Tashlan – Trisoc's Palace, Grand Audience Hall
Five Days After the Arcem Killer Incident
Year: 8002 A.A.
The sun streamed through the high latticed windows in slanted, dusty gold, laying bars of light across the Grand Audience Hall of Carlon like spilled memory. But no warmth came with it. The chamber, for all its gilded architecture and opulent majesty—the vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of historic triumphs, the floors of polished onyx that reflected the fearful faces of the court—held only a deep, pervasive coldness now. Not the chill of weather or stone, but the cold of suspicion, of tightly wound ceremony, of truths unspoken between men who had long since forgotten how to trust one another.
It was a cold that reached into bones, the kind that made the bravest soldier straighten his back a little too stiffly, and the most seasoned minister dampen his palms against his silks. In its silence lurked not peace, but dread—the dread of knowing that the world had shifted, and they were still pretending that their laws, their seats, their titles could hold it steady.
The throne room of the Trisoc, once a place of grand declarations and theatre-draped diplomacy, now waited like a cavern that had forgotten the sound of song. Silence pressed against the high columns carved with ancient, coiling snake reliefs. It clung to the serpentine banners of Carlon's storied lineage, making them appear less like standards of triumph and more like funeral drapery. Every eye, from the highest noble in their perfumed robes to the lowest guardsman sweating under his iron helm, turned toward the throne at the head of the hall—watching, waiting, afraid.
And upon that throne, carved to resemble a great serpent reared to strike, sat the Trisoc of Carlon. He looked nothing like the tales whispered in marketplaces or the songs sung in barracks. His tusked visage, usually set in an iron mask of imperious command, was pale and waxy in the wavering light of the braziers. His hands, which had once pointed armies into conquest, now clutched the armrests like talons sunk into driftwood. He looked less a monarch and more a man caught in a storm with no shore in sight.
Beside him, half-hidden in the shadows of the dais, the Grand Vizier swayed like a serpent tasting the air. Thin as a reed, his emerald robes pooled around him as though he were dissolving into the marble floor itself. At his throat, the ouroboros pendant gleamed with a dull, reptilian light—an eye half-open, never blinking. He said nothing, but his silence was its own venom, for all knew his whispers carried further than any proclamation. His stillness pressed on the room, a silent reminder that what was spoken here might be weighed on scales more ancient than the throne itself.
Across the chamber, untouched by the trembling air of Carlon's court, stood the delegation from Kürdiala.
Azubuike Toran, the Black Panther King of True Kürdiala, stood as though carved from obsidian. His arms folded, his cloak of deepest black draped over his broad shoulders, he radiated the kind of majesty that required no throne to confirm it. Every motion of his body spoke of authority restrained, of a predator that could move in an instant but chose—for now—to be still. His indigo eyes, cool and penetrating, took in the hall as one reads a ledger: the Trisoc's tremor, the guards' furtive glances, the shallow whispers of ministers. He did not see splendor here, but fear. And fear, he knew, was more dangerous than any army.
Behind him loomed Ekene Çelik, the Panther's Komutan and protector. His frame was a fortress, his red sash declaring both rank and readiness. His eyes, unblinking and sharp, never left the throne dais. He was not here to weigh politics or parse words; he was here to ensure that should a hand twitch toward violence, his own would answer first and last.
Trevor Maymum leaned lightly on his staff, Gözkıran, its polished length inscribed with scripts older than most nations present. To the careless eye, he seemed almost at ease, a scholar mildly amused at being pulled from his books. Yet behind his spectacles his gaze darted, calculating, gathering every twitch, every glance, every tremor of voice as if they were lines in an unsolved equation etched in humour.
And behind them all, at the edges of notice but never beyond reach, stood Kopa Boga, the stag. His antlers cast strange shadows against the marble wall, his presence quiet but razor-sharp. He did not fidget, nor blink, nor breathe more than was necessary. To look at him was to sense a bowstring drawn back, taut and patient.
