The Shadows Fortress, Wild Lands of the North
Year – 6999 NY
The wind howled across the Wild Lands of the North like something broken and endless—too old to die, too cruel to sleep. It did not sing as winds in gentler lands sometimes do. It screamed. A long, mournful shriek that echoed across miles of barren white, slicing through the silence like a blade honed on grief. The sound carried not just through the air but through the bones of the land itself, as if the earth still remembered what it had suffered—and would not let it rest.
Snow fell thick and dark—not white, not clean, but shadowed, as though the sky itself had been poisoned. It drifted in heavy flakes the color of ash, each one descending like a memory too painful to speak aloud. They landed silently, burying all things slowly in sorrow. There was no joy in this snow, no beauty in its descent. It was cold, yes—but deeper than that, it was heavy. As if every flake bore the weight of old sins and older truths.
Here, in the Wild Lands, the sun was only a rumor.
It tried, now and then, to pierce the gloom—but the attempt was pitiful, like the flicker of a dying candle held up against an endless sea of night. No golden rays spilled across the ground. No warmth kissed the frozen earth. Instead, there was only a sullen, colorless twilight that clung to the day like a shroud. A half-light. A memory of fire long gone cold.
The moon, when it dared to appear, hung behind thick black clouds like a prisoner glimpsed through narrow bars—faint, remote, and watching. Its silver glow did not illuminate; it only made the darkness shimmer. Pale reflections danced across the ice fields, but they revealed nothing. They only hinted at shapes best left unexamined.
The ground stretched out in all directions, a cruel, broken plain of jagged rock and ancient frost. It looked as though the world had once tried to lift mountains here, only to have them smashed flat by the hand of some silent and furious god. Stone jutted from the frozen soil in erratic spines, half-buried in snow, like bones rising through a shallow grave. Valleys yawned between them, filled not with rivers, but with shadow and wind.
And always, there was the sense of being watched—not by creatures, for no creature called this place home, but by the land itself. The land that hated warmth. The land that remembered fire and had sworn never to let it return.
This was not a land of exile. It was a land of rejection.
It had not been abandoned.
It had cast out all that was not strong, not cruel, not born of shadow.
And in the heart of this forsaken wilderness, carved into a cliffside that rose like a great fang from the ice, there stood a fortress.
It had no name.
Or perhaps it had once had a name—long ago, in a time when it had still belonged to the world. But no one spoke it now. If the wind had ever carried its name, it had long since forgotten how to pronounce it.
The fortress rose from the frozen rock like a black crown set on a dying king's brow. Its walls were vast and angular, cut from stone so dark that it seemed to devour the scant light that touched it. It gave the illusion that it had not been built, but grown—as if the mountain itself had wept it forth in a moment of despair. Every line of its architecture was severe, unforgiving. No curve softened its edges. No relief offered kindness. It did not welcome. It endured.
There were no banners. No colors. No sigils to claim allegiance or purpose. Only the walls—silent, tall, endless.
And around those walls curled the mist.
It seeped from cracks in the stone, from vents in the frozen ground, from shadows that had no source. It was not the steam of melting ice, nor the breath of heat against chill. It was darker than smoke and slower than fog—alive, in a way that made the skin crawl. It moved not by wind, but by will, snaking across the stones as if seeking.
It carried no scent. It made no sound.
But those who stepped near it, should they have hearts still capable of sensing such things, would feel something unmistakable.
It hungered.
There were no torches lit in the towers. No voices called across the parapets. No life flickered in the windows. Even the crows—those wretched and loyal companions of death—did not perch here. Nothing that had not sworn itself to ruin remained.
To look upon it was to feel time stop.
To stand before it was to know fear—not the kind that makes one run, but the kind that makes one pause. The kind that reaches into a man's chest and whispers, *You were not meant to come this far.*
It was not just a place. It was a presence.
It was silence made stone. It was dread made dwelling.
It was the fortress of the Shadow.
And within it, something stirred.
____________________________________
Within the fortress, a council was gathering.
Far beneath the jagged towers and blackened spires, in the still heart of that lifeless keep, there lay a chamber shaped like a wound. Its walls were carved not merely with tools but with purpose—a room of edges and echo, of silence that pressed upon the chest like water too deep. No fire warmed it. No torch dared to flicker. The very stone seemed to exhale chill.
And there, seated upon a throne of rough black iron at the head of a long circular table, was the one they obeyed.
