to his mother, a surge of sorrow overwhelming him, but Rhett’s grip brought him back, holding him steady. “You can take her with you,” Rhett urged gently, his voice softening. “Just… we have to go.”
Soren closed his eyes, feeling the weight of Rhett’s words sink in. Numbly, he reached for his mother’s weapons, fastening them to his belt with a silent resolve. He couldn’t leave her here; he wouldn’t. He gathered her into his arms, lifting her with a strength he didn’t know he possessed, feeling the weight of both her body and the life she had given him pressing down on him.
Rhett stepped back, his hand falling from Soren’s shoulder, but he watched, his gaze lingering, torn between his loyalty to his friend and the instinct to flee. After a moment’s hesitation, he gave a slight nod. “Go, Soren,” he said softly, the words heavy with unspoken regret. “Go… and don’t look back.”
Soren didn’t reply, his focus now entirely on the path ahead. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his mother’s form against him, her absence an ache he would carry with him long after he left this place. And with one last look at Rhett, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Rhett watched as Soren’s figure vanished down the hidden passage, his heart a mix of grief and guilt. For a moment, he stood in silence, feeling the enormity of what had just happened press down on him.
‘I could have stopped him… I could have fought harder to keep him here.’ The thought lingered, but he knew it was hollow. ‘But maybe I did the right thing. Maybe letting him go was the only way he’d survive.’ There was nothing left to be done, no way to change the choices they’d made. And with Arthur lying somewhere behind him, unconscious but certainly not forgiving, he knew staying wasn’t an option.
‘Veilstone was never meant to be a home for either of us,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Not anymore.’
With a final glance at the ruin around him, Rhett turned and slipped into the night, each step echoing with the knowledge that they’d left behind not just their home, but a part of themselves.
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Veilstone was engulfed in chaos. Fires roared across the city, casting violent, flickering shadows on the stone walls, while a thick haze of smoke hung over the streets. The coordinated attack had hit critical areas—the port, barracks, hospital, farm, and water purification center—leaving the city reeling in confusion.
In the midst of it all, the key figures of Veilstone’s clans worked urgently to regain control.
From atop her horse, Nyssa Veilstorm a striking figure with close-cropped, jet-hair black hair and a scar tracing her jawline, took in the destruction with a fierce, assessing gaze. Clad in dark leather armor that bore the Veilstorm Insignia, she barked orders to a nearby squad of guards, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Get every available scout to the waterworks and the farms. I want damage assessments within the hour.”
One guard hesitated, voicing a timid concern. “Lady Veilstorm, with the barracks struck, we’re stretched thin—”
“Then split the squads,” she cut him off. “Every second wasted is another life at risk. We don’t have the luxury of hesitation.”
Nyssa’s expression softened as she glanced toward the smoldering remains of the port, though her fingers tapped impatiently against her weapons itching for any sign of action. This wasn’t just an attack; it was a deliberate effort to dismantle the city’s defenses and infrastructure. Her mind raced, already calculating the larger implications.
A deep voice cut through the tension as Gorun Veilheart approached, his towering form marked by broad shoulders and an imposing presence. His green hair spiked upwards, his expression both fierce and dignified. He carried his naginata loosely, its blade gleaming faintly in the smoky light, embodying the strength and steady command of the Veilheart clan.
“Nyssa,” he greeted her with a nod, his tone a steady anchor amid the surrounding chaos. “We need to focus on the civilians. Panic will only deepen the chaos.”
She met his steady gaze, and for a moment, her hardened exterior softened slightly. “I’m aware, Gorun. But securing our resources is critical.”
Gorun’s onyx eyes reflected a deep resolve as he looked toward the burning sections of the city. “Resources are essential, but we cannot let fear rule the people. They need to see us maintaining control.”
He turned to a group of guards and spoke in his deep, reassuring voice, which seemed to carry authority and calm. “Ensure the civilians are moved to safe areas. Establish checkpoints and maintain order along the major streets. I’ll handle the gathering crowds at the main square.”
His words inspired a palpable sense of relief among the guards, who quickly set about their tasks with renewed determination. Gorun’s presence was like a steady anchor in the storm, grounding those around him with his measured leadership.
