Summit Hall of Valoria, ArchenLand – Year 6999 NY
The morning light filtered gently through the stained-glass windows of the Summit Hall, casting long shafts of golden warmth across the polished stone floor. It danced quietly on the ancient banners and carved pillars that lined the hall, as though even the sun itself wished to witness what was about to unfold within these storied walls. Outside, the capital of Archen Land stirred with the soft murmur of early life—bakers opening their shutters, children chasing each other between cobbled stones, and guards in polished armor marching the perimeter of peace. Yet here, in the heart of Castle Valoria, the air was still and thick with expectation.
The Summit Hall was a place of rare and solemn use, reserved for matters not merely of state, but of destiny. It was a long chamber, built with reverence in every stone and wood beam, lined with towering windows that told the story of Archen Land's lineage in colored light—of kings who had stood when hope faltered, of queens who had healed when war broke hearts, and of the warriors who gave their last breath that the land might live. Along the walls, grand tapestries unfurled like ancient scrolls, woven with scenes of valor: the first stand at the Gates of Harkel, the sealing of the Northern Pact, and the moment King Darius had ascended the throne under the watching eyes of the Narn Lords.
Now, the hall bore witness to a gathering unlike any in recent memory.
A long stone table—smooth as riverbed slate and cold with solemnity—stretched from one end of the hall to the other. It was not simply a table of counsel, but a symbol: a meeting of bloodlines, of legacies converging. Along its length were seated figures of great stature and storied name—Tracients of noble descent and hardened generals, diplomats whose words weighed more than swords, and seers who had not stepped into the public eye in years. And at its head, standing not as a man burdened by rule but as a soul anchored in purpose, stood King Darius Boga.
His form was striking, even to those long accustomed to his presence. Cloaked in the lemon-green royal mantle that swept like a river of silk over his shoulders, he stood tall and unwavering. His fur—light brown like the deep bark of young trees, and brushed with patches of milky gold—gleamed beneath the hall's light. The sunlight kissed the broad curve of his two horns, strong and proud, and caught the gleam of the golden nose ring that marked him not only as king, but as the final bearer of the Arya of Evolution. His lemon-green eyes, ever calm but never cold, swept the room—not with suspicion, but with the silent discernment of one who bore the weight of both sword and shepherd's staff.
At his right stood Kopa, the deer Tracient whose antlers curved like branches drawn from the forest's oldest grove. Where Darius stood with poise, Kopa stood with quiet tension, his posture alert and his keen eyes watching the room as a falcon watches the sky. The air around him was different—measured, almost still—but it carried with it the subtle energy of a storm biding its time.
Those seated closest to the king bore names now whispered throughout the waking lands. Adam Kurt sat on Darius's left, his eyes tracing the edges of the room as if trying to memorize every detail. The young wolf Tracient had not asked for a crown, but fate had woven it into his path nonetheless. Kon Kaplan, seated beside Adam, remained stoic as ever, his striped fur and commanding gaze reflecting the discipline of his Tiger Clan heritage. And next to him sat Trevor Maymum, the Monkey Tracient, whose tail swayed thoughtfully as he half-listened, half-watched the golden light climb the stone columns of the hall.
Each of them had walked a road lined with sacrifice. Each bore wounds that did not always bleed but never fully healed. And now, in this hallowed chamber of stone and sunlight, they sat not as wanderers or survivors, but as Grand Lords of Narn—called not merely to fight, but to lead.
There was a silence in the room, not awkward, but reverent. It was the kind of quiet that descends only when something ancient is about to be stirred again. A quiet that makes even the proudest forget their pride and even the loudest remember to listen.
Darius lifted his hand.
King Darius raised his hands, palms open, not in command, but in welcome. His deep voice filled the hall with ease—not thunderous, but weighty. It reverberated through the golden arches like a steady drumbeat before battle.
"Welcome, my friends," he said, his tone both warm and grave. "It is an honor to have you all here. Today, we convene not only to discuss the pressing matters of our lands... but to welcome, officially, the newest members of our council."