The Shadow.
His form was motionless, a silhouette carved from absence—white fur as pure as snowfall in a dead forest, and eyes like broken stars: sharp, cold, and inescapably blue. He did not glow, not truly. And yet, in that pitch-black chamber, the silver-white of his coat seemed to cut through the dark with quiet defiance, a cruel sort of beacon.
But it was not light.
It was something colder.
Something emptier.
For where he sat, the very warmth of the room seemed to die. Not in bursts, but slowly, like breath seeping from a drowning man. It was not simply power he radiated, but something more dreadful—inversion. His presence was like an abyss that consumed without noise, drank hope without swallowing. One did not feel afraid in his presence.
One felt forgotten.
Around him sat his chosen—his children not by blood, but by will. They had names once. Perhaps. Perhaps not. But now they were simply his. The Children of Shadow. The eight most trusted of his legion, each wrapped in a distinct darkness of their own, each bound not by loyalty but by an erosion of self so complete that their obedience had become nature.
They had taken his gift freely.
And now, they could no longer remember what it meant to refuse him.
"Welcome, my children," The Shadow said.
His voice was not loud, yet it filled the room like oil poured over stone—thick, slow, impossible to wipe away. A whisper that slid into the ear and left something behind.
"It is rare that I call you all together like this…" he continued, drawing out the words like silk. "Not since the time of the Great War."
He paused, and the chamber seemed to shudder.
"But there are developments," he said, "that we cannot ignore."
The words hung in the air. No one answered. Not yet. They were not fools. Silence was not cowardice here—it was reverence.
The Shadow's gaze passed slowly around the table.
There were no torches, no candles—only his eyes. And they moved like knives, observing not merely faces, but thoughts, hearts, intentions.
"The prophecy," he said, and the word cracked the silence like ice underfoot. "It is already in motion."
He let the truth settle. He did not raise his voice to stir them. He didn't need to.
"The Grand Lords of Narn," he said, "have begun to gather."
No gasp. No cry.
Just stillness.
But the stillness had changed.
There was now something brittle in it—like a silence that could shatter at any moment.
"The Aryas," The Shadow continued, and this time, the word seemed to draw breath from the room itself, "the very tools we fought to gain in the war... are awakening."
And now, the stillness cracked.
A murmur moved like smoke around the table—soft, unsure, but undeniable. None spoke loudly. They never did. But the sound was there. Fear in its first form. Doubt in its birth pangs.
The Children of Shadow did not question his words. No one dared. But even in obedience, one could tremble.
These were beings of terrible cunning and power—masters of their corners of the world, lords of silence, venom, ruin. But they had not forgotten the old days. They had not forgotten the Grand Lords of Narn—the bearers of the Aryas—who had once pushed the darkness to the edge of the map.
They had heard the whispers, yes.
But to hear him speak them aloud...
It made the old dread stir in their marrow.
"The time has come," The Shadow said softly, "for us to decide what must be done."
His hands rested on the arms of the throne, claws motionless. His face betrayed no urgency, but something far worse: certainty.
"We cannot allow Narn to rise again."
A beat passed.
His voice dropped even further—so low that they did not hear the words so much as feel them.
"Not while we still have our power."
There it was.
Not rage. Not defiance.
Possession.
A claim.
As though all the world was a thing he already held, and any threat to it was not rebellion—it was theft.
His gaze drifted once more across his gathered children.
There were eight of them.
Each different in shape and power. Some cloaked in shadows that writhed like serpents, some wrapped in steel, some cloaked in the illusion of beauty—but all marked by corruption. They had been Tracients once—like those who served the light, those who bore the Aryas. But now... they were something else. The edge of what a soul could become when untethered from conscience.
They were the Children of Shadow.
And each was dangerous beyond measure.
But none dared to speak first.
Razik, the great hyena, sat nearest to The Shadow's cold luminescence. Even seated, he towered—broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, with fur dark as tar and a wild mane singed in places from his most recent humiliation. The embers of that battle still clung to him—not just the smoke and scent of charred defeat, but something deeper, something hotter. A quiet shame buried under layers of anger. Rage was all he had left to mask it.
He said nothing, but the others could feel it pulsing from him in waves. It rolled off him like heat from scorched stone, fouling the air around the table with an unspoken fury. His pride was wounded—no, worse than wounded. Shattered. To have been bested in front of his enemy, to retreat before the eyes of his foe like a whipped cur—it was intolerable.
