The Council chamber was dark that night, the stained-glass windows blackened by storm clouds. Only a few candles burned, their flames low, their shadows stretching tall across the ancient stone.
It was not an official meeting. No record would mark it, no herald would announce it. Yet five figures sat in the semicircle of thrones, their faces half-hidden in the gloom.
Councilor Veyra stood at the center, her hands clasped before her, her voice sharp as glass.
"Eldrin grows reckless. His faith in the boy blinds him to the danger. If we allow him to continue, Alaric may find a path outside of our control."
Another Councilor, Master Corval, a thin man with a crooked nose and pale skin, leaned forward, his smile cold. "And that, my dear Veyra, would be… unfortunate. But perhaps not irreversible. After all, the boy carries the Hollow King's blood. He cannot resist it forever."
A third voice, low and rough, spoke from the shadows. "Unless Eldrin keeps shielding him. Unless Kenive's cursed fire keeps interfering."
The air grew colder at the mention of Kenive. For centuries, his name had been spoken with reverence in the Academy. But here, in this circle of whispers, it was laced with venom.
Veyra's eyes narrowed. "Then we do what must be done. Eldrin's protection cannot last. We must guide the boy ourselves — into the darkness where he belongs."
Corval chuckled, the sound dry as dead leaves. "Guide? More like… break. Push him where he fears to go. Surround him with doubt, strip away his allies. His heart yearns for belonging. Deny him light, and he will crawl willingly into shadow's embrace."
A heavy silence followed. Then the fourth Councilor, Lady Seraphine, spoke — her voice smooth, almost sweet. "The boy is already cracking. I've seen it in his eyes. He fears what he might become. If we make him believe the light has no place for him…" She smiled faintly. "He will choose the darkness himself."
A fifth figure stirred at the far end of the semicircle. His face was hidden in the hood of his robes, but his voice carried an unmistakable weight, deeper than any mortal's. "You waste words. Alaric is the vessel. Eryndor's throne is waiting. And when the time comes, his resistance will mean nothing."
The others bowed their heads slightly, even Veyra.
For though he bore the title of Councilor, this man's presence was something else entirely. Shadows writhed faintly at his feet, and the candles guttered lower when he spoke.
"The Hollow King's blood calls to itself," he said. "We need not drag the boy into the abyss. We need only open the door… and he will walk through."
The storm outside roared, lightning flashing against the windows. For a moment, Alaric's face seemed to flicker across the glass — pale, uncertain, his eyes caught between light and shadow.
Veyra's smile sharpened. "Then let Eldrin play his part. Let him build trust. The higher Alaric climbs, the harder he will fall. And when he does, it will not be Eldrin who catches him."
The hooded figure's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "It will be us. And through him… Eryndor shall rise again."
The chamber went still. Candles sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness.
Meanwhile, in the library below, Alaric sat with Clem, the ancient tome Eldrin had given him open between them. The words blurred before his eyes, his mind heavy with unease.
He rubbed his temples. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."
Clem frowned. "Wrong how?"
"The Council," Alaric said quietly. "They argue about me in the open, but… it's more than that. It's like they're watching me, waiting. Not all of them — but some. When Veyra looks at me, it's not fear I see. It's expectation."
Clem's grip tightened on her quill. "Expectation of what?"
He hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. "Of me failing."
The amber stone pulsed in his pocket, and Rudra's voice slid into his mind, low and warning. "You are not wrong. Shadows move among them. Some wear faces of allies, but their hearts are bound to the Hollow King. They will not strike you with blades — but with doubt, with isolation. Beware the hand that offers you comfort when all others turn away."
Alaric shivered. Clem's eyes searched his face. "He said something, didn't he?"
He nodded faintly. "He said… there are traitors in the Council. That some of them want me in the dark. Not to destroy me — but to use me. To bring Eryndor back."
Clem's face paled. She leaned closer, her voice sharp but hushed. "Then we trust no one. Not a single one of them, except Eldrin."
Alaric clenched his fists. His parents' faces hovered in his mind, half-remembered shadows. The weight of choice pressed heavier than ever.
If Rudra was right, then every step he took in the Academy was watched not by mentors, but by enemies wearing mentors' robes.
And somewhere in the silence of the halls, he thought he heard it again — the faintest whisper, not Rudra's, not Kenive's, not even his own.
"…Come home, Alaric… your throne awaits…"
He pressed his hands to his ears, but the whisper lingered, curling like smoke around his heart.