As the guards dispersed, Isolde Veilshade approached the two with a composed, steely calm. Her gaze was sharp, her icy blue eyes flicking between Nyssa and Gorun as she assessed the situation. A dark cloak flowed behind her, and her silver-streaked hair was pulled back, revealing a face that was both calm and calculating.
“Gorun, Nyssa” she greeted both of them in a voice that cut through the din like steel. Her words were always few, but they carried weight. “This wasn’t a random strike. The attacks were surgical—targeting the city’s infrastructure. We’re dealing with someone who knows Veilstone’s weaknesses.”
Gorun’s nodded, his usual composure darkening with a grim understanding. “Agreed. Whoever did this didn’t just aim to destroy; they aimed to destabilize our entire foundation.” He glanced at her, the tension between them momentarily softened by the respect they held. “I suggest implementing curfews and securing perimeter guards.”
Nyssa nodded sharply, agreeing with the plan. “Agreed. But we need eyes everywhere, Gorun. No one gets a free pass—not until we’re certain this threat is neutralized.”
A flicker of determination passed between them. Nyssa's aggression, Gorun’s steadiness, and Isolde’s calculating calmness created a balance in the rapidly deteriorating situation, each of them understanding the part they had to play.
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Gorun made his way to the main square, where anxious citizens had begun to gather. With his naginata held firmly, he strode to the center and raised a hand, signaling for silence. The crowd, recognizing him as one of the city’s trusted figures, quieted quickly.
“Listen,” he said, his voice carrying strength and reassurance. “Veilstone has endured before, and we will endure again. Follow the guards’ instructions, stay clear of the damaged areas, and look after each other. We are strongest when we stand together.”
His words had a calming effect on the crowd, their collective fear easing under his steady gaze. Gorun’s reputation as an honorable protector preceded him, and the people looked to him as a symbol of Veilstone’s resilience.
With the initial chaos somewhat stabilized, Nyssa, Isolde, and Gorun reconvened in a small, damaged outpost near the city’s core. News of an impending council meeting had spread, though they all knew it would come only after the city’s immediate crisis was under control.
Isolde spoke first, her tone cautious yet calculating. “Whoever planned this attack has resources and a deep understanding of our infrastructure. The council will need to meet soon, but first, we have to make sure we have a city left to save.”
Gorun nodded, his expression stern. “Until then, our priority is maintaining order. I’ll continue working with the guards to secure the main routes and safe zones.”
Nyssa clenched her fists, her gaze hardening as she looked between her allies. “Once the immediate threat is handled, we’ll root out whoever’s behind this. There’s no room for leniency.”
Isolde cast a sidelong glance at Gorun, who met her gaze with understanding. Though their approaches were different, they shared a common goal: the protection of Veilstone. They would each play their part in this crisis, knowing that the council’s meeting would decide the city’s path forward.
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As dawn broke over Veilstone, the council's voices echoed, pressing on the city’s future. But beneath its stones, far from the fire and voices, Soren found himself alone. The tunnel stretched out in darkness. Its walls were close and cold, pressing in on him.
His mother’s frail form cradled against his chest. He had taken these steps countless times in childhood, sneaking through the passage on games of make-believe. But now, each step felt like a part of him was unraveling, the boy who had once dreamed here replaced by a figure cloaked in grief.
Soren’s breaths came shallow and tense as he pressed forward, his body trembling under the weight of exhaustion and sorrow. The silence was thick, and stifling, like the stone walls were swallowing even the distant echoes of the chaos above. His only companion was the muted sound of his footsteps, grounding him even as he felt the world slipping away.
As he pressed onward, shadows of the past surfaced unbidden, memories filling the silence. He could almost feel her beside him, his mother’s face radiant in the soft light of the library. She had been reading to him, a story of heroes and valor, her voice warm and steady as she painted worlds with her words. The memory was so vivid he could almost hear her laughter, soft and reassuring, as she’d brushed back his hair and told him to be brave.
But with the thought of her kindness came the shadow of his father, the man he’d once revered. Arthur’s voice, cold and unyielding, cut through the memory like a knife. ‘Power requires sacrifice,’ he had said once, his gaze distant. Soren had been young, too young to understand the steel hidden in those words. Now, he felt the weight of them like a crushing blow.