The Carlonian gallery was packed. Ministers draped in silks sat with spines too straight, generals in their polished armor shifted restlessly, and courtiers whispered in voices like rustling leaves before a storm. The rumors had spread, of course, though only in fragments. Whispers never carried the whole truth—yet even fragments had been enough to curdle the blood.
'The Blue Wolf had returned.'
'The Arcem Killer had failed.'
'A mountain had nearly been unmade, yet the target still lived.'
They had heard it all in fearful pieces. Some claimed Adam Kurt had swallowed the blast itself; others swore he had tamed it into a weapon of his own. No one knew the truth, but the question thrummed in every throat, unspoken yet undeniable:
'If such a power could not stop him—what could?'
The silence of the hall was thus not empty at all. It was crowded with questions no one dared ask aloud. It was heavy with the weight of realization: that their crowns, their banners, their jeweled halls might soon prove nothing more than thrones of dust before a fire too old and too vast to be denied.
Then—a clarion call.
A single trumpet sounded, its note slicing cleanly through the thick tapestry of whispers and dread. It was not the gaudy, gilded blare of celebration that once heralded returning generals, nor the thunderous cry that summoned armies to march. No. This sound was purer, pared down to its essence, like a single word spoken without ornament. Clean. Precise. Regal. It carried a weight not of pomp but of inevitability. It was the sound of history knocking at the door, and every soul present knew instinctively that the present, however reluctant, was about to yield.
On its final, fading thread, the great reinforced doors of the hall—serpentine carvings intertwining in frozen combat—swung inward. Not with the groan of burdened hinges or the labor of men, but with a silence that unsettled. It was as if the doors themselves, steeped in centuries of ceremony, had chosen to open of their own accord, bowing to the figure who approached.
And he entered.
Adam Kurt, First Lord of Narn.
The name arrived first, unspoken yet undeniable, riding before him like a herald. Silence swept the hall, more profound than the one before, pressing down with the inevitability of a tide. He did not stride into the chamber; he arrived, and the air bent around his presence.
The blindfold remained, that faded yellow cloth tied as always across his eyes—a strip of fabric that had long marked him, both as limitation and mystery. Yet here, under the stained glass sunbeams and the weight of countless gazes, it seemed diminished, a mere ornament of humility. For all who saw him knew instinctively that blindness did not define him. If anything, it seemed to sharpen the impression that what guided him was deeper than sight.
His fur, the storied blue of his line, was immaculate, brushed into a sheen that caught the sunlight in tempered flashes, like sapphire cooled in shadow. The robe he wore was no warrior's garb, no travel-stained cloak—it was formal, a garment of state, dyed the deep, endless green of a forest pool. It swirled at his ankles in tide-like folds as he walked, the hem whispering over the onyx floor. Threads of silver traced the crest of his bloodline into its fabric: a crescent moon, simple and eternal. He bore no weapon. That absence was louder than steel. It said more clearly than any drawn sword: I am enough.
And beside him walked Karadir Boga.
The White Ghost of the Highlands. A myth made flesh, pacing calmly into the heart of a hall that once spat his name like a curse. He came barehoof, the cold black floor beneath him echoing faintly with each deliberate step. His posture carried no defiance, no arrogance—only dignity, upright and unassailable. The scars carved into his flesh did not mar him; they inscribed him. They spoke of battles endured, chains broken, deaths defied. His white robe, plain and unarmored, carried its history as he did: worn seams, faint stains that no washing could quite erase. He did not conceal them. He declared them. For he was no longer merely a fugitive outlaw; he was a lord returned, a man tempered by suffering and, impossibly, reborn into the court that once denied him.
And following them, quiet but blazing in a way none could deny, came Garo.
Alive.
The word thundered in every mind present, too loud to be spoken, too dangerous to be denied. Alive. The young Tracient whom the Shadow had stolen, whom the Void had swallowed. Here he stood, not merely walking, but whole. No hollow in his gaze. No ragged tether of broken soul. His mana, to those who could feel it, rang sharper and clearer than before—as if death had not scarred him but honed him, forging something leaner, fiercer, purified by fire no mortal should have endured. He was not a survivor of death. He was one who had crossed it, seen its farthest shore, and returned at the will of another.
