Sir
Cedric and his companions have returned to Silverspire Castle to report to
Queen Eloise and her Council after a dangerous mission at the monastery of
Delrith. They bring hard evidence of a conspiracy larger than anyone suspected
— and devastating news about one of their own. The Council chamber is full. The
Queen is waiting. What happens next, none of them could have predicted.
~870 words
The council chamber was a vast oval, ringed
with marble pillars, every one carved with a record of war. The seats for the
Council fanned out from a long, narrow table, its surface bare save for ink and
paper. At the far end, Queen Eloise sat in her high-backed throne, her gown the
shade of dying violets, her face as pale and unforgiving as winter. The court
was full — nobles, a retinue of scribes and guards — and all of them silent as
the companions entered.
At her right, the seat for the Mage was
empty. Cedric's stomach twisted, but he showed nothing. He bowed, Elira and Ryn
following suit, Tomas bobbing more than bowing.
Eloise's voice broke the silence, sharp and
unadorned. "Report."
Cedric stepped forward. "Majesty. We
reached the monastery at Delrith. The League of the Moon found us there. We
managed to recover a primary source, but..." He hesitated, then forced it
out. "We lost Auralias. He stayed behind to hold off pursuit and ensure
our escape. We believe he is dead."
The court did not gasp. There was a more
subtle reaction: the ripple of discomfort, the tightening of fingers around
chair arms, the almost imperceptible shuffling as people recalculated the
balance of power. At the dais, Queen Eloise's hand gripped the throne so
tightly that the veins stood out on her wrist.
Tomas managed to find his voice. "We
have proof. The League is not just a cult — they are organised, disciplined.
Their goal is to reassemble ancient artifacts of the old Empire and use them to
seize power over every kingdom. It's not a myth. It's—" He trailed off,
eyes wide as the implication landed.
Baron Gorgo stood, his bulk forcing the men
on either side to cower away from him. "If this is true, then we must move
now. Strike at every suspected agent, burn the infection from the city."
High Councillor Voss coughed, a wet, phlegmy
sound. "We have no evidence beyond the testimony of a handful of
survivors. What if this is fearmongering? What if the so-called League is but a
puppet, and the real threat lies elsewhere?"
Lady Veyra, who had not spoken, fixed the
companions with a stare so cold Tomas' chest tightened. "And what of the
Mage? If he is so easily lost, how can we trust you to stand against the
League?"
Cedric's voice was a flat line.
"Auralias was the strongest among us. He bought us the time to bring this
warning. If you question our loyalty, you may as well summon the executioner
now."
A murmur ran around the table — some found it
brave, others suicidal. Queen Eloise did not flinch.
"We will not be provoked into rash
action," she said, her voice a blade. "Ardanthia has survived by
caution, not bravado."
Gorgo laughed, a sound that rattled the
torches on the walls. "Caution is what the world calls cowardice, when it
looks back at ruined cities."
At the table, the silence rebuilt itself.
Queen Eloise spoke at last, her words measured and final. "You have done
your duty, and the realm owes you. Rest. You will be summoned if needed."
She dismissed them with a gesture.
As the companions turned to leave, the doors
at the far end of the chamber exploded open. Two guards struggled to restrain a
figure between them, half-dragged, half-walking, his blue cloak tattered, the
white of his hair now streaked with blood and dust.
Auralias.
He stumbled forward, collapsing against the
council table, his breath rasping in his chest. The guards tried to pull him
upright, but he shook them off, barely able to keep his feet.
The court erupted — not in applause, not in
approval, but in a stunned, horrified silence. Queen Eloise rose from her seat,
the movement so abrupt the guards flinched back. Baron Gorgo reached for his
sword. Even Lady Veyra looked up, the mask of composure slipping for an
instant.
Auralias raised his head, blood running down
the line of his jaw. "Forgive me," he croaked, "for the
interruption. I have news."
He gripped the back of the nearest chair to
keep from collapsing.
The room held its breath, the fate of the
realm balancing on a ragged edge, waiting for the next word to tip it either
way.
For a full minute, the hall was silent but
for the wet trickle of blood from Auralias's temple, pattering onto the
polished floor in erratic counterpoint to the wild pulse in every chest. No one
moved. Even Baron Gorgo's hands, usually restless, had stilled on the arms of
his chair, his eyes locked on the mage as if trying to will him back into the
grave from which he'd clearly escaped. Lady Veyra tilted her head, eyes
narrowed, as though observing a particularly clever parlour trick with the
potential to upend the world.
Auralias straightened, shuddered, and found
his breath. When he spoke, his voice was not the sonorous music it once had
been; it scraped the air, raw and urgent.
"Your Majesty. Council. I regret the
spectacle, but I would not have returned had it not been vital." He
coughed, and the blood painted a fresh streak down his jaw. "I have spent
the last three weeks hunted by the League and worse things. Only the death of
their Magister and the chaos after let me slip free. The League of the Moon is
real. They are many, and now, they are desperate."
The word 'real' ricocheted around the marble
like a stone thrown through stained glass. A low ripple of horror passed
through the gallery, some nobles gasping, others crossing themselves in the
old, forbidden way. Queen Eloise stood, not bothering to mask the tremor in her
hands. She moved around the table, descending the three steps of the dais with
a dancer's balance.
"Speak clearly, Mage," she said.
"What do they want? What is their aim?"