He stumbled, pressing his hand against the tunnel wall to steady himself. The stone was damp and rough beneath his fingers, grounding him in the present even as his mind raced through fragments of the past. In the darkness, it felt like every moment, every memory, was converging on him, collapsing under the weight of betrayal and loss.
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As he neared the tunnel’s end, a grim determination settled over him, hardening his resolve. He tightened his grip around his mother, holding her as though he could shield her even in death. ‘I will remember you as you were,’ he thought, ‘and I will not let him define us.’
The faint glimmer of the tunnel’s exit appeared ahead, a sliver of moonlight breaking through, and he took a steadying breath, gathering what strength he had left for the final steps.
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The tunnel’s passage finally opened up, spilling Soren onto a secluded cliffside just beyond Veilstone’s outer borders. Above him, a towering old tree stretched its branches into the sky, its thick, gnarled roots half-exposed and winding across the earth like veins. Soren knew this tree well—it was one of his mother’s favorite places, where she’d often taken him when the weight of the world needed shedding, even for a short while. Its sturdy branches arched protectively over the cliff’s edge, where the city sprawled far below, distant fires flickering against the midnight sky like dying embers.
He stepped out into the cool air, feeling the lingering ache from the hours spent navigating the winding passage. He hadn’t realized how far he’d come until he emerged here, beneath this ageless tree, with only the hush of night and the quiet rustle of leaves to break the silence.
Laying his mother’s form carefully against the roots, he traced the lines of her face in the dim light, his fingers brushing her hand one last time. Then, with reverence, he reached for her chain kama, a weapon she had wielded with unmatched grace. The chain felt familiar, an extension of her strength, and he wrapped it gently, slipping it into his belt alongside his weapon. It was a small act, but it felt like a part of her would remain with him, guiding him forward.
In the moonlight, Soren knelt beside his mother’s still form, resting her gently against the thick roots of the ancient tree. It loomed above him, casting a protective shadow, its branches whispering in the cool night air. The city lay in the distance, a faint glow on the horizon, as though its fires were watching from afar.
With a shaky breath, he began to dig, his hands pressing into the soft earth beneath the tree. Each handful of dirt came away slowly, the soil clinging to his fingers. Every movement felt weighted, as though the ground resisted his touch, sensing the pain of his purpose. The quiet around him filled with echoes of memories, each one an ache that rose with the rhythm of his digging.
He was ten, having slipped out of the castle one evening after another of his father’s exhausting lessons. His mother had found him hours later on a rooftop near the city’s edge, staring out over Veilstone as the sun dipped below the horizon.
She’d sat beside him without a word, her presence calm and understanding. Together they watched as the city was bathed in shades of gold and violet, the sky a patchwork of twilight colors that mirrored the peace he felt in that rare moment.
“Sometimes, we need a break,” she had said softly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “It’s alright to find your way, Soren. This city… will always be a part of you. Remember that.”
They had sat there until night fell, the quiet only broken by the distant hum of the city below. Her words had settled in his heart, becoming a promise, a reminder that there was a place for him beyond the expectations and judgments.
The memory faded, and he was back beneath the tree, his mother’s body beside him, still and silent. His chest tightened as he clawed deeper into the earth, the damp soil beginning to scrape against his fingers, raw and unyielding. Dirt embedded itself beneath his nails, and he dug harder, driven by something fierce, almost desperate, within him.
With each movement, pain pricked along his fingertips, the skin beginning to split, but he hardly felt it. His breath grew shallow, his shoulders trembling, yet he couldn’t stop. Every scrape and ache became a testament to his sorrow, a physical act that mirrored the jagged, relentless grief carving its way through his heart.
As he clawed at the earth, his nails began to crack, the dirt-digging his raw fingertips. The blood dripped from his tips as he paid no mind to the pain. It was nothing compared to the ache inside of him. And with each handful of earth, his mind drifted back, reaching for solace in memories. One that eased the pain only to make it sharper upon his return to the present.
He remembered a day when his father had taken him out into the training yard, Soren’s small hands struggling to grip the wooden practice sword. Arthur had been kind then, a presence of quiet strength as he patiently guided Soren through each stance.
“Strength is more than just force,” his father had said, kneeling beside him, eyes gentle but firm. “It’s control, discipline. Power without purpose is dangerous, Soren. Don’t forget that.”
