The Council Hall of the Citadel loomed, its towering black walls steeped in the weight of centuries. At the center of the room stood the blackstone table, its surface etched with marks that glimmered faintly in the dim light. Encircling it were twelve black stone chairs, each carved with the sign of its master’s legion.

At the head of the table stood Tavian Hillsaint, his very presence commanding the room. His black-and-gold armor gleamed faintly, the intricate sigils on its surface pulsing with latent energy. His violet eyes, cold and calculating, swept across the gathered knights as he spoke, his voice sharp as a blade.

“A village near the southern border of the Empire has been destroyed. Every soul extinguished,” Tavian began, his jaw tightening. “A rider from House Quorwyn brought word about a week ago. He was badly injured, barely alive. Our mages detected the taint of Chaos in his blood, but the rider himself was not entirely sure of the enemy.”

The knights shifted uncomfortably, unease rippling across the room.

“He said the attack bore all the signs of the Cabal,” Tavian continued, his tone steady but cold. “But he admitted that he fled in haste, unsure if he had seen them clearly.” He paused, letting his words settle over the room. “Regardless, our mages’ findings confirm the lingering traces of Chaos. That is proof enough.”

The room fell into grim silence, broken only by the faint hum of aetherthat lingered in the chamber.

“The Cabal,” Ignara Tazrin growled, her molten-gold hair seeming to catch the faint light as if it were aflame. She leaned forward, her crimson-scaled armor gleaming. Her gauntlets—thick, brutal constructs of dark steel, etched with glowing red veins—flexed audibly as her fingers curled into fists. Sparks crackled faintly around her hands. “Those spineless cowards. Let me hunt them, Lord Tavian,” she said, her voice sharp and brimming with fury. “I’ll tear through whatever filth they’ve left behind and burn the rest to ash.”

“Pulverize is right,” came a soft, amused voice from another corner of the room. “Though, with you, Ignara, I imagine there wouldn’t be much left for anyone else to investigate.”

All eyes turned toward the speaker, who lounged lazily in his chair, one elbow propped against the armrest as though he’d rather be anywhere else. His glossy black armor shimmered faintly, catching the dim light. A single, ornate blade hung loosely at his hip, its plain hilt an evident reflection of it’s wielder. Laric Luthar, Grand Knight of the Shadowsworn Legion, seemed wholly indifferent to the proceedings, his sky-blue eyes half-lidded as though teetering on the edge of sleep.

Ignara’s smirk sharpened, her tone venomous. “Careful, Laric. I might mistake you for one of the corpses and leave you behind in the ruins.”

Laric chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of silver hair from his face. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love that. Less effort for me, though I’d hate to miss out on all the fun you seem so desperate for.”

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“I’ll give you fun,” Ignara snapped, sparks flaring from her gauntlets as she shifted in her seat.

Tavian raised a hand, silencing her before the tension could escalate further. “Enough,” he said coldly, his violet gaze moving next to the towering figure seated to his right.

Ragnar Falkir remained silent, his storm-gray armor casting jagged shadows across the chamber. Beside him rested Stormbreaker, its massive head humming faintly with restrained energy. The runes carved into his armor flared briefly as he spoke, his voice deep and resonant, like distant thunder rolling across the plains. “The Cabal dares to strike so close to our borders? On Etherean soil?” His yellow eyes gleamed beneath his heavy brow. “Let me bring the Thunderclad down upon them. I’ll crush their taint and scatter their ashes to the winds.”

Before Tavian could respond, another voice, sharp and mocking, cut through the air. “So eager, Ragnar. Isn’t it just like you to charge in without a second thought?”

All eyes turned toward the man seated further down the table. His silver-and-blue armor crackled faintly with energy, lightning flickering along the delicate etchings on his chest plate. At his side rested a sleek longsword, its blade engraved with lightning motifs that seemed to pulse with life. Darion Albric, the Grand Knight of the Lightningblade Legion, smirked as he leaned back into his chair. “Perhaps the Paragon should send someone with more finesse. After all, not every problem can be solved with a hammer—or whatever monstrosity it is you call Stormbreaker.”

Ragnar didn’t even glance at him, his amber-yellow eyes still fixed on Tavian. “The day finesse wins wars, Darion, is the day I see you leading your Legion from the front instead of lurking in the shadows.” His tone was low, almost dismissive, as if addressing an irritating insect.

Darion’s fingers twitched over the hilt of his sword, his jaw tightening. “The Lightningblade Legion strikes with precision, Ragnar. Unlike your Thunderclad, we don’t leave a trail of ruin in our wake.”

Ragnar turned slowly, his gaze narrowing as the air seemed to grow heavier. “You call yourself lightning, but your spark is pitiful. Don’t compare your Legion to mine.”

Darion bristled, but before he could retort, a quiet chuckle broke the tension.

From the opposite side of the table, Lysara watched with a serene expression, her flowing white-and-gold armor glowing faintly in the dim light. Her golden hair framed her calm features, and the jewel-encrusted hilt of her slender blade rested lightly beneath her fingers. “Ragnar, your storms drown out all the other voices,” she said lightly, her tone carrying both amusement and gentle rebuke. “Must you crush Darion’s spark before it has a chance to grow?”

Ragnar gave no response, his eyes shifting back to Tavian.

Darion, however, scowled, though he inclined his head slightly. “Your wisdom, Lysara, is always appreciated,” he muttered begrudgingly.

Tavian’s hand rose once more, commanding silence. “The Emperor will want answers.” His tone was sharp, unyielding. “Ragnar, you will lead the investigation. The Thunderclad Legion will scour the ruins of the village. Although it’s unclear why the Cabal would raid such a settlement, I trust you will uncover their motives and track their movements if possible. But I’ll remind you once: exercise restraint. Collateral damage will not be tolerated.”

Ragnar rose to his full height, his immense frame dwarfing everyone else in the room. His voice rumbled like an approaching storm. “The storm will strike with precision, Paragon. You have my word.”

Tavian’s gaze held Ragnar’s for a long moment before he nodded. “See that it does.”

Without another word, Ragnar hefted Stormbreaker onto his shoulder and turned to leave, his heavy footsteps echoing like thunder through the hall.

Darion watched him go, his fingers twitching as sparks flickered faintly around his hands. “Precision? From him? We’ll be lucky if there’s anything left of the ruins when he’s done.”

Ignara barked a laugh, slamming her gauntleted fist against the table. “Poor Darion. One day, you’ll learn that challenging Ragnar is like spitting into a hurricane.”

Darion shot her a venomous glare, but held his tongue, his pride too wounded to respond.

Tavian stood, his violet eyes sweeping over the gathered knights. “The rest of you remain vigilant. Chaos does not move without purpose, and I suspect this is the beginning of something much worse. You may all take your leave—and may the gods be with you.”