He had not slept since. He had not spoken, save to report. And now, as he sat glowering into the void of the council chamber, his silence was louder than any shout.
But silence has never lasted long among serpents.
Morvak, seated to Razik's left, leaned back in his stone seat, folding his leathery black wings behind him with infuriating grace. His long limbs draped lazily over the throne's arms as though he were lounging in a theater rather than attending a war council. His eyes—red and glowing like the last coals of a dying fire—never left Razik. They gleamed with cold amusement, and he wore the sort of smile one wears when poking a chained lion with a stick.
"If I had been in your place," Morvak said smoothly, his voice the silken caress of a dagger, "I would have handled the Grand Lords personally. No theatrics. No blunders. Certainly not a retreat." He raised one long-fingered hand and studied his claws with feigned disinterest. "I wouldn't have failed so spectacularly."
Razik didn't even blink at first. Just clenched his jaw tighter. The white scar along his muzzle twitched.
Then his claws curled slowly into fists. The tips scraped the stone of the table with a slow, sickening grind.
"Careful, Morvak," he growled, voice thick with restrained fury. "Mock me again, and you'll regret it."
Morvak's eyes flicked up, and he smiled—teeth sharp and glistening.
"I doubt it, dog."
A sound like a hissing kettle echoed from across the chamber. Verliss, the serpent, had uncoiled slightly, her long, pale body weaving between the arms of her seat like silk thread on a loom. The body morphed into two slender legs as she balanced on the seat. Her yellow eyes shimmered with delight, the fork of her tongue flicking lazily in the air as she watched the exchange.
"Oh, let them fight, Shadow Father," she said, her voice slow and venomous, as if each word was sliding across a stone in her throat. "I'd enjoy watching which one slithers away first."
From the shadows, a series of quiet clicks broke the tension into fragments.
Drakkal, the spider Tracient, leaned forward into the dim light. Her eyes twitched as she chuckled, a dry, brittle sound like twigs snapping in the frost. Six eyes blinked at once, glittering with glee.
"I'd bet all my webs on Razik," he said, clicking her extra legs against the floor in amusement. "He has the brute strength, no doubt. But then, Morvak does have a flair for the dramatic. Maybe he'd make it entertaining."
"I say let them tear," buzzed Trask, a jittering insectoid creature with too many limbs and too little patience. His chittering laughter filled the air like a swarm of locusts. "More fun for us when we feast on what's left."
The room had begun to turn. The chamber's coldness did not still them now—it goaded. Tension flickered like lightning in the smoke-thick air, and the table that had once been silent and ominous now trembled with mockery and provocation.
Razik's chair screeched against the floor as he stood, the sound sharp and furious. His shoulders heaved. His breath came in hot bursts through his snout, and the flames of his Arcem ignited, glowing with purple fury. It wasn't rage alone. It was shame. It was defiance. It was the primal need to not be laughed at—not again.
"You pathetic insects think you can mock me?" he thundered. "You'll see who gets crushed!"
Morvak rose as well, eyes narrowing to slits, wings unfurling to their full span. The darkness behind him thickened, bending toward his form like it knew its master was preparing to kill.
"Back down, Razik," Morvak hissed, his voice losing all softness. "Or I'll—"
"ENOUGH."
The word split the air like a lightning bolt. It didn't echo. It overrode.
Everyone froze.
The Shadow had not shouted. He had not raised his tone.
And yet it felt as if the entire room had dropped several degrees. The air pressed down on their shoulders like a mountain. Razik's flames flickered. Morvak's wings fell still. The entire circle of Children—beasts and serpents and crawling things—sat once more in complete silence.
There was no sound now but the low hum of The Shadow's presence, like the distant growl of thunder from a sky that never showed its face.
The Shadow rose.
His white fur shone brighter in that moment, like frost caught in the moonlight, and his eyes—icy, ancient, pitiless—swept across his children.
"Must I remind you," he said slowly, every syllable a blade of ice, "that your strength means nothing if your unity fractures?"
No one dared respond.
"You may tear flesh with claw and burn it with fire, but if you tear each other, then what remains?"
His gaze lingered on Razik and Morvak.
"You," he said to the hyena, "were not sent to destroy Darius. You were sent to delay. You did."
Razik said nothing. But his shoulders slackened a fraction. He would not meet The Shadow's gaze.