Soren remembered the warmth in his father’s gaze, the pride there as he adjusted his son’s stance. It was a rare moment, one where his father wasn’t the unyielding instructor but a man sharing a piece of his heart. The memory faded, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Now, kneeling in the moonlit grass, his hands caked in dirt, Soren felt the crushing weight of those words. His father’s lessons, and his mother’s kindness—they had been his foundation, a part of him as much as the blood in his veins. But now, he felt the pieces breaking apart, like fragile glass shattered by the force of his grief.
He clawed deeper into the earth, his hands raw, his breaths coming in shallow, pained gasps. The night air pressed around him, heavy and thick with the scent of wildflowers and smoke.
Another memory surfaced, unbidden.
He was younger, maybe seven, running through the sunlit halls of the orphanage where his mother had spent so much time. He remembered the laughter of the children, the way they’d welcomed him despite his title. Marta, with her vibrant red hair and mischievous smile, had always had a treat waiting for him, and Matron Lydia would pull him into her lap, brushing his hair back as she told stories of heroes and old legends.
His mother had watched him play with the other children, her face soft with pride and a hint of sadness. When he asked her why she looked that way, she’d simply ruffled his hair, her voice gentle. “I just hope you never forget how to love, Soren. No matter what happens.”
The memory flickered out, and he was left kneeling by the freshly dug grave, his hands trembling as he lowered his mother’s body into the ground. Her face was peaceful, as though the horrors of the world hadn’t touched her, and in that moment, she looked as she had when he was young—eternal, unwavering, a quiet strength he had always thought would be there.
As Soren knelt by the freshly dug grave, his fingers numb and raw, another memory surged to the surface—a moment that, even in the darkest times, had always brought him a sense of grounding.
It was the annual festival, a day when Veilstone gathered to celebrate the anniversary of his father’s inauguration. The city streets had been transformed, banners and lights adorning every corner, and the air was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and celebration. Soren remembered how he’d felt that day, watching the vibrant city life unfold around him, feeling a joy that only his family’s presence could inspire.
They had gathered in the town square, his mother taking his hand and pulling him into the crowd. He was just a boy then, his heart bursting with pride as he watched his father, the man he admired above all others, smiling and mingling with the citizens. And then, as the music shifted to a familiar tune—a song his mother had sung to him since he was a child—she began to sing, her voice carrying over the crowd, soft but filled with a warmth that silenced the noise around them.
It was an old melody, a tune she had always claimed was as much a part of their family as the blood in their veins. Her voice was light, yet steady as if weaving a spell of peace and joy over the gathered crowd. Soren remembered how his father had joined them then, his usually stern face softened, his arms encircling both his wife and son. They had danced together, twirling beneath the stars, laughing as if nothing else mattered in the world.
In that moment, they were not the rulers of Veilstone, nor the keepers of an ancient legacy. They were simply a family, bound together by love and joy, sharing a happiness so rare and complete that it had seared itself into Soren’s heart. He remembered the feeling of his mother’s hand in his, his father’s laughter, and the world melting away until there was only them, held together in an unbreakable bond.
The memory faded, leaving him with the cold, unyielding reality of the grave before him. His mother’s face was peaceful, untouched by the horrors that had shattered his world. She looked as she had in that memory—eternal, unwavering, a quiet strength he had thought would be there forever.
Soren pressed his forehead to the earth, his voice a raw whisper. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t strong enough.”
A choked, bitter laugh escaped him, a laugh that grew louder, filling the silence around him with a twisted edge of hysteria. His laughter echoed off the cliffside, carrying the anguish of grief too vast to hold. It was a laugh that mocked the innocence of that memory, a hollow sound that dissolved into deep, wrenching sobs, his body folding into the soil, overcome by a sorrow he could no longer contain.
As the last of his tears fell, Soren felt hollow, emptied, his heart fragile and fractured within his chest. With a shuddering breath, he reached for the final handfuls of earth and gently covered her, sealing away the last vestige of his past.
The moonlight cast a cold, silvery glow over him as he rose, long shadows stretching across the quiet clearing. Behind him, the distant fires of Veilstone sent up plumes of smoke, the embers floating against the night sky. The tree under which he had buried her stood silently, its branches swaying in the breeze as though offering a final, silent farewell.
