image [https://i.postimg.cc/pTRsYzSk/Chapter-7-The-Shadowy-Council-The-Judgment-of-the-Ascendants-Mindful-Matrix-Art.jpg]
The throne room of Uldraxis was a place where the laws of physics seemed more like a suggestion than a strict rule. It extended in all directions, with proportions that defied any mortal logic.
The space appeared to be constructed in layers, each one superimposed upon the other, as if multiple realities coexisted at the same point, fluctuating in an imperceptible dance.
The walls were made of a dark, dense material, something that could not be defined as stone, metal, or shadow, yet it absorbed light with unsettling voracity. It was as if the very kingdom desired to devour the scant brightness that dared to penetrate this void.
Every so often, the walls would emit a faint movement, like a whisper, reminding the beings that resided there that even the space itself was alive, conscious of everything happening within.
The throne rose in the center of the room, floating without visible support over a podium of compact shadows. It wasn’t a mere seat, but an amalgamation of abstract forms that moved slowly, as if they were alive.
The very structure of the throne seemed impossible to define at a glance; each look revealed a new detail—sometimes twisted claws of some forgotten being, other times a conglomeration of bones and shadows, always changing, always consuming the surroundings.
No mortal being could have endured being in that room for long without losing themselves to madness, as alien thoughts seemed to seep into the mind of anyone who found themselves there.
Whispers of extinct voices, unfulfilled promises, screams muffled by the passage of millennia—all mingled with the present, eroding consciousness like water wears down stone.
Three of the members of the Umbral Council remained in tense silence as shadows lazily danced around them, casting erratic shapes on the walls and floor of the throne room.
Though none dared say it aloud, impatience floated in the air, wrapping around their thoughts. The monarch had left the throne with unusual urgency, and not even his closest council knew the reason.
Sorgos the Elder, leaning on his Æterstone staff, gazed at the void left by King Uldraxis' departure. His eyes, glowing with knowledge that transcended time, were fixed on the shadowy throne, trying to decipher some hidden message in the subtle movements emitted by the dark seat.
"Why now?" he wondered, as his wrinkled fingers traced slow Cycles along his staff.
The answer wasn’t clear, but the Old Keeper of Essences felt in his bones that the cycle of souls was at stake. Something, or someone, had disturbed the balance that had taken so much effort to maintain.
Ilithrys, the Shadow Weaver, remained still at his side, observing the walls, every inch of the structures she herself had helped build.
In her hands, a delicate thread of shadows flowed from her fingers, stretching and twisting as if it were a living extension of her will. She wove constantly, without pause, adding new layers to the room, reinforcing the superimposed realities of the kingdom.
Her gaze was cold, calculating, and there was no place for doubt in her mind.
"If King Uldraxis abandoned the throne, it means something has changed in the kingdom's structure," she thought as her agile fingers continued to move effortlessly.
Ilithrys didn’t need words to express her displeasure. Her creations spoke for her, and at that moment, the shadows seemed to twist with greater intensity, as if reflecting her internal unrest.
Morgharyn, the Lady of the Shadow Nectar, stood tall, her figure wrapped in an ethereal aura that seemed to devour the light. Her eyes, dark and empty, slid from one council member to another, measuring every reaction, every silence.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
She wasn’t there for speculation or games. Her dominion over the Shadow Nectar and the Abyssal Fragments gave her feared authority, and anyone who desired that power had to go through her.
Morgharyn was patient, but her patience was wearing thin.
—The silence of the throne weighs heavier than before —she finally said, her voice soft but laden with venom.
Her tone was icy, as if each word were a latent warning.
Sorgos lifted his gaze toward her, his eyes barely glimmering beneath the hood of his cloak.
"Always impatient, always direct," he thought. But he knew there was no answer that would satisfy Morgharyn.
This wasn’t the first time the King had left without explanation, but there was something in the air now, something he hadn’t felt in centuries.
Ilithrys, for her part, didn’t take her eyes off the dark threads, but her words came out with razor precision.
—Are you afraid the Shadow Nectar will run out, Morgharyn? —she asked softly, with a subtle mockery hidden in her tone.
Morgharyn didn’t flinch at the provocation.