"And you," he said to Morvak, whose smirk had now vanished entirely, "should remember that vanity is louder than failure."
A silence deeper than the grave settled over the room. And then The Shadow turned, resuming his seat.
"You are my Children," he said again, as if reminding them of something sacred and binding. "And I do not waste my blood."
His voice softened, yet somehow it felt heavier now.
"Save your fury. Sharpen it. You will need it soon."
The Shadow's gaze, sharp as a winter wind, swept across the chamber once more, the icy blue of his eyes glinting like stars above a frozen sea. None could meet it—not for long. There was something in that look that seemed to peel back layers, that saw not just failure or rebellion, but the weakness hiding beneath ambition, the cracks within pride.
"There will be no more bickering," he said.
The words weren't shouted. They didn't need to be. Like frost spreading across a still pond, the command was quiet, cold, and complete.
"There is no use fighting over what could have been." His gaze flicked momentarily to Razik, who sat rigid in his place, knuckles still white with tension. "Razik is not entirely at fault for the failure."
It was not praise, but it wasn't condemnation either. To receive even that much from The Shadow was rare—like being spared by a storm, not because one was worthy, but because it had other things to crush first.
Razik didn't move. He dared not speak, though his jaw clenched, and his whole form seemed to shudder like a coiled spring.
"There is a greater power at play here," The Shadow said next, and the words came with a different weight—a bitterness that hadn't been there before. His voice, always smooth and slow, trembled now with something older than anger. "Something… or someone… is interfering."
He said the word "someone" like a blade drawn against old scar tissue. A sneer curled faintly across his lips, and though he did not name the object of his hatred, it passed unspoken through the room like a ghost. Every one of the Children felt it—that ancient malice, deep and old and undying.
For a time, the room held its breath.
Then, with the grace of a dancer stepping lightly onto a stage, a figure stood at the far side of the council.
Jarik.
If ever there was a creature out of place in such a grim and dreadful hall, it was he. His pink fur seemed to catch what little light there was, and his ears, long and poised, poked jauntily out from beneath the brim of his wide black hat. His ever-present smile was curved just enough to be polite, and just enough to seem like he was always laughing—whether at a joke no one else heard, or at everyone else in the room.
"Forgive me, brothers and sisters," Jarik began, dipping his head in a slow, elegant bow. His voice was musical and light, but with a knowing sharpness that danced just beneath the surface. "I believe our Father is right. There is no point in dwelling on Razik's… unfortunate setback."
He did not stress the word unfortunate, but he didn't need to. It hung in the air like incense—sweet-smelling but choking. Razik's ears flicked, but he said nothing. He simply stared, as if weighing the possibility of ripping the rabbit in half.
Jarik turned, offering a sidelong glance that sparkled with theatrical innocence. The corners of his grin curled just slightly higher.
"But let us not be discouraged," he continued, swaying back into his rhythm like an orator warming to his crowd. "The pieces are still moving. The game is still ours to win. And the prophecy…" he trailed off, tilting his head, "well, it has never favored the hasty."
For all his brightness, there was something calculating beneath his tone now, a predator's patience hiding behind a child's grin.
"I have a plan," Jarik said at last, his words slowing with deliberate weight. "One that will not only deliver the Aryas into our hands, but will give us control over Archen Land itself."
At that, the room stirred.
Even Drakkal, who moments ago had been busy wrapping a strand of shadow-silk between two fingers, paused. Verliss raised a lazy brow, and Thagros tilted his head just enough to show interest without commitment.
Even The Shadow leaned forward—only slightly, but it was enough. In that minute shift of posture, Jarik knew he had the room.
He smiled. Not wider, not louder—just deeper. It was the smile of someone who had not just played his hand, but had marked every card in the deck.
But then—
A shift in the shadows.
It was subtle. So subtle that at first, none noticed. But something moved.
Or perhaps something had been there all along and had simply now chosen to make its presence known.
At the furthest end of the table, where the cold was deepest and the shadows thickest, there sat a figure who had, until now, remained perfectly still. A shadow within shadows. They wore a cloak so dark it drank the light around it, a garment that seemed more absence than fabric. Not a word had passed from their lips. Not a motion from their hands.
But now, that silence became presence.
A hush fell upon the table. Even Jarik's confident rhythm stumbled a beat. Not from fear—Jarik rarely feared anything—but from the awareness that he was being watched.
