2025-10-23 18:23:05The capital of Eldralith gleamed like a jewel set in iron. From the distant hills it appeared serene, its spires piercing the sky, its river walls glinting in the pale sun. But inside those walls, serenity was a mask, and fear whispered behind every carved column and golden door.
The court of King Aldren was in session.
The great hall, lined with banners of deep green and silver, should have been a place of pride. Once, Eldralith had been strong, its kings feared and respected across the lowlands. Now the banners hung heavy, like shrouds, and the nobles who filled the chamber argued not with strength, but with desperation.
King Aldren sat upon his high seat, robed in emerald trimmed with sable. His crown seemed too heavy for his brow, his hands restless on the carved arms of the throne. He was not old, but weariness had carved deep lines into his face.
To his right stood Lord Verric, High Minister, his tongue sharp as the quill he wielded in every council. To his left loomed General Caelreth, scarred from wars past, his hand forever resting near the hilt of his ceremonial blade.
The council chamber was alive with clamor.
“—we must send tribute,” Verric urged, his voice slippery smooth. “If Commander Veyrik marches north unchecked, Eldralith will burn. Better to appease than provoke.”
“Appease?” Caelreth thundered, his scarred fist striking the table. “You would bleed this kingdom dry to fatten Veyra’s coffers? Every coin we send is a nail in Eldralith’s coffin. Veyrik respects only steel.”
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
King Aldren lifted his hand, but his voice lacked the thunder of his general. “Eldralith cannot afford another war. Our harvest was poor, our coffers thin. We must tread carefully.”
It was then that Lord Selwin, master of whispers, leaned forward. His face was pale and narrow, his voice a hiss that carried farther than it should.
“My king,” Selwin said, “there is talk from the river city. A magician, they say, conjured flame and shadow before a crowd. Not sleight-of-hand, but true craft. The same night Veyrik passed through.”
The chamber stilled.
Verric scoffed. “Peasant tales.”
“Perhaps,” Selwin murmured, his thin lips curving. “But the tale spreads quickly. Too quickly. Already the people call him a blessing, a sign. Some say Eldralith is not forsaken, that the old power stirs again.”
A shiver ran through the chamber. The old power ;the words were dangerous. Eldralith had not seen true magic in a generation.
General Caelreth leaned forward, eyes sharp. “If such a man exists, he belongs in the king’s service, not in a marketplace.”
“Or in Veyrik’s chains,” Selwin countered softly.
All eyes turned to Aldren. The king’s fingers drummed on the throne. He could feel the walls of the hall closing in Verric urging tribute, Caelreth urging war, Selwin whispering of shadows and omens.
And beyond them all, the iron shadow of Veyrik loomed. The commander who had bent half the lowlands to his will now cast his gaze upon Eldralith.
The king’s voice was quiet, but it silenced the room. “Send riders. If this magician exists, I will see him. If he is trickster, let us unmask him. If he is true… we must decide before Veyrik does.”
The council broke into smaller arguments, nobles clustering in knots. Verric muttered about wasted coin. Caelreth barked about soldiers on the border. Selwin slipped away like smoke, already planning how best to twist rumor into leverage.
Aldren sat alone on his throne, the weight of the crown pressing heavier with each heartbeat. His thoughts drifted to his daughter, to the fragile alliances holding his court together, to the trembling hope he glimpsed in his people’s eyes whenever they looked to him for strength.
And now a magician. A name yet unknown, but already the world tilted around him.
By afternoon, the whispers had spilled beyond the council chamber. Servants carried them through the halls, guards murmured them at their posts, merchants whispered them in the markets of the capital.
A magician in Caldre.
A conjurer who saved a child from death.
Not trickery. True craft.
The city was restless. For every voice that scoffed, another swore it was a sign. Some said the gods had sent him to save Eldralith. Others feared he was bait — a lure to draw them into Veyrik’s snare.
In the shadowed corners of taverns, men whispered of rebellion. In the quiet cloisters of temples, priests prayed for clarity.
And in the heart of the palace, Selwin knelt in the dark of his chambers, quill scratching on parchment as he wrote to unseen allies beyond the border.
That night, the king’s uneasy rest was broken by a knock on his chamber doors.
“Enter,” he called, rising.
A soldier staggered in, armor stained with dust from hard riding. He dropped to one knee, head bowed.
“Speak,” Aldren commanded, his voice steadier than he felt.
The soldier lifted his gaze. “My king… Commander Veyrik has sent word. He demands the magician be delivered to him. At once.”
The hall seemed to darken.
Aldren’s breath caught, and for a moment, silence hung heavy. Then he dismissed the soldier and sank onto his seat. His hands trembled against his knees. Veyrik already knew.
The council’s whispers, the people’s hope, even his own uncertain thoughts; none of it mattered now. The Iron Hawk had fixed his eyes upon Eldralith.
And Eldralith was not ready.
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