Heavy breaths and hurrying footsteps echoed through the great hall of the King's Palace. It was early in the morning, and the hall was empty - only colossal marble columns, flowers, and lions on the floor tiles witnessed a man running to the grand staircase.

Barely reaching the first step, the man took a sharp turn to the left and went round the stairs to a door in the west wall. Behind it was another staircase, much humbler, spiral, and made of grey stone.

Pausing for a second to catch his breath, the man rushed up, leaving turn after turn behind until he finally reached a wooden door at the top, guarded by a woman. As he approached, a wave went down the woman's dark blue robe, she turned her hand, and a thin layer of red fire covered her right palm.

"A message for the Reign Supreme," said the man, gasping for air after a long run and raising a silver scroll. The Arcanist guardian examined him with her pale brown eyes, squinting to get a better look at a small golden pin on the left lapel - a golden eye with a black stone for a pupil - King's Advisor.

The fire around her palm vanished, and she gave the man a slight nod, inviting him inside.

#

"I will have all the loyal viceroys kissing my hand in twelve moons when the harvesting festival begins," said a man at the head of the table. With his eyes closed, he stretched his grey-haired head and a golden Grailand Crown blinked, reflecting light from an orb hanging under the ceiling. He slowly opened his eyes. "And their troops will join my army."

Three figures surrounding him at the table lowered their heads in agreement, one remained still. The door opened, and a man walked in, bowing his head and heading to the King.

"Reign Supreme, a message came from the South Cliffs garrison. Our spies report that The Island King has ten ships ready to set sail," the King's Advisor said in a low voice.

"You dare call him King in my presence, Godwin?" the King grunted. Godwin, sweaty and breathless, tried to swallow, but his throat was trembling too fast. "There is only one King in Grailand."

"Yes, Reign Supreme. I apologize, Reign Supreme," the Advisor lowered his bald head, hiding terror in his eyes. "What shall I report back to the garrison?"

"Tell them they served well and fulfilled their purpose," The King said, tapping his finger on the smooth polished redwood table. "And tell them to return to the Sandylake Keep."

Godwin raised his head, confusion replaced fear.

"That would leave three villages at the Cliffs facing The Island K...," Godwin suppressed the forbidden word. "The marauders unprotected."

The King smiled.

"Yes. It would. Now go."

Godwin nodded and hurried out of the room.

"You are sacrificing your folk to declare a war you provoked," said a deep voice. It belonged to High Wielder Priam, Rector of the Crying Tower, home of Arcana. He was the youngest of all four High Wielders at the table. Becoming a Rector at forty was unprecedented. His powers, however, knew no equals. For that, his place at the Council was secured, although not very graciously welcomed by the King. Priam's age was also the reason he spoke bluntly and showed little interest in political games.

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"I provoked nothing," said the King, throwing an annoying glance at Priam. "My father let those savages roam free on their Islands, and they gathered an army. I intend to show my kingdom who they truly are."

"You should listen to Reign Supreme," a voice echoed in Priam's head. He looked at the bearded man in a green cloak sitting in front of him. It was High Wielder Odysseus, the oldest of the council, Rector of the Skyrock Bridge of Augmentors. Without moving his lips or opening his mouth, Odysseus continued. "Rushing to conclusions is a sign of your weakness."

Priam huffed. The whole Griland knew perfectly well High Wielder Odysseus was a loyalist and received generous patronage from the royal treasury. Priam turned to the King and straightened the sleeve of his dark blue gambeson.

"You will use this attack on the South Cliffs as an excuse to deceive every loyal viceroy into answering the call and sending their armies. This is not some local conflict. You aim to turn it into a war, dragging Grailand into chaos. Suppressing free tribes of the East, bringing down the Great Mountain - this is your true plan. More power. And you know very well that it was not your father who secretly funded this Island King -,"

"You will not call him King!" cried the Reign Supreme, furiously hitting his fist on the table. Everyone remained silent.

"Temper yourself, Harald Ikalot!" said Priam, fearlessly facing the King. "You are the Reign Supreme of the people, but this is the Council of Citadels, not your royal court." Priam stood up.

"The Crying Tower doesn't support your decision. You will get those Arcanists who willingly serve under your flag, but none other."

The King clenched his fingers into a fist so hard they turned white.

"Brothers, sister, let us remain civil and calm," said a lady in a long yellow tunic. She leaned back into her chair, and a hoard of talismans, necklaces, and glass flasks rang like cowbells hanging around her neck. Her wrinkled face, covered in ornamental tattoos, lit up with a smile. High Wielder Lady Iliana, master of Alchemea, took a small pinch of white dust from one of her countless pouches and, with a gentle blow, spread it in the air. The room filled with the smell of spring rainforest.

"A little fresh air to calm the nerves," she said.

"I appreciate it, sister, but It won't change my mind," said Priam. "The Arcanists are not to take part in this plan."

"You are so sure we desperately need your Arcanists, it is fascinating," said a woman in a red silk robe. She spoke slowly, weighing every word as a teacher ready to tell off an arrogant student. She paused for a moment and then added. "Brother."

Priam gave her a long stare. The King, on the other hand, leisurely returned to his seat and leaned back, regaining his calm as if anticipating what was about to be said next.

"What do you mean, sister?" Asked Priam, his gaze never leaving the woman's grin.

"So generous of you to grant the Reign Supreme Arcanists who already willingly serve under his flag. Unnecessary, though," the lady said, rolling a small steel sphere in her palm.

"Your words elude me."

"Your ways are old. You still believe in throwing balls of fire when the world has moved on," the woman said, placing the sphere on the table. It unwrapped, transforming into a tiny mechanical mouse. It swung its steel tail to everyone's joy and began running around the table. Lady Iliana even clapped her hands. Priam, however, remained unimpressed by the theatrics of Mechana.

"I warn you, Lady Gwendolyn, that if the Iron Steeple joins the war, you risk putting magic out of balance."

"The balance is flexible, Priam," the voice of High Wielder Odysseus rose above the table, bouncing off the walls. Little mouse stopped next to Priam and raised on its hind legs, locking its black, empty eyes on High Wielder's face.

"Tell me, brother," the lady continued. "Can you fight an army not afraid of Arcana at all?"

Blue flame enveloped Priam's palm. He moved a finger slightly, and the mouse burst into flames, squeaking and opening its steel jaw. Soon, only a pile of melted metal remained, surrounded by a black circle. The smell of burnt wood filled the room. Priam turned to leave but paused at Lady Gwendolyn and muttered through his teeth without looking back, "There's no such army."

As the door behind Priam closed, Lady Gwendolyn looked at the fallen mouse. The corner of her mouth raised. She placed her hand on the tabletop and tapped once. A damp squeak came out of the pile. With another tap, the pile slowly began to reshape until it turned back into a mouse.

Untouched.

Lady Gwendolyn looked at the King. Reign Supreme Harald Ikalot grinned, pleased with what he saw.