The cloaked figure did not speak. Did not move. Did not even breathe, or so it seemed. Yet the weight of them was undeniable, like a starless night pressing down on the bones of the world.
Some of the other Children shifted uncomfortably. Trask, ever jittery, scratched nervously at the table's edge with one claw. Morvak's wings twitched. Even Razik, furious as he was, seemed to lean slightly away from that end of the hall.
Only The Shadow seemed unmoved, though even he offered the cloaked figure a flicker of acknowledgment—a brief glance, a stiller breath.
Jarik's smile, if anything, grew sharper.
He liked a good audience.
And whatever secrets that cloaked thing held—whatever ancient malice or hidden plan it embodied—it had listened.
And that was enough.
With a flourish of his hand, Jarik turned back to the room.
"Shall I continue, Father?" he asked, the question poised delicately in the air, a thread of silk between daggers.
The Shadow's voice, when it returned, was as quiet as falling snow. "You may."
And Jarik began to speak.
What he said, and how he said it, would shape the coming years in ways few could yet imagine.
But the fire had been lit.
And in the gathering of shadows, the wind had begun to change.
__________________________
Archen Land: The Narn Lords Summit
Five days had passed since the battle at the border—five days since fire had swept the earth and power had walked openly among mortals again. But here, under the bright canopy of the southern skies, the land seemed to breathe anew. Archen Land was not merely surviving—it was flourishing.
Where Narn's borderlands had been cast in smoke and sorrow, here the sun reigned with undisputed authority, casting its light across hills that rolled in green and gold. The wind that swept through the kingdom carried not the scent of ash, but the fresh fragrance of cedarwood, tilled fields, and flowering vine. The air tasted clean—untainted by fear.
The capital city, nestled in the cradle of forested hills and guarded by ancient watchtowers, stood proud and gleaming. Its high walls, etched with centuries of protective runes, caught the sunlight like mirrors of stone. Towers rose with elegance, their carved banners fluttering from spires with the gentle ease of a kingdom at peace—but one never asleep.
And in the very heart of the capital, wrapped in layers of memory and strength, rose Castle Valoria—the jewel of Archen Land.
It was not a fortress of grim battlements or brutal grandeur. It was a citadel of wisdom and purpose. Its domed towers and tall windows, all carved from pale goldstone and veined marble, glowed in the daylight like lanterns lit from within. Valoria had endured wars, storms, and the long silence of forgotten prophecies—but it had never bowed. And now, after centuries of solitary strength, it opened its halls once again to those who might share in the stewardship of the world.
Inside, the Summit Hall had been prepared.
It was a chamber of ancient dignity—vast, sun-drenched, and carved for discourse rather than display. The ceilings rose high above like the vault of a temple, supported by columns that gleamed with mother-of-pearl and ivory. Every surface, from the polished marble floors to the ornately inlaid walls, seemed to reflect the golden daylight spilling through the tall windows, which framed the sky like open promises.
Each window bore stained-glass edges, subtle but radiant, depicting the emblems of Archen Land—the leaping stag, the flowering bough, the blazing shield of Tracient ancestry, and the blue mountain against a green banner. The light that passed through them cast soft colors across the floor, painting the chamber with quiet honor.
At the center of the hall stood a great table—long, broad, and carved from the heartwood of the oldest tree in the Southern Wilds. It was dark, gleaming, and intricately etched with symbols of each Tracient lineage. Here, no one sat higher than another. Here, all had voice.
The table had been set not with food, but with scrolls, sealed reports, arcane maps, and ancient texts. This was not a feast.
It was a reckoning.
And along the walls—just above the wainscot and flanked by braziers—hung the tapestries.
Each told a tale, woven not in haste but over generations: The first founding of Archen Land by the Flame-Horned Monarch. The Pact of Stone and Spirit with the wandering clans. The Great Siege when the castle had stood for seven days against impossible odds. And the Council of Nine, when peace had once been brokered between the ancient Lords of Light.
Kon's eyes lingered on that last one as he entered the hall. He did not mean to. But there was something in the depiction that called to him—the way the woven figures stood, not in triumph, but in unity. Different in shape and spirit, but bound by a singular purpose.
It felt... familiar.
He stepped further into the hall, feet echoing softly against the stone. Behind him, Trevor bounded in with his usual light-footed energy, though even he seemed subdued in the hush of the place. Adam followed silently, eyes wide, taking in the history all around them with quiet reverence. For all that had changed, for all he had been told—King of Narn still felt like a name borrowed from someone else.