He paused, and the pause itself was like a held breath. His lemon-green gaze swept slowly down the table to where three young figures sat—three names that now belonged to legend, though the bearers still felt the ache of blood, sweat, and doubt.
"I am King Darius Boga," he continued, his voice deepening with formal cadence, "son of King Tanfor Boga, ruler of Archen Land, and Lord of the Boga Clan."
There was no arrogance in the words—only lineage. A name passed down, not claimed.
Then his posture softened. The weight of the occasion did not leave, but it gentled. His eyes, so bright and unblinking, turned with quiet warmth to the trio seated across from him.
"Today," he said, "we are honored to introduce the newest members of our council—those who, by right, are now Grand Lords."
He turned first to the figure seated to his left—a Tracient with a golden sheen to his fur, and eyes like twin suns.
"This is Trevor Maymum," Darius said. "Son of Pansa and Walea Maymum, and Grand Lord of the Maymum Clan. He is the wielder of the Arya of Derision."
Trevor stood immediately, ever the performer, and with a flair that seemed more instinct than affectation, gave a grand, sweeping bow—one leg behind the other, arms outstretched, tail flicking like a stage curtain. His orange eyes sparkled beneath the glow of the hall, but something stirred deeper beneath the mischief.
The grin he wore—the grin everyone had come to expect—still rested comfortably on his face. And yet, even as he stood there smiling, some part of him, quiet and private, trembled. Not from fear, but from the realization that this time, he was not joking. Not pretending.
He was a Grand Lord. And nothing he said, or didn't say, would ever change that now.
Darius's voice rose again, this time directed to the tall figure seated with his arms folded and single eye narrowed—not with anger, but with razor focus.
"Next," Darius said, "we welcome Kon Kaplan. Son of Lord Orin and Serena Kaplan. Grand Lord of the Kaplan Clan. Wielder of the Arya of Destruction."
Kon stood with no flourish. He offered only a short bow of his head, sharp and deliberate, then resumed his seat. There was no tension in his limbs, only control. The quiet storm.
But Darius had seen the flicker in his eyes when his parents' names were spoken. A tiny twitch in the jaw. Barely visible, unless you were looking for it.
He remembered his father's voice—the firm tone of discipline, the hours of training. And his mother's hands, gentle even as they bound wounds. He had not spoken their names aloud in some time. Hearing them now, declared before kings and generals, felt like having their memory dragged into the light.
Am I what they hoped I'd be?
The thought was unspoken, but present, curling beneath his thoughts like a coiled rope.
Finally, Darius turned to the youngest among them. A wolf Tracient with sky-blue fur and quiet eyes that held far more weight than youth should bear.
"And lastly," Darius said, his voice carrying a note of particular gravity, "we welcome Adam Kurt. Son of Abel Kurt and Amaia Kurt. Grand Lord of the Kurt Family. Wielder of the Arya of Creation."
A hush fell like a cloak over the room.
For the name Kurt did not merely stir memory—it summoned it. Those two names—Abel and Amaia—hung in the air like smoke from an ancient fire. Some in the room had fought beside them. Some had buried those they lost because of the same war that had claimed them. Others had only heard of them in half-whispers, always with awe and something like sorrow.
Adam did not stand.
He met Darius's gaze with quiet honesty, but he remained seated. It wasn't from disrespect. It was simply that he didn't know how to carry the name yet.
The room murmured—a ripple of recognition and thought. But Darius lifted his hand gently, and the voices hushed.
His eyes lingered on Adam just a moment longer. There was no pressure in them, no demand. Only understanding. Then he turned to face all three of them at once.
"You three," he said, "are now Grand Lords by right. You stand as protectors of Narn and ArchenLand. Wielders of power not given lightly. Powers that shape the fate of our world."
His words settled over them like cloaks—some heavier than others.
Trevor fidgeted where he sat, not out of disrespect but energy. His tail thumped softly against the leg of his chair. He was used to moving. Laughing. Dodging. But this... this required stillness.