He looked down one last time, feeling the weight of her ring heavy around his neck, and closed his eyes, letting the last of his grief settle within him—a quiet storm he would carry forever.
Under the quiet watch of the lingering moon, he rose leaving the only life he had known behind, carrying with him the weight of everything he had loved and lost.
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As dawn crept over Veilstone’s scorched streets, a worn council gathered in the chamber, their faces lined with exhaustion from hours spent battling the night’s chaos.
Smoke still lingered in the city below, rising in thick plumes that marked the night’s destruction. The council table was littered with maps, casualty lists, and hastily compiled reports, each paper a grim testament to Veilstone’s vulnerability.
Dorian Veilshade stood at the head of the table, his posture severe as he surveyed the room. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, met those of the council members as they gathered around, their expressions tense, wary.
Nyssa Veilstorm leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed, her eyes flickering with impatience. Her usual defiance was only sharpened by the night’s event, and her gaze held a challenge as she looked between the other council members. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against her telescoping tonfa-staff as if itching to be back out in the fray.
Goran Veilheart entered last, his broad, muscular frame casting a formidable presence over the room. With a quiet but perceptible glance at Dorian, he took his place, nodding briefly to Reva from the Merchant Guild, who looked as fatigued as she did resolutely.
Nyssa stated “It’s taken all night to stabilize the city, but this council needs answers—and a plan”
Dorian nodded. “Agreed. We can’t afford to let the chaos linger any longer.”
When everyone had settled, Dorian cleared his throat, his voice steady but edged with a restrained intensity. “We’re here to assess the extent of last night’s attack,” he began. “This was not a random assault; it was a coordinated effort to cripple Veilstone. We need each of you to provide a detailed report on your sector.”
He looked to Nyssa first, giving a small nod for her to begin.
Nyssa straightened, her voice a mix of anger and frustration. “The barracks and armory took heavy hits. They knew exactly where to target—our main weapons storage is obliterated. Nearly a third of our defensive resources have been wiped out. We’ve got soldiers and guards working with what’s left, but if another assault hits, we’ll be outmatched.”
Gorun shook his head, his voice grave. “This wasn’t just about damage. They aimed to destabilize us. The farm districts—” He clenched a fist, glancing around the table. “They contaminated the soil, and poisoned livestock. Our reserves are effectively lost. And this will take time to reverse… time we don’t have.”
Nyssa scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she focused on Gorun. “And the response? I know our forces were delayed because of the armory, but what about the rest? Veilstone’s defenses didn’t hold up.”
Gorun’s voice remained calm, though there was a sharp edge to his words. “Our people responded as quickly as they could given the circumstances. But we’re all aware that this attack was beyond anything we’ve prepared for.”
Dorian held up a hand, silencing the two. “We need facts, not blame. Reva, what’s the status of the supplies?”
Reva, looking exhausted but determined, adjusted the papers in her hands. “Food, medical supplies, trade goods—all of it took a hit. The market is decimated. We’re redirecting what we have left, but it’s not enough. We’ve only days before shortages start affecting morale… and tempers. Without outside assistance, our merchants and citizens will be on the brink.”
Isolde, her voice as icy as her gaze, spoke up from Dorian’s side. “Search efforts are underway, but there’s still no sign of Soren or Lady Elaina.” Her eyes flickered briefly to Dorian, then to the others. “Veilstone’s main forces are out reinforcing the streets, but our priority has to be containment. We’ve kept people as calm as possible, but rumors are spreading. The more we wait, the less control we’ll have.”
Dorian nodded, his face grim as he processed the information. “Nyssa, I want patrols doubling along the borders, especially near the tunnels. Whoever did this knows our weak points, and they won’t hesitate to strike again.”
Dorian’s gaze swept the room, lingering on each council member before he spoke again. “One final matter. We have no confirmation of Soren or Lady Elaina’s fate since the attack began. Until proven otherwise, they are classified as missing in action.”
Nyssa’s eyes narrowed, skepticism flashing in her gaze. “With all due respect, Dorian, Veilstone can hardly spare resources right now. We don’t even know if they’re alive.”
Reva interjected, her tone calm but resolute. “If Soren and Elaina were caught in the crossfire, their knowledge could be critical. If there is a chance they’re alive, we must attempt a rescue.”
