Crackling from flames echoed against stone walls, the sound rebounding countless times throughout the vast chamber. These flames burned in braziers before grand statues of stone owls, illuminating the stony birds and casting twisted shadows on the walls behind. Active enchantments kept the braziers alight. These enchantments all came from black chairs in a tight circle at the center of the room, each occupied with gray-robed figures with owls stitched on their shoulders. Some braziers were unlit corresponding to what chairs were empty.

“Can we all acknowledge what sort of power this would give him?” a man with dwarfism asked, dressed rather grandiosely in gray and gold. A maroon cloak draped across his chair, definitely larger than he was.

“I think that’s the point, Artur,” Vera responded with unusual respect from her seat beside Hegazar.

Tower Master Castro, opposite Artur, put his hand to his bald head and rubbed his forehead to ward away a headache. “It’s the whole point. We’ve seen what’s coming, all of us. King Argrave was the one to show it to me—show me all the proofs collected in this booklet,” he continued, retrieving it from his coat and waving it in the air. “With a strong—”

“I know the necessity,” Artur interrupted, holding out his short, wide hand bedecked with many elaborate golden rings. Their gemstones of myriad color danced with light from the burning flames, almost unnaturally so. “And I agree that it’s Argrave that should do it.”

“Then what’s the problem?” another Magister spread his hands out, confused.

“Every time I pause for breath, some imbecile thinks I’ve run out of things to say,” Artur leaned up in his seat, voice calm despite his insults. “We have to leverage this for the Order’s advantage, Master Castro. I want you to promise us all that, here in this exalted hall.”

“Leverage,” Castro repeated. “Do you care to elaborate?”

Artur placed his hands together, fiddling with one of the loose-fitting rings. “I think it’s long overdue that the royal family finally unload all the of the knowledge that its withheld from the Order—enchantment knowledge, general magic knowledge, methods of A-rank ascension privy only to the Vasquers…” he spread his hands out. “All of it.”

Castro peered ahead seriously. “That would need to go both ways, wouldn’t it?”

“Well…” Artur trailed off, taken aback. “Not… not necessarily. Much of the Order’s knowledge is private property.”

“Argrave intends to establish a parliament that holds genuine power,” Hegazar cut in. “Now, for some of us, the prospect of having the king’s ear might not be especially appealing. But the king does need magical advisement for the benefit of the realm. And if this position was to come with certain… academic advantages, shall we say, to incentivize this?” He clasped his hands together. “Who could say no?”

Moriatran, the old man who’d been glaring at Castro most of the meeting, cast his glare towards Hegazar. “Everyone knows the two of you are owned by him.”

Just then, something shifted behind Castro and someone new entered. The woman walked hastily and nervously to Castro, then whispered into his ear. He listened intently, then waved her away. Everyone focused on the Tower Master.

“Argrave seized Dirracha with Duke Sumner’s aid,” Castro summarized at once.

The more politically interested Magisters shifted in their chairs. Taking the capital—and furthermore, in cooperation with a primary proponent of the south—was ostensibly the end of this war.

“Apparently, they fought against a giant black demon. The death toll was around five thousand, of which a little over half were civilians. Levin and Felipe died in the fighting. It took the combined efforts of hundreds of mages, many of whom were A-rank, to put it down. Argrave claims this to be the beginning of things,” Castro said pointedly. “He’s invited all Magisters of the Order to a summit held at Dirracha, where he will display the creature’s corpse, explain what comes, and decide on a course for the future.” Castro looked around. “We’ve talked this through enough. It’s time to hold the vote,” he decided.

Castro looked around, but none brooked protest. “Based on what I’ve heard, there are four common choices. One: support Argrave against Gerechtigkeit unconditionally. Two: support Argrave against Gerechtigkeit under the condition of mutual exchange of knowledge. Three: support Argrave against Gerechtigkeit while leveraging our power for the Order’s benefit. Four: abstain totally, remaining neutral. Are there any additional policy stances?”

“Five: oppose Argrave,” one added, half in jest.

Castro sighed. “Yes… then, there are thirty-seven of us here, with a total number of fifty-one councilors after Ivan’s death. With fourteen—less than half—missing, we can still proceed. The first round of voting will eliminate one option, until the last is decided.”

A woman walked forth, distributing a small slip of paper and a writing implement alongside it. By the time she gave the last, she went back to the first and retrieved the vote. The votes were counted, and the woman announced, “The fourth choice—abstention—has been removed.”

The man who’d proposed opposition of Argrave laughed that his was not the first choice marked off, and the process began again.

“The fifth choice—opposition of Argrave—has been removed,” the woman announced next.

Some of the more enterprising Magisters glanced about the room, sizing up their comrades as the next round proceeded. This time, the woman took more time in counting things up.

The woman lowered a piece of paper and declared, “The first choice—unconditional support—has been removed.”

Castro closed his eyes and sighed, but the vote went on. When the papers were delivered this time, they were not immediately filled. The woman handling the voting waited patiently as people leaned to each other and whispered. Then, slowly but surely, the whispers died down and papers were turned in.

The woman tallied the papers, setting them down one after the other. Finally, after a certain number, she stopped. One number had met nineteen votes, evidently.

“The third option—support Argrave while using the Order’s leverage for its benefit—is the last remaining option. As such, it is the Order’s policy on this development,” she declared.