Kon's face remained unreadable, but behind the surface his mind was already at work—measuring the scope of Darius's words. "Shape the fate of the world" was not poetic. It was an equation.
Adam looked down at his hands.
They didn't feel different. They still bore the nicks and calluses of travel, of fighting, of holding people he thought he might lose. But now, the hands of a boy who had only ever wanted to protect his friends... belonged to a Grand Lord. A king, even.
He did not yet believe it.
But perhaps belief would come later.
For now, he listened.
And Darius, still standing beneath the golden spill of sun, said nothing more—for what he had spoken needed no echo.
___________________________
With the introductions of the three Grand Lords complete, a shift moved through the Summit Hall—subtle but unmistakable. It was the sort of shift that happens when great stones are placed upon ancient foundations: the sense that something vast and steady had just settled into place. Yet Darius, ever measured in tone and movement, allowed no moment to linger beyond its use.
He turned once again, this time gesturing toward the broader circle of seats surrounding the table—seats not filled with newly anointed power, but with the tempered strength of age and loyalty.
"Now," Darius said, his voice once again echoing through the golden-lit chamber, "let me introduce the other Lords who serve with us. Though they do not wield Aryas, their strength and wisdom have protected our lands for many years."
He raised a hand toward the far end of the table, where sat a figure who appeared carved more from the flow of time than from flesh and blood. Lord Thrax Deniz, the Turtle Tracient, sat upright in his seat with quiet solemnity. The lines etched into his greenish-gray skin were deep and permanent, not just from age, but from the weight of years well-lived and battles weathered with patience rather than speed. He wore a simple robe of deep sea-blue, worn thin at the hem, and leaned gently on a crooked wooden staff that looked as though it had been carried through a thousand winters.
"This is Lord Thrax Deniz," Darius said. "Lord of the Deniz Clan. Though his people do not possess an Arya, his wisdom is unmatched, and his guidance has led us through trials that steel alone could not."
Thrax did not smile, nor bow, nor speak. He simply inclined his head—an action so slow and deliberate it felt like a ceremony in itself. His eyes, still sharp beneath his heavy brow, moved from face to face, and when they lingered on Adam, Kon, and Trevor, it was like being read—deeply, kindly, and without hurry.
Trevor, fidgeting only slightly, felt an odd chill as the Turtle Lord's gaze passed over him. Not cold, but vast. As though Thrax had seen all the tricks, all the jokes, all the bright-eyed mischief of youth a thousand times before—and loved it all the more for knowing how quickly it passed.
Next, Darius's hand swept toward a very different presence—a figure who had been lounging comfortably from the moment they'd arrived, feet kicked up on the table's edge, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. Lord Jeth Fare, the Mouse Tracient, seemed almost born out of place in such a grand setting. A wide-brimmed hat shaded most of his face, and a dry stalk of wheat bobbed between his teeth, chewed with a kind of idle amusement. His tail flicked behind him with careless rhythm, the picture of someone who'd rather be out in the sun than cooped up in a council hall.
Darius gave a soft, restrained smile—part fondness, part exasperation. "This," he said, "is Lord Jeth Fare. Lord of the Fare Clan. His strength and cunning have made him a valuable ally. And though his demeanor is... unorthodox, his loyalty is beyond question."
At this, Jeth tipped his hat without removing it, revealing two bright yellow-green eyes that twinkled with mischief and intelligence. He gave a wide, crooked grin and nodded to the three young Lords.
"Well, howdy there," he said, his voice thick with a southern drawl that seemed to ripple through the solemn room like a skipping stone. "Don't mind ol' Jeth. I ain't one for fancy speeches, but I reckon I can help whip y'all into shape, if the need calls."
Trevor let out a barely muffled snort, shoulders bouncing as he tried—and failed—not to laugh. Even Kon's stern face twitched with a hint of disbelief, while Adam simply blinked, uncertain whether to smile or stand at attention.
