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Prologue

Heavy rain pelted against the windows of the tall stone tower where leaders were deep in negotiation. Their animated shadows flailed across the walls, illuminated only by the faint glow of candles and wall-mounted torches. Voices rose and fingers pointed accusingly, particularly between two leaders who lashed against each other with especial hostility, seated opposite one another on the massive, round oak table.

One was a tall, imposing figure adorned in luxurious white robes, with golden chains cascading from his neck. Atop his head sat an elaborate headdress glittering with diamonds. A thin veil obscured his eyes, giving him a mysterious air. On either side, silent attendants stood, dressed humbly, their gazes cast downward.

“For the last time,” his voice resonated, deep and commanding, “as long as she remains present, our parlay cannot continue.”

Across the table, the woman he referred to met his stare unflinchingly. In the room's dim light, her dark blue skin blended into the shadows, but her piercing orange eyes, like the gaze of a bird of prey, stood out distinctly.

“If this discussion reaches no end, the fault is thine, First Reverend,” she retorted, her voice melodious, reminiscent of a songbird's tune. “Thy irrational hate for my kin jeopardizes everything, it is mad. Would thou truly let all, including thine people, perish rather than negotiate with a single Dryad?”

“Dryads, giants, manticores,” he replied contemptuously. “All monsters in different guises. You might not use claws or teeth, but your methods of seduction are just as destructive. I'll never be swayed by a temptress’s words, for they will lead to our downfall, no matter how lyrical they appear.”

A servant beside him hastily lowered his eyes, muttering silent prayers.

She sneered, her white teeth flashing. “If there's a monster here, it's you. The atrocities you've committed against my kin are beyond words. I must summon every ounce of restraint to not view you as the beasts you are.”

“Thine monstrous acts against my kind have thine words belied. The title of a ‘monster’ better befits thou, who hound my sisters—but is there regret in your heart? No. I must summon every ounce of restraint to stay back, to constraint seeking payback.”

King Devon, seated at the table's head as the sovereign of the castle, interjected, weary from the continuous disputes. “There must be a way to unite against the looming threat,” he implored, fatigue evident in his eyes from the relentless tide of war news.

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“She is the enemy,” the Reverend declared unequivocally, his tone final. The room's occupants either nodded in agreement, shook their heads, remained impassive, or simply looked disinterested.

The Dryad Queen, poised to retort, was interrupted as the chamber doors burst open, revealing the castle’s steward.

“My liege,” he began, bowing deeply, “the Seekers of the Artifact have returned. They've just arrived and seek an immediate audience.”

“Admit them at once,” the king instructed.

“‘The Seekers of the Artifact’?” the Reverend echoed.

King Devon sighed deeply, “As The Malignant One's grasp tightens with each passing day, despite our staunch resistance, we were compelled to explore every possible avenue, no matter how tenuous or desperate. Alongside envoys to distant realms and assassins to our enemy's heart, we dispatched teams in search of fabled relics and beings that might aid our endeavor. The Seekers are but one such group.”

“You waste warriors on fanciful quests drawn from bedtime tales?” The Reverend's voice dripped with disdain. “And what relic, pray tell, thus merry band after?”

Before the king could reply, a dignitary from afar interjected, “The Gauntlet of the Ancients.”

The Reverend's eyes narrowed, “You were privy to this as well?”

King Devon shot the swarthy foreigner a perplexed glance. “This was knowledge shared solely among my inner circle and the Seekers. Whence came your information?”

The man offered a cryptic smile, “A mage of my caliber has his ways.”

“More likely, infernal whispers guide you,” the holy man spat, but the mage's smug grin never wavered.

The Reverend, with indignation evident in every line of his being, bolted upright. “I can no longer bear this unholy dalliance with shadows!” he thundered. “All true-hearted and righteous, stand with me!” A considerable number of the assembly heeded his call. Though not a majority, their absence would surely cripple King Devon's war efforts. Emboldened by the Reverend's defiance, shouts of 'sacrilege' and 'heresy' erupted, drowning voices of reason in a sea of fervor.

King Devon, wearied by the unending strife, could only look on silently, the weight of leadership evident in his heavy eyes. The Dryad Queen, her visage a storm of emotions, sat poised yet seething, her gaze flitting across the room as she endured the derogatory murmurs about her kin from the devout zealots. Amidst the tumult, the foreign mage, a picture of serenity, seemed oddly focused on the door the steward had exited through, a hint of amusement playing on his lips as he eagerly awaited for the next arrivals.

The Seekers entered this bedlam, their dark clothes soaking wet from the rain, their boots dripping mud. Observant eyes — those of the mage, the king, and the Dryad — noted their ragged appearance, the stains of old, dried blood and the hastily sewn patches on their attire, and their gaunt visages. The clothes hung loose on them, indicating they had lost the weight just recently.

Their apparent leader, a man with a scarred face, unkempt blonde hair and wild beard, attempted to capture their attention. Frustration marred his face as his efforts went unnoticed in the cacophony. The tendons on his neck were like taut ropes on his emancipated neck as he ground his teeth together and set his jaw. The lips of the Dryad parted in amazement and the wizard inhaled in excitement as the man pulled out his right arm from under the cloak and lifted it overhead. He swung it down, smashing his fist against the heavy wooden table with a loud boom, sending out a shower of splinters and cracking it right in the middle. The bickering had ceased at once, and now the only sound was the two halves of the table crashing to the stone floor.  Standing amidst the wreckage, metal fist still clenched, he finally commanded the undivided attention of the assembly.

“Lords, and noble lady,” he rasped, the roughness of his voice mirroring the trials he’d endured. “Our hunt was not in vain. The Gauntlet is ours.”

He lifted the metal hand before his face, his piercing eyes meeting those of the assembly between the knife-like talons.

King Devon’s eyes surveyed the ruined table, then met the Seeker’s gaze, “It appears so. Now, take your seats. We have terms to discuss.”

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