And yet—this place made it feel real.
This was not a battlefield. This was where futures were shaped.
This was where kings sat with truth.
At the head of the table, beneath the glinting spires of Castle Valoria and the filtered light of golden midday, stood King Darius.
There was something timeless about him in that moment—as though the very stones of the Summit Hall leaned forward to listen. His lemon-green cloak draped over his shoulders with the weight of ages, not merely cloth but a symbol of kingship tempered by service. The golden nose ring that adorned his snout gleamed faintly in the light, and his light brown fur, traced with milky gold patches, seemed to catch the sun in soft ripples.
Two strong horns arched upward from his head—not to intimidate, but to remind all who saw them that strength is not a thing to be flaunted, but stewarded. Yet it was his eyes—those keen, lemon-green eyes—that spoke the loudest. They held no fire of anger, nor chill of disdain, only calm, watchful depth. Eyes that had seen war, and peace, and the steep price of both.
Around him, seated with the solemnity of pilgrims at the edge of revelation, were the three youths upon whom the future of Narn had been laid like a fragile crown.
Adam sat stillest of all, though stillness did not come naturally to him. His heart beat with a hundred questions—questions of duty, of heritage, of whether he was truly what they believed him to be. King of Narn. The words sat in his mind like a garment too grand for his shoulders, but he dared not shrug it off.
If not me, he thought, then who?
There had been no ceremony to crown him—no garland of flowers, no kneeling court—but somehow, with every decision he made, with every hand he took in battle, the mantle had wrapped itself around him.
He had spoken with Asalan, after all. He had seen the true flame of purpose. That had to mean something.
Beside him, Kon Kaplan, the Tiger of the East, sat with quiet gravity. His paws rested on his knees, though one thumb tapped the table gently in an old warrior's rhythm—one-two, one-two—like a heartbeat or a battle chant. There was a firmness in his eyes, but not hardness. Kon did not speak often unless the words mattered. And though he had no crown, no city of his own, the strength in his presence spoke of a king born not of bloodlines, but of burden. He does not look to lead, Adam thought, glancing at him. But still, he always walks ahead when danger comes.
And to Kon's right sat Trevor, ever shifting, ever light on his feet, as though ready to leap into some new adventure at a moment's notice. But there was something different in him now—a weight behind the brightness. His playful grin, though still present, was quieter, more measured. His fingers toyed with a ribbon of his sleeve, and his tail swayed not with boredom but thought. He laughs, Adam had come to realize, not because he is foolish… but because he knows what happens when the laughter ends.
Further down the table, Kopa, the deer Tracient, sat with dignified silence. His antlers cast gentle shadows on the wall behind him, and his posture spoke of one who had carried messages between kings, across storms and borders. His gaze moved steadily from Darius to the young Lords, his eyes gleaming with an almost fatherly pride. He had believed in them before even they had known to believe in themselves.
The rest of the table was filled with the steady and seasoned faces of Archen Land—generals with battle-worn armor, advisors with scrolls tucked beneath their arms, and royal guards who stood not for show, but for oath. There was no need for ceremony here. Every Tracient present knew that what was about to be said might shape the future of their world.
Then the hall fell still.
Not a ceremonial stillness, but the kind that settles before thunder—the kind that feels like listening with the whole body, not just the ears.
Darius rose slowly, his stature commanding without ever once needing to command. He did not pound his fist or raise his voice. Instead, he let the silence follow him like a loyal hound as he stepped forward and swept his gaze across the room.
There was nothing hasty in his movements. He was a king who understood the value of stillness.
His eyes moved from face to face—not quickly, but deeply. He met them all. The warriors, the advisors. Adam, Kon, Trevor. Even Kopa. He looked at them not as tools, or subjects, but as companions on a journey they had all been drafted into, whether they wanted it or not.
And then, with a voice quiet but firm as ancient stone, he spoke.
"Now," he said, his words curling through the hall like warm smoke, "let the Narn Lords Summit begin."
There were no cheers. No applause.
Only the long echo of his voice across the marble floor.
And in the silence that followed, something unseen stirred—something old, and powerful, and watching.
Perhaps it was prophecy. Perhaps it was fate.
Or perhaps it was the land itself—listening, hoping, waiting for the sons of Narn to come home.