"This woman doesn’t understand what’s at stake," she thought.
But it wasn’t worth responding. Instead of words, she let the shadows around her stir briefly, a subtle warning not to underestimate her.
Sorgos sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, weighing whether he should intervene. He knew that any confrontation between Ilithrys and Morgharyn would be dangerous, not only for them but for the fragile balance that held the kingdom together. And with King Uldraxis absent, it would be much harder to restore order.
—The King will return —he finally said, his voice full of quiet authority—. And when he does, the reasons for his departure will be clear. Until then, it’s best we focus on our tasks. The kingdom’s foundations cannot waver.
Ilithrys nodded slightly, though her gaze remained fixed on the threads between her fingers. Morgharyn, for her part, merely let out a bitter smile but said nothing more.
The silence of the room was broken by the arrival of two figures advancing with sure steps but weighed down by an invisible burden.
Lord Velkael, the Abyss Guardian, and Lady Merys, Mistress of the Dreamflow, approached, immersed in their own thoughts.
The shadows seemed to part at their passage, as if recognizing the authority of those who arrived.
Velkael, in his imposing Æterstone armor, reflected the darkness of the place in his indomitable plates. His eyes, ever watchful, scanned the room with a mixture of suspicion and concentration.
Merys, on the other hand, was ethereal, almost blurred, like a figure from another plane that could only be perceived halfway, her presence wrapping the room in a subtle current of illusions.
Sorgos slowly lifted his gaze, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Beside him, Ilithrys stopped weaving for a moment, and Morgharyn sharpened her dark gaze, studying the newcomers.
—Velkael, Merys —Sorgos began, his deep voice resonating in the echo of the vast room—, do you bring answers to the chaos engulfing the kingdom?
Velkael and Merys exchanged a fleeting glance before the Mistress of the Dreamflow spoke.
Her voice was soft, like the whisper of a dream, but each word carried undeniable weight.
—A disturbance has crossed the borders —Lady Merys declared, her eyes fixed on some distant point—. Someone, or something, has infiltrated the kingdom.
Her words fell like a stone into a calm lake. Ilithrys, Sorgos, and Morgharyn stared at her in disbelief.
Ilithrys was the first to break the silence, her voice filled with skepticism.
—Infiltrated? —she repeated in a tone as cold as the edge of a dagger—. No one in the Lost Realms would be foolish enough to attempt that... or capable.
Morgharyn narrowed her eyes, still processing the information. In her mind, no possibility could be dismissed, but the idea of an intrusion was... unheard of.
—Are you certain of this, Merys? —she asked, barely containing her tension.
Lady Merys nodded slowly, her expression unchanging.
—I’ve seen it in the Dreamflow. Someone has entered the Threshold. I can’t say how, but they have.
Sorgos, who had remained silent, furrowed his brow. The improbability of the situation clashed with the respect he had for Merys and her gifts. If she was stating it with such certainty, there had to be some truth to her words, no matter how inconceivable it seemed.
—If this is true... —he began to say, but was interrupted by a low growl from Velkael.
The commander, visibly irritated by the implications of Merys’ words, crossed his arms as his armor clinked with the movement.
—Are you telling me someone has breached my defenses? —he asked in a deep voice filled with barely contained fury—. Are you suggesting I’m incompetent or, worse, that I’ve allowed such treason?
Ilithrys stepped forward in a defiant stance.
—No one is accusing you directly, Velkael. But the implications are clear. If someone has managed to infiltrate the kingdom, then you failed in your duty.
Velkael took a step toward Ilithrys, whose shadows began to swirl around her.
—Watch your words, Weaver. My Harvesters of Uldraxis don’t fail. If something has occurred, then we’re dealing with a threat none of us anticipated.
Sorgos intervened before the words could turn into a bigger conflict.
—Calm yourselves —he ordered in a firm but weary tone—. This is not the time for confrontations. If Merys says there has been an infiltration, then we must act accordingly. But accusations will serve us no good.
Before the conflict could escalate further, a whisper swept through the room, not of words, but from the throne itself.
The shifting structure floating at the center of the room reacted, as if it sensed a nearby presence. The shadows around the throne stirred, and an unnatural wind swept through the place.