The air in Olkaris, usually thick with the scent of ancient stone and the distant murmur of the Royal Falls, felt different to Karel. It was charged, not with the familiar energy of the city, but with an almost palpable tension that hummed beneath the surface of polite greetings and deferential bows. Merial, ever perceptive, seemed to feel it too, her brow subtly furrowed as they were escorted through the grand, echoing halls of the Olkhar Royal Palace. Ithor, for his part, walked with the quiet vigilance of a predator in unfamiliar territory, his senses alert to every shift in the atmosphere.
They had been summoned, not requested, to appear before the Crystal Council, the supreme governing body of Inhevaen, composed of the most influential representatives from each of the seven races. The summons had arrived with an urgency that brooked no delay, a stark contrast to the usual glacial pace of inter-racial diplomacy. The events at Mount Ilhyr, Karel's unprecedented Awakening, and the unsettling revelations from the Dead Zone had clearly shaken the established order.
As they approached the Council chambers, the sheer scale of the gathering became apparent. Guards, clad in the distinctive armor of various races—the stoic Arenya, the agile Zhyren, the regal Sylarei—stood at attention, their gazes sharp, assessing. The heavy doors, carved from a single, massive Shyrr crystal, pulsed with a faint, internal light, a testament to the power contained within. When they finally swung open, the sight that greeted them was overwhelming.
The chamber was vast, circular, and dominated by a colossal, multifaceted crystal that rose from the center of the floor, its apex almost touching the vaulted ceiling. Around this central crystal, arranged in a perfect heptagon, sat seven smaller, equally impressive crystals, each glowing with the distinct hue of one of the races: the deep sapphire of the Olkhar, the emerald of the Sylarei, the fiery ruby of the Sangor, the shifting amber of the Zhyren, the stark white of the Arenya, the earthy brown of the Naruun, and the ethereal gold of the Verithil. Before each racial crystal sat a delegation, their faces a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and thinly veiled ambition.
The air was thick with the scent of various incense, the murmur of hushed conversations, and the subtle, almost imperceptible hum of activated magic. Karel felt the weight of countless eyes upon them, a collective scrutiny that made his skin prickle. He was Prince Karel, heir to the Olkhar throne, but here, in this chamber, he was merely the Bearer, a phenomenon to be studied, controlled, and perhaps, exploited.
Merial, usually composed, clutched her notes tighter, her gaze sweeping across the assembled delegates, her analytical mind already dissecting the power dynamics at play. Ithor, ever the pragmatist, subtly shifted his weight, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his hunting knife, a silent defiance against the suffocating formality.
High Councilor Theron, an ancient Olkhar with eyes like polished obsidian and a voice that resonated with the authority of generations, rose from the sapphire crystal. His presence commanded immediate silence. "Prince Karel, Merial of Ny'theras, Ithor of the Naruun. Welcome to the Crystal Council. We have convened to discuss the extraordinary events that have transpired, and their implications for the stability and future of Inhevaen."
His words were measured, his tone calm, but Karel sensed the underlying current of unease. Theron continued, "The Dome, our sacred protector, has faced unprecedented challenges. The fissure that manifested during Prince Karel's Awakening, the proliferation of Dead Zones—these are matters of grave concern. We understand that you three possess unique insights, and indeed, unique abilities, that may shed light on these phenomena. It is our collective duty to ensure the continued safety and prosperity of all races under the Dome's benevolent embrace."
Benevolent embrace. The words grated on Merial. She had spent years studying the Dome, its intricate energy patterns, its historical significance. While many saw it as a divine shield, a gift from ancient powers, her research had always hinted at something more complex, something that defied simple categorization. The recent events had only deepened her skepticism. The Council, she realized, was already framing the narrative, presenting a comforting lie to maintain control.
One by one, the racial delegations began to speak, their voices echoing through the chamber, each demanding a piece of the trio, each asserting their own claim to authority over their destinies.
First, the Sylarei, represented by Elder Lyra, a woman whose skin was a tapestry of intricate, glowing runes, her eyes sharp and intelligent. "Merial of Ny'theras," she began, her voice a melodic hum that seemed to resonate with the very crystals in the room. "Your gift as the Word is unparalleled. Your ability to perceive and interpret the corrupted runic patterns of the Dead Zones, your linguistic aptitude—these are invaluable. The University of Ny'theras, under the guidance of the Sylarei Council, must ensure your talents are properly cultivated and directed. Your research must be centralized, your findings meticulously documented and vetted. You are a precious asset, Merial, and your knowledge belongs to all Sylarei, to all Inhevaen."
Merial felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. "Asset." The word hung in the air, devoid of warmth, devoid of recognition for her autonomy. They didn't want her insights; they wanted to control her, to filter her discoveries through their own lens. Her research, which had always been driven by a pure thirst for knowledge, was now a tool to be wielded by the Council.
Next, the Verithil. Their delegation, cloaked in shimmering, almost translucent robes, sat before the golden crystal, their eyes—each a swirling vortex of gold and light—fixed intently on the trio. Their leader, a gaunt, ancient Verithil named Kaelen, spoke with a voice like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten wind. "Prince Karel, Merial, Ithor. Your emergence is…unprecedented. Our visions, usually so clear, so precise, are clouded when we attempt to gaze upon your futures. It is as if your destinies are shielded, blocked, or perhaps, simply unwritten. This anomaly is deeply unsettling. Such unpredictable elements pose a threat to the delicate balance of Inhevaen. We propose strict oversight, rigorous training, and constant monitoring. For the good of all, your powers must be understood, contained, and, if necessary, neutralized. We have seen glimpses of chaos, of a future unraveled, should your paths diverge from the Council's guidance."
Karel felt a surge of anger. They couldn't see his future? That explained their fear, their desperate need for control. He was not a weapon to be contained, nor a threat to be neutralized. He was the Bearer, and his gifts were his own. He exchanged a glance with Ithor, who met his gaze with a grim understanding. The Verithil's inability to scry their future was a double-edged sword: it protected them from direct manipulation, but also made them a target of intense scrutiny and fear.