The court shuddered beneath the revelation. Whispers ignited like sparks in tinder, hissing through the hall. Some gasped, some muttered prayers, others pressed trembling fingers to their lips. Fear, disbelief, reverence—an unholy trinity of emotions blooming unchecked. To the deeply superstitious, it was proof of sorcery darker than legend. To the faithful, a miracle. To the pragmatic, a terror no sword could answer.
As the small procession advanced, their steps echoing in that vast chamber, they passed the delegation of Kürdiala.
Trevor Maymum squinted, the thin lenses of his spectacles catching the light. His scholar's mind, forever turning, sifted frantically through dusty vaults of memory. A name. A face. White fur, molten gold eyes. Tales of a boy who once stood proudly, then stumbled beneath the weight of his own pride. A youth banished in shame from a gathering of lords, his fury bitter as poison. Trevor had seen him then—saw the broken pride, the uncontrolled fire. That boy had seemed lost, a name that history would footnote with pity.
But this… this was not the same boy. This was a man transformed by pain into iron, by death into myth.
Recognition struck Trevor like a struck bell. The weight of decades collapsed into the present. His lips parted, his brows rose, and before he could stop himself, a whisper slipped free. Not alarm, not fear—something far gentler. A confession in the shape of awe.
"You made it after all…"
The words carried no further than his own hearing, meant for no ear but his own. Yet they were weighted, heavy as benediction. A smile, soft and paternal, tugged at his lips. It was the smile of a teacher seeing a student return, not broken as expected, but triumphant. It was a silent acknowledgment that sometimes the stories men believed were finished were only beginnings, waiting for their true telling.
The three of them stopped at a respectful distance before the towering, serpentine throne. For one crystalline instant, the vast chamber seemed to hold its breath. A silence descended so complete it was as if even the dust motes suspended in the slanted sunlight paused their slow drifting.
They bowed. Not the groveling abasement of subjects before a monarch, but the measured inclination of equals observing the forms of civility. A bow that said: we acknowledge your throne, but we are not yours.
Adam was the first to straighten, and with him came the first words.
"Greetings, Father."
Calm. Clear. The syllables cut through the hush like a river carving stone—not forceful, but inevitable. He inclined his head toward King Azubuike Toran, not toward the throne. A subtle turn of honor that repositioned the axis of the hall, however imperceptibly. For though the Trisoc sat upon his gilded dais, all eyes knew instinctively where the true power now stood.
Then Adam turned, just slightly, toward the tusked figure frozen upon the serpent-throne. His voice did not waver. "May you reign, Trisoc."
The Carlonian benediction left his lips with perfect formality, yet it rang strangely in the silence. What was intended as blessing carried instead the weight of a statement—cool, factual, as though Adam merely confirmed the present state of affairs rather than bestowed a prayer for its continuation.
The Trisoc's nod in response was mechanical, his face a brittle mask. His long, pale fingers dug deeper into the throne's carved arms, until his knuckles shone bloodless, betraying the dread coursing beneath the lacquer of ceremony.
It was Azubuike Toran who broke the heavy pause, his voice rumbling low and sure, like a great drum in the heart of the hall. "Lord Adam… you are most welcome. I trust your mission to secure the trade routes was… successful?"
The words were layered, rich in unspoken questions. 'Are you whole? What truly happened in that valley? Who stands beside you now?'
Adam inclined his head, diplomatic composure woven into every line of his bearing. "Indeed, Father. It was."
The reply was as layered as the question—answering nothing directly, yet confirming everything that mattered. To the listening court, it was maddening. To King Toran, it was enough.
Then Adam raised a hand. Not dramatically, not to demand silence—there was already silence enough—but with the calm assurance of a conductor preparing to summon his symphony.
"Permit me to introduce my companions."
The words were simple, almost mild, but they rang with command. The room braced itself.
His head turned first to the storm-white figure beside him.
