The Gauntlet continued without disruption, the cheers from the Vaelthorne Colosseum echoing across the gilded spires of Artherion like a festival of loyalty. On the surface, all seemed pristine, honor, valor, pageantry. No swords were drawn in rebellion, no noble banners wavered in their allegiance to King Elyrion. And yet, in the distant reaches of the continent, in chambers wreathed in fire and obsidian, war was being scribed upon the earth.
Far from the Colosseum, in the undercrofts of Dravenguard's black citadel, the council chamber thrummed with unease.
It was a war room carved of volcanic stone and wreathed in living flame. Ancient maps were burned into obsidian slabs and illuminated by orbs of illuminating glass. A long table stretched the length of a long room, shaped like a crescent moon, with thrones of twisted iron arranged around it.
At the head sat King Zeburel Ashkeroth, shrouded in aura of black fire and crowned in a twisted diadem of screaming silver. His presence suffocated light itself.
To his right, Prince Alaric Ashkaroth, his body healed but his pride not. He sat with clenched fists, golden hair falling like fire over one brooding eye.
To the king's left, silent, still, stood Saevan.
No longer persuading. No longer seeding doubt.
Now, he was orchestrating war.
All around them were the fallen of Artherion, those highborns and warlords who had defected under Saevan's veiled guidance. Beside them were the generals of Dravenguard and emissaries from the outer realms: the Iron-Willed Duchy of Drelmor, the Flameborn Riders of Cyndar, and the horned emissaries of the Umbrakyn Pact. Each carried blades, armies, and grudges, with hearts of vanity to plunder wealth and power.
A map of Artherion burned upon the table.
"We strike at the western bastions first," Saevan began, his voice smooth as oil over fire. "They are proud. But they are not ready."
Zeburel tilted his head. "The Sons of Vaelgrim hold the Bastion of Flame. They were loyal to Elyrion in every war."
"And yet they have not received summons," Saevan replied. "Their pride is already an open wound. All we must do is press."
Alaric stood, eyes flickering. "And after that? Will you have us march straight through Artherion's gates?"
"No," Saevan said. "You will not march. Not yet. First, we send word to the Keepers of Elaran. They will fall once the Bastion does. And when they fall, we burn the supply lines behind them."
One of the generals, Lord Rhazir of the Ashen Tithe, leaned forward. "You mean to starve the capital?"
"I mean to choke it," Saevan replied. "Not of bread. Of belief."
The chamber fell into a deep hush.
King Zeburel slowly smiled. "Let Artherion be silenced from within."
Saevan's eyes did not move. "Let their king sit on his throne and hear no answer when he calls."
The war table came alive with movement. Officers from half a dozen kingdoms laid their markers down. Generals and warlocks, assassins and tacticians, all studied the magical projections cast from enchanted obelisks that hovered over the obsidian.
"My wyvern legions will take the southern skies," growled General Thormad of the Iron Heights. "Once the Bastion falls, we can sweep over the Cerulean Bridge and bottle the capital from the sea."
Prince Alaric tapped the section of the map that marked the fortress of Delsar.
"They'll anticipate us through Delsar."
"They will," Saevan agreed. "So you will not go through it. You will go beneath it."
Gasps.
"The tunnels?" asked Commander Lysa of the Moonless Watch.
"Collapsed decades ago," another sneered.
"Collapsed… but not empty," Saevan said. With a flick of his hand, he conjured a shadowy illusion of the tunnels beneath Delsar, long, crumbling caverns lined with ancient Dravenguard runes. "We send scouts tonight. They will find the paths. And once we reach the inner sanctum of Delsar, we light it from below."
"A fire within the heart," Alaric murmured. "That is… poetic."
"War is poetry," Saevan replied. "It rhymes in blood."
King Zeburel stood at last, and every voice died.
He stretched his hand toward the projection of Artherion, his long silver nails gleaming in the glow of the war table.
"I want a war that makes the skies tremble," he said. "A war that tears down that crystal throne and makes Elyrion kneel."
He looked toward Alaric.
"I want you to break his son. To crush the name Lucien Elyrion under your heel."
Alaric's smile returned. Cold. Hungry.
"I will not fail again."
"You won't," Saevan said quietly. "Because this time, you won't fight him alone."
In a separate wing of the fortress, Saevan walked alone to a chamber veiled in chains. The room pulsed with strange magic. Inside stood six cloaked figures, tall, impossibly still.
The Legion of the Rift.
Six knights, relics of forgotten bloodlines, resurrected and bound by Saevan's own spells. Their bodies were forged from the essence of demons and men, bearing golden eyes and ashen skin. They did not breathe. They did not blink.
Each had sworn fealty in silence.
And each bore a name lost to the annals of Artherion's hidden histories.
"You will ride with the first wave," Saevan said. "And you will not stop until you kneel before Elyrion's throne, bloodied and triumphant."
They bowed.
Back in Artherion, all remained blissfully unaware. The Gauntlet continued. Knights clashed. The crowd roared. Banners danced in golden wind.
Mirelleth walked the royal halls with a strange pressure in her chest.
She thought of Riven again. Not of Lucien's touch or words, but of Riven's silence. His presence. His mystery.
Something stirred within her.
And far above, in the stars, war drums began to beat. Slowly. Invisibly.
But they beat.
To be continued....