Together, the Lord of Nightfall and the Emphyeral Blood Guard traversed the grand hall, moving beneath the last pair of arched stone branches that led to the final corridor leading to the Council Chambers. The knight of the Old Kingdom came to a stop outside the chamber door.

“It is here that I will leave you,” Lennox said, bowing his head slightly, his expression a mixture of respect and concern. “I wish you good fortune, my Lord of Nightfall.”

Viktor paused, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he met Lennox's steady gaze. “Yes, I too hope not to be eaten alive by the counsel,” he replied, a glimmer of humor breaking through the tension. “Thank you, Lennox. Good day to you.”

With that, Lennox stepped back, melding into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Viktor alone with the echoes of their footsteps fading into the solemn silence of the approaching council meeting.

Nestled behind the Grand Hall, the Chamber of Counsel was a study in simplicity by comparison. Carved directly from the mountains living stone, the chamber was small and square, with a large stone table in the middle. Three of the walls were bare and unpolished, the rough texture a stark contrast to the grandeur of the Hall. The fourth wall, which separated this intimate space from the grandeur of the Grand Hall, displayed an intricately detailed map of the world—a testament to the vastness that lay beyond these ancient stones.

As Viktor entered the chamber, he couldn’t shake the profound sense of wonder and unease that had settled over him with the years. The longer he lived, the more he understood how little they truly grasped about the vast world beyond their walls. Countless mysteries lay hidden beneath the surface, just beyond their grasp, and ancient truths that had evaded understanding for generations. And Viktor had a good idea that it was one such enigma—a child of the gods no less—that had drawn the Counsel of Nine to this morning’s urgent gathering.

The air in the chamber crackled with unspoken tension, thick with anticipation and uncertainty.

“Good morning, lord Helston.” The clear, baritone voice of Crown Prince Fhalkyn Vhalorex resonated through the chamber as Viktor stepped inside, drawing his attention immediately.

Seated prominently at the head of the imposing stone table, Fhalkyn was the embodiment of royal presence. As the King’s brother and the only living heir, he commanded the space with an air of authority. His stature mirrored that of his elder brother, inheriting their father’s tall, broad frame and dark copper hair. However, where the King’s locks flowed long and elegantly in fashion with the times, Fhalkyn chose a neater, closely cropped style that spoke to his practicality.

Yet for all their physical similarities, the brothers' temperaments diverged like the sun from the moon, with Fhalkyn’s demeanor exuding a warmth and openness that contrasted sharply with the King’s often distant and brooding nature.

“Good morning, my Prince. My Lords,” Viktor replied, nodding towards the six of the nine lords chosen to sit on the Grand Counsel that had already gathered around the table to wait on their king.

In Viktor's opinion, the fact that the gods and fate had deemed it fitting for Fhalkyn to be born second was a testament to their twisted, often cruel sense of humor. To place the Crown Prince in the shadow of his elder brother, the King, was a divine jest that spoke of irony, for Fhalkyn possessed all the qualities of a great leader—charisma, compassion, and a keen intellect—yet was forever bound by the constraints of his birth order. The very gods who gifted him such potential seemed to delight in placing obstacles before both him and the kingdom.

As he passed through the chamber, he felt the weight of insincere smiles that flickered across the faces of those who watched him. Each smile was a mask, crafted to conceal the truth lurking beneath. More than one lord present in this room would have preferred if Viktor had never returned, a sentiment not lost on him.

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The tap of his cane echoed softly against the stone floor, a steady rhythm that matched the tension in the air. He made his way to his place near the head of the table, on the right side of the King—or at least it would be his place once Edryk deigned to join them.

At the far end of the stone table sat the barrel-chested Lord Stephen Rheese, his formidable presence a solid wall of obstinacy wedged between the thin, kindly visage of Lord Ashford, the Keeper of the Vaults, and the weathered figure of Lord Timmond Fallbrook. Stephen made no secret of his disdain for Viktor’s return; his sharp opinions spilled forth with abandon, eager to ensnare any ear willing to listen.

Opposite Lord Rheese, across the polished expanse of the stone table, sat Lord Everard, adorned in his fine silks that shimmered subtly in the light. He was flanked by Lord Gregory Westmyre and Lord Devon Leighton, both men embodying the very essence of courtly decorum.

For all his disdain, Viktor found himself grateful for Lord Rheese’s lack of pretense. At least he knew where the Lord of Fairhaven stood. The other lords, however, remained shrouded in uncertainty, leaving Viktor to wonder where their true feelings and loyalties lay.

In Voltaine, Viktor found that his allies were alarmingly few and far between, a reality he had anticipated but still found disheartening. Despite being new to this court, he was no stranger to the treacherous games played among the powerful and the wealthy, where loyalty was as fleeting as morning mist, dissipating with the first light of day. Here, friendships were often forged in the fires of ambition, only to be extinguished by the cold winds of betrayal.

Shortly after Viktor settled into his chair, the tall and slender figure of Lord Marin glided in, followed closely by his cousin, the strikingly handsome Lord Petry. Their youthfulness was almost disarming, making it hard to believe they possessed any meaningful life experience to offer. Yet, when they spoke, confidence dripped from their words as they dispensed advice like seasoned statesmen, their inexperience masked by an air of self-assuredness.

“Well, my Lords, any idea why our illustrious King has summoned us at such an ungodly hour?” Lord Marin inquired as he slid into his seat, casually propping his boots upon the stone table’s surface. “That messenger nearly scared the wits out of my wife with his incessant pounding at our door.”

Without hesitation, Crown Prince Fhalkyn shot out his hand and, with unmistakable force, knocked Lord Marin's boots off the table, sending them clattering to the floor.

“What was that for?” Lord Marin scowled, his youthful, handsome face twisting into a petulant grimace more befitting a spoiled child than a lord.

“Have some respect,” Fhalkyn replied, his brow furrowing in disapproval. “You are a member of the Council of Nine, not some peasant. It's time you acted like it. And as for the summons, it is not your place to question the King.”

Just then, before Lord Marin could issue a response, the heavy wooden doors of the chamber swung open with a resounding creak. The King strode in, exuding an air of authority that commanded immediate attention. This morning, he was clad in a rich dark purple tunic intricately embroidered with shimmering silver thread, the fabric catching the light with every movement.

His ornate golden crown, adorned with lustrous sapphires and vibrant emeralds—a striking departure from the simple heirloom passed down from his father—rested regally atop his golden curls, glinting like a beacon in the dim light of the chamber.

As he took his place at the head of the table, the atmosphere shifted palpably; the previous tension dissipated, replaced by a heavy silence that enveloped the room. It was a silence so profound that it seemed to echo in the stone walls, broken only by the deep resonance of his voice as he addressed the gathered lords, each word weighted with the gravity of his station.

“I have been informed that the Battleborn has halted his advance on Tindragal and is now turning back toward An’Shar,” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with unwavering authority. “For the past two decades, we have watched this child of the gods toying with the fate of the Old Kingdoms, treating it like his personal playground. We’ve heard nothing but tales of the recreation of Toltaria and the return of the God Kings. So tell me, my wise lords,” he leaned forward, his gaze piercing each lord in turn, “why in all the hells would he turn back now, when victory was so tantalizingly close?”

As one, the entirety of the chamber turned their eyes to Viktor.