Jeth chuckled softly. "What?" he said, glancing around the table. "Didn't say I would whip 'em. Just said I could. There's a difference."
Darius gave a subtle cough into his fist to suppress his own amusement, then continued.
"There are other Lords who serve this council, though they are not with us today. They are defending our borders, ensuring Razik's forces do not breach our lands further. The Air Lord remains stationed along the Sky Cliffs of Western ArchenLand, while the Merman Lord keeps vigil of affairs in his domain."
Adam's ears twitched slightly at this, catching the word "Merman" like a whisper from a forgotten dream. His heart gave a sudden thump. He knew there could only be one person Darius referred to—Uncle Dirac. The thought stirred both warmth and ache in his chest. Dirac had been the one who raised him and Adam had not seen he prepared him for coming back to Narn. The idea that he was still out there, holding the line—it lit a small lantern of hope in Adam's heart.
But then Darius's voice lowered slightly, and his face took on a more solemn cast.
"There is also... the Panther Lord," he said. "Though he has not attended a summit in many years."
That name hung in the air like smoke—shapeless, elusive, yet heavy with story. No details followed, and none were asked for. The name alone was enough to conjure a quiet stillness.
Kon's gaze dropped to the table, his brows knitting faintly. There was something in Darius's tone—something like regret. Or perhaps... fear?
Trevor leaned slightly toward Adam and whispered behind a barely raised hand, "Why do I feel like that guy's going to be important?"
Adam didn't answer, but he felt it too. The Panther Lord. The one who did not come. The one who stayed away.
Even Jeth had gone quiet now, his feet slipping from the table as he straightened his hat. And Lord Thrax, ever still, had closed his eyes.
A silence settled, not cold, but contemplative. It was the kind of pause that marks a wound still healing.
Then, Darius straightened once more, his cloak brushing the polished floor as he stood tall.
"Let us not dwell on absences," he said firmly. "We are here. We are together. And what must be done... shall be done."
The light from the windows shifted slightly, casting long shadows across the room, as if the sun itself had moved to listen.
As the last introductions faded into the vaulted quiet of the Summit Hall, the mood hovered between honor and gravity. There was pride in the names spoken, yes—but also an undercurrent of something heavier. The kind of feeling one has when walking among statues, each carved with a memory too large to carry in silence.
It was Kon who broke that stillness.
Ever the observer, his golden eyes caught what others had overlooked in the grandeur of the gathering—a chair, set alone at the far end of the long table. It was not forgotten. It had been placed there. Deliberately.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low but clear. "Who is that seat for?"
All eyes followed his gaze.
The chair itself was unremarkable—simple, like the others, carved from Archen oak with sturdy arms and a tall back. But its emptiness seemed to cast a larger shadow than the others. There was no nameplate. No sigil etched into the stone floor beside it. Just an absence.
Darius's expression changed. The brightness in his lemon-green eyes dimmed a little, like sunlight behind a drifting cloud. When he answered, his voice lost its usual surety and took on the quiet weight of memory.
"That seat," he said slowly, "was once meant for the Lord of the Foxes. The Aktil Clan. The wielders of the Arya of Emotion."
He did not speak the bearers name. No one did.
And yet everyone knew.
There was a moment—not of noise, but of absence. As though the hall itself held its breath. Even Jeth's tail stopped flicking. Even Trevor's ever-bouncing foot fell still. It was the kind of silence that didn't come from reverence, but from something deeper: loss.
The Arya of Emotion.
It was the gentlest of the Aryas—and the most dangerous. Not for what it could destroy, but for what it could reveal. And in the wrong hands—or broken hearts—it had torn through more than just battlefields.
Adam felt something shift in his chest. A soft ache, like the edge of an old bruise. He didn't know the full story, not really. No one young did. But he'd heard the stories—the ones whispered behind tents, told around campfires when the sky was heavy and hope seemed scarce.
They had disappeared along with the Shadow.
All of them.
No bodies. No graves. Just... silence. As if sorrow itself had swallowed them whole.
