THE ILLUSIONIST OF ELDRALITH

THREAD IN THE DARK

The summons came before dawn.

The nobles of Eldralith shuffled through the marble corridors, their silks and jewels dulled by sleepless eyes and whispered dread. Torches guttered in their sconces, throwing long shadows across painted walls. The great hall had not been filled so early in years  not for harvests, not for wars, not even for funerals.

This was different.

At the head of the chamber, King Aldren sat with his crown set heavily upon his brow. He had not slept, and the strain showed in the hollows beneath his eyes. The parchment lay on the table before him still Veyrik’s demand, written in a hand bold enough to be a threat in itself.

Deliver the magician. Or we will come to claim him.

The words pulsed like iron in Aldren’s mind.

Verric was first to break the silence. His voice slid through the chamber, sharp and eager.

“My king, the choice is plain. To deny Veyrik is folly. He demands one man , a charlatan, most likely. What is one trickster to us compared to the survival of Eldralith? Send him to Veyrik. Let the Iron Hawk choke on his prize.”

General Caelreth barked a bitter laugh. “And when he swallows, Verric? What then? You think his hunger will end with one man? Veyrik is not satisfied with scraps. Give him the magician and he will demand our gold. Give him our gold and he will demand our blood. Tribute feeds a wolf, it does not tame it.”

The chamber erupted in overlapping voices, some echoing Veyrik, others Caelreth, the rest caught between fear and pride.

Aldren raised his hand for silence, though his own voice trembled at the edges. “You speak of a man none of us has seen. Rumor and shadow, nothing more.”

Selwin, pale as a ghost in his dark robes, inclined his head. “Rumor can be more dangerous than truth, my king. Already the streets whisper of this magician. The people speak his name with reverence though no one yet knows it. They call him a sign, deliverance. If he is real, he could be a rallying banner.”

Verric sneered. “Hope is a dangerous contagion. The people must not be given fantasies. Our strength is in obedience, not illusions.”

“Obedience,” Caelreth snapped, “comes from pride, not fear. If we give this man up like a lamb to slaughter, the people will see us not as protectors but as cowards. Do you want them whispering rebellion next? Do you want them welcoming Veyrik’s soldiers as saviors?”

The king pressed his palms to his temples. Their words cut from all sides, and still he felt no ground beneath his feet. He wanted to believe the magician was nothing but a story spun by frightened peasants. But Veyrik’s demand proved otherwise.

The Iron Hawk did not move on rumor.

By midmorning, the council adjourned in chaos. Verric stormed from the hall muttering of wasted time. Caelreth lingered at the doors, glaring as though he could fight the entire kingdom into sense.

Selwin did not hurry. He lingered in the shadows of the council chamber until the hall was empty, until even the king had retreated with his private guard. Then he slipped quietly away, his soft shoes whispering against the stone floors.

His chamber was deep in the palace, a room of maps and ledgers, scrolls stacked like fortresses. Candles burned low, the air thick with ink and wax.

Here Selwin moved with ease, his pale hands steady as he dipped his quill. He wrote quickly, no hesitation in the curves of his script.

To our eyes in Caldre. The magician is real. Find him. Bind him. Deliver him not to Veyrik, nor to Aldren, but to me.

He sprinkled sand over the parchment, folded it with precision, sealed it with wax stamped with a mark no one in Eldralith had ever seen.

Selwin did not believe in hope. Hope was a weapon, sharper than any blade, but it was dangerous in the wrong hands. If this magician truly bore the power of the old craft, then he was not a savior, he was a storm. And storms could be guided, or they could be broken.

Selwin intended to guide him.

That evening, as torches flared along the palace walls, unrest crackled through the city below.

Merchants whispered in stalls. Smiths paused in their hammering. Children repeated tales they had heard in the marketplace: a man of fire, a shadow-tamer, one who defied even the Iron Hawk himself.

The priests frowned at the altar fires. Some said the magician was a heretic, a deceiver. Others whispered of prophecy.

And in the taverns, men lifted cups of ale and swore they would follow such a man if he stood against Veyrik.

Hope, fragile and dangerous, spread faster than the king’s decrees.

In the palace, King Aldren stood alone on a high balcony. Below him the torches of the city glimmered like restless stars.

He remembered his father’s reign, when Eldralith had been feared and strong, when no enemy dared send demands. Now he stood on shifting ground, his people looking to him with eyes that begged for miracles.

And perhaps perhaps a miracle had appeared.

But was Kaelen truly a miracle? Or merely a trap, bait to drag Eldralith into ruin?

The king’s hands gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened.

Behind him, the door creaked. Caelreth entered, his broad frame casting long shadows. “You cannot waver, my king. The people will not forgive it.”

Aldren turned, his voice bitter. “And what would you have me do, Caelreth? March against Veyrik with starving men and broken steel?”

The general’s scarred face softened. “I would have you remember what it means to be king. Fear cannot be the chain by which we rule.”

Aldren looked away, down at the restless city. The weight of his crown felt heavier still.

Far across the city, Selwin’s sealed letter left the palace under cloak of darkness, carried by a rider who vanished into the night roads.

By the time dawn touched the eastern hills, his words would already be in motion.

And somewhere beyond those hills, a fugitive magician walked paths he did not yet know were hunted.