Some murmuring spread throughout the room—half celebration, half-disappointment, and a silent portion who seemed not to care either way.

“The council has chosen,” Castro said tightly. “As Tower Master, I am duty-bound to uphold this choice.”

His gaze ran across them, making his displeasure blatant.

“Though all were invited, not all wish to attend, surely,” Artur spoke, unheeding of Castro’s disposition. “We must decide a delegation. And furthermore, promulgate the news.”

#####

Margrave Reinhardt delicately set aside a paper bearing a broken wax seal on it. This gray wax depicted an owl. He looked to his advisors—namely, Count Delbraun of Jast, his son Elias of Parbon, and Duke Marauch of Elbraille.

“The Order of the Gray Owl has announced public support of Argrave as king… and furthermore, this letter vaguely promises cooperation in light of an unprecedented coming calamity.” Reinhardt walked around. “Gerechtigkeit.”

“Is this… what is that?” Marauch said ponderingly.

Delbraun strode past Reinhardt and picked up the letter himself, scanning it with his orange eyes. “It says nothing more,” he noted, fixing his gray hair back into place. “But it does promise further details after the summit.”

Reinhardt looked troubled, though for different reasons. “If there was word of Enrico… we might be able to talk about this more.” The margrave turned his head. “He knows far more about it than I do.”

Elias looked off to the side, already somewhat privy to the details, but Delbraun asked in concern, “He knows more than you do… meaning you know something?”

“Yes,” the red-haired margrave nodded. “This calamity isn’t some contrivance to justify Order support. It’s the real thing.”

“Could you… tell us more?” Duke Marauch pressed hopefully.

“Not really,” Reinhardt shook his head. “Calamity should tell you all you need to know. But this thing has wiped out civilizations. Argrave has long been privy to it. It’s why he’s done what he has.”

“You kept this from people?” Delbraun narrowed his eyes.

“I had no proof, only Argrave’s words,” the margrave shook his head, long red hair swaying. “Without an authority like the Order weighing in, you would disbelieve me even now.”

Delbraun stepped closer. “But we’re to be family by marriage. Your son knew, didn’t he?”

“That’s beside the point,” Reinhardt said through clenched teeth. “My best friend is imprisoned. He’s practically the king’s family, given his relation to Nikoletta—and that cousin of his is missing, searching for her father.” Reinhardt clenched his gauntleted hand, then stepped away in irritation. “A summit with most of the influential people in this continent approaches. We have more pressing concerns. Dirracha is within sight.” Reinhardt looked to the tent flaps, where beyond one could see the grand city in the dawn light only just.

“If you want me to ignore this issue… then perhaps we ought to discuss what it is the south wants from the king,” Delbraun continued, finally revealing his true aim.

Margrave Reinhardt hesitantly nodded, realizing Delbraun had played up his offense at being excluded to force him to acquiesce to this talk of negotiations. “The war did much damage. We endured prolonged battle… what should be done, then?”

#####

Leopold Dandalan watched a caravan leave from the city of Relize, holding his hand to his back and grimacing as he stretched somewhat awkwardly.

“Are you sure you’re fit to travel?” Hirnala, Leopold’s Veidimen wife, asked of him in a neutral tone. She had pale skin, bright blue eyes, and short gray hair that did not hide her elven ears. She stood a foot taller than the patrician, and he had to crane his neck.

“You’re always asking if I’m fit,” the old man said bitterly. “Have I ever been unfit to do what I want?”

She tilted her head. “I suppose not. By some miracle, you’ve not had your heart expire in coitus. I do wonder how long that will last. I’m told you’re well over a hundred, but you look three hundred. The aging in this society is rather perplexing to adjust to.”

He fixed her with a bitter gaze. “Waiting for me to expire?”

“If it happens, it happens. But I like our business arrangement,” she said with a shrug.

Leopold sighed. “And here I thought I was the rationalist. Well, it’s true. Profits have been good, even despite the war…”

“Because of it, perhaps,” his wife suggested. “But that’s ending.” (C) content.

“Ostensibly. The things written on that note… something else is waiting for us.” Leopold thought back to that paper he’d received. “I have to get the best benefit I can. And on that tune… your allies will be helpful. You got a letter from them, didn’t you? Who is coming?”

“It was His Majesty’s directive, not my idea. And… only two come across the ocean,” Hirnala said. “Patriarch Dras and Rowe the Righteous.”

“Two?!” Leopold repeated. “How is that going to inspire respect, establish them as allies? They need a grand procession, a host of soldiers, not… two!”

Hirnala laughed. “The vessel they’re taking is rather awe-inspiring. I imagine few on this continent have seen its like.”

“A big boat is hardly pertinent. Dirracha is inland,” he reminded her condescendingly.

Hirnala looked at Leopold. “I did not mention boats, husband.”

The aged patrician frowned, bushy brows almost concealing his eyes.

“Time wastes. His Majesty is expecting us, and given our relationship as allies, it would be best to arrive before the summit begins,” she dictated, walking back towards their estate in the city.

Leopold thought back to his father, strangely. Something the man once said stuck in his ears more and more, these days.

Son… his father said, in that tone of his that made it difficult to distinguish if he was disappointed or not. Marrying for money’s probably a dumb idea, but it’s even dumber if you’re already rich.

Leopold sighed and walked after her, leaning on his cane. Curiosity lingered in his mind, replaying those words of the vessel that Hirnala mentioned again and again.