The torchlight cast long shadows in the catacombs beneath Dravenguard's diplomatic quarter. Not even the sentries patrolling above knew that the grand marble stones they marched over masked chambers where worlds changed in silence. Tonight, Saevan moved through those very tunnels, not as a conspirator or charlatan, but as a composer preparing the orchestra of his greatest sonata.
He didn't wear armor. He didn't need to. Robes of black velvet clung to him like ink, runes stitched along the hems in thread made from powdered moonstone and the hairs of wind spirits. His hands were clasped behind his back, and though he walked alone, his presence filled every stone, every inch of silence, with weight.
Ahead stood the chamber.
A wide hall carved by starlight itself, ancient in origin, veined with glowing ore that pulsed faintly like a living artery. The ceiling was domed and enchanted to reflect the heavens above Artherion. Dozens of constellations shimmered across it.
They were already gathered.
The Lords and Ladies of the Outer Sigils.
Seven of them, seated at equal distances along the circular chamber's edge. No mortal crown sat atop their heads, for these were not mere nobles. These were rulers in their own right. Keepers of ancient mountain ranges, lords over cloud cities and coastal strongholds that had never bowed to siege. In power and spirit, they were like the Monarchs of old—beings whose existence rippled into legend.
And they were beautiful.
Not merely by mortal standards, but by something higher, by the language of creation itself. Their bodies were forged like art cast in divine flame. Tall, unyielding, ageless. Every feature was flawless. Their skin bore a subtle glow, as though the stars remembered their touch. Their limbs were slender yet powerful, the musculature of godlike balance, a harmony between majesty and wrath.
Their eyes were like starlight captured in crystal, glowing softly in hues that mortal tongues struggled to name. Silver, but deeper; gold, but alive; violet, but shifting. Even among them, Lords and Ladies both, there was a strange unity. Not sameness, but resonance. Their faces bore differences, yes, angles, expressions, nuances of thought, but all were carved from the same primordial mold, as if some higher being had crafted one perfect design and repeated it sevenfold, each a unique reflection of celestial power.
Hair like liquid silver, snow-frost, or flowing dusk framed their features, some bound in runic clasps, others wild and windswept. Their garments shimmered with runes and sigils that breathed with hidden life, woven not by hands but by ancient oaths.
To gaze upon them was to understand awe.
And they sat in silence.
None of them had come at Saevan's summons.
They had invited him.
He stopped before the circle. No bow. No flourish.
"Artherion forgets," Saevan said simply.
The silence stirred. Not challenged, curious.
He continued. "It forgets that it is not merely a kingdom of banners and laws. It forgets the hands that carved the storm-fortresses in the Vale of Spears. It forgets the eyes that have watched the stars longer than the crown has sat its throne."
Lord Caenros spoke first, his voice like the hum of celestial wind. "We forget nothing. It is Artherion that remembers. We are Artherion."
Saevan gave a courteous nod, acknowledging the truth. "Indeed. You are the foundation. But a foundation cannot move. It bears the weight. It receives none."
Lady Issara's gaze narrowed. "You come into this sacred space to tell us we are slaves?"
"I say only that you are gods treated as relics," Saevan replied, his tone serene. "Worshipped. Revered. But never heeded."
Lord Vareth leaned forward, molten veins glowing subtly in the light. "We are not fools, Saevan. We know of your tongue. Your cunning. Say plainly what you desire."
"I desire a world where divine beings are no longer managed by mortal kings," he said, his hands still behind his back. "A council, not a crown. Shared dominion. True voice."
Lady Thalor, youngest in appearance, though old as the Black Sea Trench, let her eyes flash with subtle disdain. "And who shall lead such a council?"
"None. Or all," Saevan replied smoothly. "A collective of authority, distributed. No more waiting for permission. No more courtly silence."
"You speak of chaos. That is disorder."
"I speak of freedom."
"And freedom is a mask," Caenros replied. "We've lived through chaos. Through the Severing. Through the Fall of Elaras. You cannot tempt us with vanity. We have nothing to prove."
"And that is what they rely on," Saevan said, his voice suddenly low, intimate. "Your humility. Your restraint. Your self-denial. They know you will never rebel. That you will endure. So they build kingdoms on your silence."
There was a pause. Not agreement, but not denial either.
He pressed further. "When the gates refused the knight of House Callaros, did they seek your counsel? When spells unknown crept into the Gauntlet's enchantments, did they defer to you, the Archsigil Lords? No. Because they assume your silence is assent."
Lady Issara rose. Her presence was terrible and wonderful. "Do not presume to know what we have suffered for the sake of unity."
"I know," Saevan said, bowing his head slightly. "Which is why I come with reverence. And truth."
He produced a tome. Bound in scales of starhide, sealed in silence.
"This contains the prophecy of a forgotten past. Lost to Artherion. Hidden by its archivists. But known to I. It names you all. Not as guardians. But as the ones who must choose the moment of sundering, or healing."
They watched him. Eyes unreadable.
And he read. Slowly. Powerfully.
Words that spoke of the twilight councils. Of the hidden rose. Of the prince who would love a girl without name. Of a betrayal unseen. Of a storm that would not come from without but within.
When he was done, there was no sound.
Then Lady Thalor whispered, "The Rose exists? Who is she that he be so mindful of her ?"
"And the prince who carries her heart is the threat and the key. Will you wait until the world unravels? Or will you help shape it?"
He bowed once more.
Then turned.
The scroll he left behind was not touched.
Not yet.