"This is Karadir Boga," Adam said, his voice steady, deliberate. "A descendant of the noble Boga Clan of ArchenLand, separated from our people during the Great Fall. A warrior of immense honor and power, currently bearing the rank of Hazël Number Seven."
The names, the titles, the clan—the syllables carried weight, as though each one fell like a stone into the still water of the chamber. Faces tightened; breaths caught. The name Boga had been absent from polite discourse for centuries, buried beneath ash and exile in relation to the fall of ArchenLand. To hear it resurrected now, in this place, was itself a tectonic shift.
But Adam was not finished. His next words detonated in the quiet.
"And as of yesterday, he has been named EL to the First Lord of Narn."
The silence fractured.
"MyHand," Adam repeated, softer, yet more final—an anointing, a vow, a challenge.
The hall ruptured.
Gasps, hisses, exclamations—like the first crack of a dam collapsing, the noise spread in a rolling wave of disbelief. Nobles leaned toward one another, whispering furiously, while ministers clutched at pendants and prayer beads. Some stood in outrage, others sat frozen, eyes wide with a fear too sharp to articulate. The myth of the White Ghost, rebel and traitor, was not merely standing free before them—he was elevated, exalted, granted the sacred post of EL. A post second only to Lordship itself, binding trust and authority as tightly as flesh to bone.
This was not just unprecedented. It was heresy against the expected order.
King Toran's heavy brow furrowed, his indigo eyes narrowing with a paternal question he did not voice. Trevor Maymum looked visibly shaken, his spectacles sliding askew, his mouth parting as though to protest—then shutting again in silence. He understood the weight. To appoint a Hand was not just a political maneuver. It was a holy act among the Narn Lords, nearly sacramental. To do so unilaterally, without council or witness, spoke of events cataclysmic enough to shatter tradition.
And yet Karadir himself did not bask in it. He bowed deeply—to Adam first, then to the kings assembled. His movement was quiet, solemn, carrying neither arrogance nor plea for recognition. Only certainty. He had already faced exile, death, and the abyss beyond death. The valley had burned the dross away. All that remained was steel.
Adam's hand turned then, indicating the quiet figure at their flank.
"This is Garo," he said, voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Lieutenant of the Hazël, sworn to Lord Karadir. His right hand."
No embellishment. No grand flourish. Yet the words alone were enough to hang the story: a soldier dead and returned, bound now with iron loyalty to the one who had been raised above all.
Garo bowed, pressing a hand to his chest in a soldier's salute. No words accompanied it. His silence spoke louder than any declaration. For what could words add to the truth of his existence, standing whole before them? His life itself was testimony, his every breath a miracle.
Then Adam's tone shifted.
It was not a shout, nor a flourish of wrath, but the quiet rumble of thunder before a mountain's collapse. It carried inevitability, as though the earth itself had leaned in to listen.
"And he…" Adam's hand turned toward Karadir, the motion unhurried, definitive.
"…is the White Ghost. The one responsible for the years of intercepted cargo. For the lost caravans in the eastern passes. The border raids that harried your outposts. The phantom that has haunted your trade routes. All of it."
The silence shattered into a thousand gasps, sharp as broken glass. The earlier astonishment had been one thing. But this—this was revelation, accusation, and judgment bundled into a single, unflinching truth. The air thickened, turned icy, and every noble throat locked on the taste of fear.
The Trisoc stiffened like marble struck by lightning. His face remained frozen, but the widening of his eyes betrayed him. In that dawning comprehension—'this is the rebel, standing alive in my court, under the protection of Narn's First Lord'—the mask cracked.
It was the Vizier who broke first.
"GUARDS!" he shrieked, his voice pitched shrill with terror and fury. The cry cracked like a whip through the chamber, lashing the silence into chaos.
Steel hissed free.
A dozen elite guards, trained in perfect unity, surged forward. Their armor clattered with terrible finality, crescents of sharpened steel flashing as they formed into killing lines. Feet stamped in rhythm, spears angled for blood. The wave of violence rushed for the dais, a singular organism intent on drowning the white-furred rebel.