He found himself staring at the empty chair longer than he meant to. It felt like a monument, and somehow, like a warning. His thoughts drifted unbidden to his own Arya—Creation—and the terrifying notion that even power meant to heal could lead only to absence, if wielded in grief.
Darius let the silence linger for a breath longer, then gently brought them back.
"But that is no longer possible," he said simply, firmly.
And with that, the tide of the moment shifted.
There was no need for more words. Everyone at the table carried the weight of that story already—some as history, some as guilt, and a few, perhaps, as regret.
Darius stood a little straighter, drawing the hall back to the present.
"Now that we are gathered," he said, his tone regaining its earlier resolve, "it is time to discuss why we are here today."
Darius paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the sunlight-drenched hall. His lemon-green eyes swept across the great table, catching the gaze of every Lord seated there—young and old, seasoned and new. The sun struck the golden ring through his snout, casting a fleeting gleam like a signal fire. And when he spoke again, his voice carried not only strength, but longing.
"For years," he said slowly, "we have kept Archen Land safe. We have defended our borders, trained our forces, protected our people. But…"—and here his tone dropped, just slightly, just enough—"…we have not reclaimed Narn since the Great War."
A hush settled. The warmth of the hall seemed to dim, as if the very walls remembered.
"We have held the line," Darius continued, "but our ancestral land remains under the control of The Shadow."
A subtle stiffness passed through the room. Shoulders straightened. Hands folded more tightly. Even Lord Thrax, so often still and serene, blinked with something like sadness.
The loss of Narn was not history to them.
It was a wound. Still bleeding, though dressed with time.
Kon felt it most sharply. He hardly remembered Narn in its glory. But he had heard it in his father's voice, the way Lord Orin used to speak of the twin citadels of the Castle Tridan and the silver rivers that once ran through their plains. How he would pause before finishing those stories, as if the memory itself was both too beautiful and too broken to bear. And now, sitting in this hall, Kon felt that silence return.
"But now," Darius pressed on, and something in his tone lifted—subtly, like the flicker of dawn at the edge of night—"the prophecy has begun to move. With the arrival of the Grand Lords—Trevor, Kon, and Adam—the tide may finally be turning. We are no longer on the defensive. We can begin to move forward."
And for a breath, the room dared to believe it.
But then came a drawl, slow and low, like a lazy stone rolling down a hill.
"Whoa there, King," said Jeth Fare, leaning forward with one feet still propped on the table's edge. The wheat stalk twitched between his teeth, the sun catching the tip like it might bloom. "Yer movin' a little too fast, don't ya think? Just 'cause these youngins got their Aryas don't mean they're ready to start savin' the world."
The words weren't cruel, but they weren't gentle either.
Kon stiffened. The corners of his mouth tensed. "What's that supposed to mean?" he muttered, the edge in his voice unmistakable. His tiger eye locked onto Jeth like a challenge. The stripes along his arms seemed to ripple ever so slightly with mana.
Trevor, despite himself, let out a short bark of laughter—but quickly disguised it with a half-hearted cough. "He does have a point," he said under his breath, trying not to grin.
Before the tension could boil over, Darius raised a steady hand, palm outward. "Enough. Jeth speaks from experience, not contempt."
But the next voice came not from jest, nor irritation. It was deep, slow, like water carving through stone. Ancient and unhurried.
Lord Thrax.
The Turtle Lord lifted his staff slightly, its base tapping against the floor with a hollow tok. "What Lord Jeth means," he said, and his voice carried the weight of centuries, "is that simply wielding an Arya does not make one a Grand Lord. Not yet."
He turned his head, the creases on his neck shifting like old parchment. "At least not in the way we need you to be."
The trio grew still. Trevor's usual humor faded. Kon blinked once but said nothing. Adam kept his gaze fixed on Thrax, feeling something old and solemn wake in his chest.
"I could sense your mana," Thrax continued, "the moment you entered this room. It is strong. Fierce, even. But it is raw. Untamed. You are like rivers without banks—powerful, but directionless. If you were to face the Children of Shadow today… or worse, The Shadow himself…"
He paused, his gaze settling firmly on each of them in turn.