Dorian nodded.
“Exactly. If they’re out there, they need to be brought back. I want a team dispatched immediately, equipped for both search and protection.”
Nyssa’s expression softened, though her usual defiance remained. “Fine. But only our best will be on this. I’ll assign our most experienced trackers.”
Dorian turned to Gorun and Isolde. “Coordinate with the Veilshade to ensure our borders are secure as the team moves out. We need to keep this operation quiet.”
Isolde’s response was a firm nod, her expression unreadable. “The Veilshade will see to it, Dorian. If they’re out there, we’ll find them.”
Reva, looking exhausted but determined, adjusted the papers in her hands. “We need resources just as badly. If the port remains closed, Veilstone won’t last. Trade routes are lifelines, and right now, they’re severed.”
Nyssa clenched her jaw. “Our defenses, the port, food supplies—everything’s been hit. We’re stretched thin, and we’ve only a limited time to get control.”
Gorun’s voice cut through, his tone authoritative. “Then we need to focus on restoring critical infrastructure. The people need to see that we’re capable of rebuilding, not just defending.”
Dorian’s gaze swept the table, a shadow passing over his face. “We’ll rebuild… but that won’t matter if we don’t address the underlying issue: trust.” His voice dropped, the weight of his words filling the room. “Someone knew where to hit us, and they knew our weaknesses intimately.”
Isolde’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Dorian. “Are you suggesting we look within?”
“Precisely,” Dorian replied, his voice a low murmur. “We can’t afford to ignore any possibility. I want every clan to review recent movements, both within and outside Veilstone. This attack could not have happened without someone’s help.”
Gorun’s eyes flashed with a warning. “Veilstone is vulnerable. But if you’re looking to create suspicion within our ranks, be certain it won’t help our people feel safe.”
Dorian’s expression remained unreadable, though his gaze held steady. “Our people deserve the truth, Gorun. It’s not just an external threat we’re facing; any vulnerability, whether within or without, must be rooted out.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, each council member grappling with the weight of the revelation. Nyssa broke the silence, her tone as defiant as ever. “Then we focus on both. Bolster defenses, secure resources, and investigate every lead.”
Dorian’s gaze softened slightly, a glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes. “Agreed. We’re facing a storm, but we will endure.”
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As the council meeting drew to a close, Dorian slipped away from the chambers bustling urgency, his steps quiet as he approached a small room at the far end of the hallway, a temporary infirmary set apart from the chaos.
As the council members dispersed, Dorian motioned for Isolde to remain behind. She followed him into a quieter alcove away from the council chamber, her gaze sharp and expectant.
Dorian’s tone dropped, low and purposeful. “The search team will officially depart to retrieve Soren and Elaina, but I want you to take a separate, Veilshade-specific approach. This mission has… layers.”
Isolde’s eyes narrowed, catching the implication immediately. “You want us to observe them as well. In case Soren’s loyalty wavers.”
Dorian’s voice was cold, almost mechanical. “Precisely. I want a team of three—handpicked, discreet, and prepared for any outcome. If Soren’s loyalty to Veilstone is in question, you’re authorized to act accordingly.”
Isolde’s gaze hardened with quiet determination. “Understood. I’ll take only two others with me, and we’ll follow from a distance. Should Soren deviate, we’ll see it done.”
Dorian nodded, his expression unreadable. “If he’s truly fled, We cannot afford sentimentality. Go now, and keep this within the Veilshade.”
With a nod, Isolde turned, her footsteps fading into the shadows as she moved to assemble the covert team, her thoughts sharpening to the cold calculation required of the Veilshade’s mission.
Arthur lay motionless on the cot, his face pale and still. Dorian approached him slowly, a cryptic smile forming as he placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
After his orders to Isolde were given, Dorian made his way to the small infirmary, the weight of his decisions settling heavily over him. Inside, Arthur lay motionless, his face marked by a vulnerability that Dorian had rarely witnessed.
He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his voice a whisper meant for his unconscious friend alone. “The city’s in upheaval, Arthur. Soren and Elaina… they’ll return to Veilstone, one way or another.”
Dorian’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable as he added, “And if they’re a threat, Veilstone will be prepared.”