And then—
BOOOOOM!
Not sound, not light—something deeper. The air itself fractured.
An unseen shockwave burst outward from Adam, so complete it felt like the very bones of the hall quaked. He had not lifted a finger. No spell incantation, no drawn weapon. He merely turned his head slightly, as though remarking upon the weather.
The results were devastating.
The guards were flung back as if a giant's hand had swept them aside. Their disciplined formation dissolved into chaos. Swords spun helplessly from their grips, clattering against the onyx floor and skittering into the columns. Serpentine banners overhead thrashed like living things in a storm. From the heights above, crystal chandeliers rattled and groaned, raining down a glittering dust of plaster and old mortar onto the nobles below.
Groans echoed where armored bodies slammed into the floor, where metal rang hollow against stone.
A new silence fell. Not the strained silence from before, but one born of awe—the kind of stillness that follows when men glimpse something they cannot name, something that tilts their understanding of the world.
Adam's voice entered that silence like a chisel into marble: steady, measured, final.
"No one touches him," he said. Each word struck like iron. "Without my permission."
No one moved. The courage to act—or even to breathe too loudly—had been extinguished. The Trisoc clung white-knuckled to his throne. The Vizier's mouth hung open mid-shriek, his cunning reduced to paralysis. Even the nobles, some with hands still raised in disbelief, froze in their silks and jewels as though Adam's decree itself bound them to their seats.
Adam turned back toward the throne, composure untouched, as though the spectacle had been nothing more than a necessary clearing of the air. His voice gentled, but the steel within it remained.
"Forgive the outburst, Trisoc. But there is cause."
It was not apology—it was verdict.
He stepped forward. One deliberate footfall upon the onyx floor, echoing against the vaulted ceiling, carrying further than the rattling of blades had moments before.
"Carlon's class system," Adam said, voice rising into the vastness of the hall, "has poisoned your people from the roots up."
A ripple of shifting silks and creaking benches moved through the nobility, a rustle like leaves before a storm.
"The lower classes—the farmers, the miners—labor endlessly under your sun. Their harvests, the fruit of their sweat and blood, are seized. Taken from them. Passed up to the merchant second class, who lay only the choicest portion at your throne while lining their own pockets with the rest."
Adam's blindfolded head turned, as though he saw every hidden ledger, every bribe, every hoarded sack of grain.
"And when the laborers, starving, keep back scraps to feed their children, your laws name them thieves. And have them flogged."
A hiss of whispers rushed like wind through the gallery. Denials, murmured excuses, fragments of protest—but none dared raise them into open speech.
Adam pressed forward, relentless.
"Karadir Boga did not raid for conquest. He did not raid for plunder. He took only what your systems denied—food for the hungry, tools for the desperate, medicine for the dying. He struck warehouses and caravans that belonged to those who could afford the loss. He was not a ghost of malice. He was necessity made flesh."
He paused, and his silence was heavier than speech.
"And when you finally sent a convoy against him—did you send bread? Healing herbs? Relief?"
The air thickened, every gaze riveted.
"No. You sent Item X. A devastating weapon. An Arcem Killer."
The hall erupted.
"Lies!"
"Slander!"
"Impossible!"
Shouts clawed through the chamber like wild beasts. Rage, panic, fear—all clamoring against the unbearable truth.
Adam raised one hand.
Silence returned like a blade falling. The cries were cut clean, leaving only the echo of his stillness.
"General Gon used it," Adam said, tone grave and unshakable. "He fired it upon me in the Mist Corridor. He sought to unmake my very essence. He succeeded in taking the life of this warrior—" he gestured toward Garo, "—before my eyes. A life I was forced to restore."
The words fell into the chamber like stones into a grave.
No noble dared speak. No Vizier dared deny. Even the Trisoc seemed to shrink into his throne, his tusks pale, his lips trembling against unspoken fear.
Adam's voice carried the final weight, a judgment none could sidestep.
"Your court created that weapon. Or you permitted its creation within your borders. Either your hand forged it… or your throne is ruled by another's hand."