"You would not stand a chance."
The truth of it sank like a stone through the water. Unarguable. Undeniable. And yet, not meant as a rebuke—but as a warning. Like a master craftsman telling his apprentice that the forge was hotter than it seemed.
Trevor leaned forward slightly now, his brow furrowed—no longer from mischief, but from something closer to worry. "Who are these Children of Shadow, exactly?"
The question broke the surface tension of the room like a stone on still water.
Darius's hands, which had remained folded before him, now clasped tighter. His expression grew grim—his jaw set with the kind of steel forged not in war, but in loss.
"The Children of Shadow," he said slowly, "are The Shadow's most loyal and powerful followers."
A murmur rippled faintly across the table—but none interrupted.
"They are not ordinary Tracients. They were once like us—some were even among the clans before the fall. But now, they are something else. Something… changed. They, too, have awakened powerful Arcems. But unlike the Aryas, which are bound to legacy and harmony, their powers feed on distortion—on fear, corruption, chaos. They bend what is true and twist what is whole."
Adam's chest tightened. His thoughts flashed back to the battlefield—to Razik's voice, sharp and venomous, and the aura that had poisoned the very air around him. If he was but one of these so-called Children, what of the others?
"They are shadows," Darius said, "but they are not hidden. And they will return."
Darius paused, the weight of unspoken truth forming a stillness that seemed to hush even the breeze outside the tall windows. The golden shafts of light that had once brightened the Summit Hall dimmed as if the sun itself were drawing back to listen. The king's gaze settled on the three younger Tracients before him—Adam, Kon, and Trevor—with a quiet intensity that carried the authority of lived history.
"There is more," Darius said, his voice quieter now, not because he lacked confidence, but because the truth he was about to speak required a kind of reverence. "Among Tracients, those who awaken Arcems may rise to a rare and terrible threshold… a realm of power known as Özel."
The word fell like a stone into the center of a still pond, sending silent ripples through the room. None of the younger Lords spoke. They knew instinctively that this was not merely an academic detail—it was a defining measure of the chasm between where they stood now and the heights they would have to climb.
"An Özel Tracient," Darius continued, his eyes gleaming with solemn fire, "possesses strength far beyond what even your imaginations would allow. Feats that would shatter mountains, obliterate cities… end civilizations. These are not gifts given lightly. Nor are they blessings to the unwise."
At his words, Kon stiffened slightly, jaw tightening as the information took root deep within his thoughts. There was a part of him—quiet and steely—that had suspected as much. But suspicion was different from certainty, and hearing it spoken aloud brought a new weight to his shoulders. Nations, Darius had said. Nations, lost in a blink.
Trevor had gone uncharacteristically quiet, his orange eyes darting between his friends. His tail, usually flicking with restless energy, lay still. Even he—who could laugh in the face of ruin—could not laugh at this.
"And yet," Darius went on, "among the Özel, there are those who stand even higher. Their names are written in the very memory of the world, though few know them. These are the Hazël."
The name rolled from his tongue like a bell tolling from the highest spire.
"Hazël-level Tracients hold within them the strength to annihilate not cities, but regions. Entire countries. To command tides and tempests. Every Narn Lord here in this hall is a Hazël-level Tracient. That… is the minimum. That is what it takes to stand against the Shadow."
The room fell into the kind of hush that feels like a held breath stretched too long. It was not awe that silenced them—but gravity. The vast, crushing understanding of just how far they still had to climb.
Adam swallowed hard. He could feel the sweat gathering behind his ears. Hazël, Darius had said—as though the term itself had weight. As though it were carved into stone and flame. Was that what I'm meant to become? Is that what Father was?
Darius let the silence linger, allowing the young Grand Lords the mercy of time to absorb what had been said. No one else in the hall moved. Even the old Turtle, Thrax, sat motionless, his wise eyes dimmed in thought.
Then, as if the words had waited until now to reveal their sharpest edge, Darius added, "The same is true of the Children of Shadow. Each of them… is also Hazël-level."
The words hit like frost. Trevor leaned forward slightly, the air in his lungs suddenly colder. Kon didn't move, but Adam could see the tension in his hands—clenched tightly on his knees. We're nowhere near that level yet, Adam realized. And they are already waiting for us on the battlefield.
"You've already faced one of them," Darius said at last. "Razik—the Hyena."
And then came the final blow.
"But he was holding back."
Adam's eyes widened. It was as if someone had struck him across the chest. His memories reeled—flashes of fire, of pain, of fear so thick it had paralyzed him. That… was him holding back?
Trevor muttered, "You've gotta be kidding," but no one laughed.
The full implication pressed on them like stone. They hadn't even fought the real Razik yet. They had barely survived a shadow of what he could become.
Before Adam could speak—before Kon could release the storm brewing behind his silent glare—another voice rang out from the far side of the table, sharp as a blade and twice as casual.
"Well, if ol' Razik really wanted to take ya out," drawled Jeth Fare, "he would've done it in yer first meetin'. Y'all were lucky he didn't."
The Mouse Lord leaned back with that same irritating ease, the wheat stalk still twitching lazily between his teeth. But his next words were no longer playful—they were pointed.
"Bet that's why yer wearin' that fancy eye patch, huh?"
Kon didn't respond. But he didn't have to.
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout.
Trevor looked over, startled, his usual grin vanishing. Even Adam blinked, caught off guard. The three of them had never spoken about Kon's missing eye. It had always been there—an unspoken mark of experience, or perhaps of pain. But no one had ever asked. Until now.
Kon's face darkened, and his eye—the one that remained—narrowed with a hard, bitter light. He looked down for a moment, but it wasn't submission. It was a storm reining itself in.
The eye patch—dark leather wrapped tightly around his right socket—suddenly seemed like more than a battle wound. It was a story untold. A weight carried quietly. And now dragged into the light without consent.
He lifted his head slowly, shoulders square, face composed again—but colder.
Adam felt a pang in his chest, part anger and part guilt. He had never asked. Maybe he should have.
Darius, reading the temperature of the room like a seasoned captain feeling a storm in his bones, stepped forward once more.
"That's enough, Lord Jeth," he said firmly. There was no anger in his voice, only command. "The past is behind us. Let us focus on what lies ahead."
Jeth leaned back, his grin unfazed, but he said nothing more.
Kon did not speak for the rest of that moment. He sat in silence, eye forward, mind whirring like a blade. Not out of spite—but resolve.
He would become a Hazël, yes.
But not because of the eye he had lost.
Because of the world he still had to protect.
The Turtle Lord, Thrax, dipped his ancient head in solemn assent. His voice, though soft and slow, carried the gravity of centuries.
"The power you three possess is immense," he said, "but it is unshaped, like a blade that has never seen the forge. You may wield the Aryas, but they have not yet fully accepted you. To truly become Grand Lords in every sense of the word, you will need to train—harder than you ever have before. Surviving what is to come will be your first test. Only then will you be ready to lead."
The silence that followed was not empty, but full—alive with the shared acknowledgment of every being present. No one in the room thought the path ahead would be easy. But hearing it spoken aloud by Lord Thrax made it feel all the more real.
Darius inclined his head toward Thrax in agreement, his lemon-green eyes steady. "He speaks the truth," the king said. "What lies before us will require strength not of the body alone, but of spirit and mind."
He paused then, his gaze lingering on Adam, Kon, and Trevor in turn.
"Your training must be intense," he continued. "If you are to face what's coming—if you are to stand against The Shadow—you must become more than you are. The Shadow's forces grow stronger by the day, and Narn cannot afford for you to fall."
Adam felt the words land inside him like a stone dropped into a still pond. He'd heard variations of this before—from Darius, from Asalan, even from his own trembling conscience—but never had it rung with such weight. This wasn't a warning now. It was an expectation. A calling. And he could no longer run from it.
Darius's tone softened then, reverent. "That is why we must also focus on the prophecy. The three of you must visit the Stone Table, and there, renew your vows to Narn. Only then will the true power of the Aryas awaken within you."
The Stone Table.
The name alone carried centuries. Adam had read about it in old records, seen it himself when Asalan called him on that hill tos show him his path. It was not just a relic, but a promise. A place where time bent, where oaths made by fire and blood still lingered like smoke in the air.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber. The Lords of Archen Land—though varied in temperament, blood, and clan—each bowed their heads with a quiet nod. They knew the Stone Table's sacred importance. They felt it in their bones. What had once been myth was now becoming necessity.
Darius allowed the silence to speak. Then, shifting from prophecy to present, he addressed the council with renewed focus.
"But before that," he said, "we have pressing matters. The Lord of Air has sent word. Razik's forces are moving again—testing our borders, pressing harder. They grow bolder."
The room stiffened, the tension palpable.
"We must answer."
His gaze settled on Kon, and in his eyes was not command, but trust.
"Kon," he said, "I would like you to go. The border is growing volatile. You have a connection to the Lord of Air. Your father and he were close allies… friends. I believe you will get along well with him—and that he will listen to you."
Kon blinked, the assignment catching him off-guard. But he did not flinch.
The name of his father, Orin, brought a flicker of something sharp to his chest—both pride and ache. It was always strange, hearing others speak of him so casually, like a statue admired in a distant hall. But in moments like this, Kon was reminded that Orin had been real. Had left marks on the world that still rippled.
"I'll go," he said simply, firmly.
Darius's nod was small, but sincere. "Good. The border is crucial. And I trust you to hold it."
Kon's jaw tightened with the weight of that trust. He didn't speak again, but his eyes told the room all it needed to know.
Then Darius turned to the two who remained.
Adam and Trevor sat side by side, united by battle and prophecy, but more different than anyone else in the room.
"To the both of you," Darius said, his voice now quiet, "I will offer my personal guidance. I will oversee your training myself."
Trevor's eyebrows shot up. "Wait—you're training us personally?"
A grin crept across his face, half disbelief, half excitement. "Can't wait to see what kind of tricks you've got up your sleeve, King."
There were a few stifled smiles around the table.
But Darius's face didn't mirror the levity. He let the humor hang for a moment, then continued with calm solemnity. "What I teach will not be tricks, Trevor. It will be survival. Endurance. Truth."
Trevor's grin faded just enough to let seriousness through. "Right," he muttered. "Got it."
Adam had not spoken.
His mind was already turning ahead—trying to picture what such training might look like. Not just physical drills or mana refinement, but trials of the soul. If the Stone Table was their destination, then the path would be lined with more than just exhaustion. It would demand revelation. And he wasn't sure yet what it would reveal in him.
Still, he gave a short, wordless nod. It was enough.
Darius pressed his palms against the table, standing tall once more. He surveyed the faces of the council—ancient Thrax, roguish Jeth, dutiful Kopa, and the three young Lords now sitting in the space between what they were and what they must become.
"There is much work to do," he said. "But we are not alone. We are not scattered. We are gathered. And that makes all the difference."
A hush fell again, but this time it was filled with resolve.
"The future of Narn," Darius said, "and Archen Land… depends on us."
One by one, the Lords bowed their heads—not in fear, but in unity. They did not all share the same past. But now, they shared the same burden.
Darius watched them, then slowly stepped back. "Let us adjourn," he said. "Prepare yourselves. We reconvene soon—and when we do, we move forward."
The great doors of the Summit Hall creaked open, sunlight spilling in as the Lords began to rise. Each of them carried their thoughts like swords at their sides—some drawn, others sheathed. And yet all sharp.
Adam stood a little taller. Trevor rolled his shoulders, already itching for movement. Kon remained still for a moment longer, eyes cast toward the mountains where his next battle awaited.
The Summit was over.
But the shaping had only just begun.