The Trisoc did not respond.
He could not.
Upon his throne of coiled serpents he sat, but he was no longer a sovereign, only a statue—paralyzed, his mind struggling against the venom of Adam's accusation. The words gnawed at him, each implication burrowing deeper, poisoning every fiber of certainty he had clung to. He felt his authority slipping, not in a slow erosion, but in a violent tearing-away, as though unseen claws were raking the very fabric of his reign.
And into that hollow silence, another voice thundered.
Toran.
The Panther King took one step forward. That was all. Yet it was enough to shift the gravity of the entire hall. The nobles, the guards, even the braziers burning in their alcoves seemed to lean toward him. His indigo eyes, which had so often been seas of calm depth, hardened now to flint.
"I do not care which of your shadowed workshops built it," Toran said. His voice rolled low, each syllable weighed, deliberate, unstoppable. Not shouted, not dramatic. It was a decree carved into the bones of the hall itself. "But let it be known, Trisoc: if such abominable weapons cross into our lands, or threaten those affiliated with Kürdiala in any way—our treaties burn. Every parchment, every oath, every semblance of peace we have labored to maintain will be ash."
The words struck harder than any of Adam's invisible force had done. They were not threat, but verdict.
The Trisoc found his voice at last, though it cracked like a reed under pressure. "You're… you're threatening war? Over rumors—and the word of a… a rebel?"
It was pitiful, a defense clutched like straw by a drowning man.
Toran's great shoulders shifted in a shrug that was no shrug at all, but the gesture of a predator who knows the measure of his prey. A dangerous curl touched his lips—not mirth, but knowledge.
"There's no proof. No body of this General Gon. No weapon to parade before the courts. So—no formal war. Not today." His eyes narrowed, his gaze a sharpened blade. "Call it… a diplomatic suggestion. A clarification of terms. Who or what you conspire with in shadows does not concern us—so long as we are not double-crossed."
It was elegant. Precise. Terrifying in its restraint. Every noble present felt it: the understanding that war had been spoken of, skirted, and yet not declared—because Toran was not asking. He was warning.
And then—
A sound.
Small. Out of place. A sharp, electronic chirp that fractured the ancient solemnity of the hall like a pebble dropped into still water.
Buzzing.
It came again, insistent, from the comm bead tucked into Kopa's ear. The Stag's head tilted. His calm—always a shield of composure—did not crack, but shifted. He turned away from the throne. Away—from the Trisoc, from the Panther King. A breach of protocol so daring it silenced even the whispers. He tapped the bead.
A flicker of light, a shimmering screen of pale blue, bloomed before his eyes.
The chamber watched him, even as the Trisoc twitched in outrage at the audacity.
Confusion etched Kopa's brow. Then disbelief widened his gaze. And then—cold, pure fury settled into his jaw, tightening every line of his face.
The hologram vanished.
He turned. Swift. His hooves struck the onyx floor with a staccato rhythm, sharp as a war drum.
"King Toran!"
The panther's ears flicked. His gaze broke from the Trisoc and fixed upon the Viceroy. Surprise—brief, fleeting—was there, but it did not linger.
"What is it, Viceroy Kopa? Speak."
Kopa did not bow. He approached, every stride urgent, and his voice cleaved the silence like a drawn blade.
"Kürdiala is under siege!!"
The words dropped like meteors into the hall.
Chaos erupted.
Nobles cried out, their voices shrill with disbelief. Ministers clutched at robes as if cloth could shield them from news that ripped their world apart. The gallery fractured into screams, arguments, frantic denial. Panic spread like wildfire through dry brush.
The Trisoc himself staggered upright, his tusks bared in bewildered shock. "What?! What madness is this? Who would dare—who could—?"
Kopa's eyes never wavered from Toran. Hard. Bright with terrible clarity.
"Prince Erezhan," he said. The name dropped like an executioner's axe. "He commands a force of over four hundred thousand soldiers. They make landfall on our eastern shores even now."
Gasps became shrieks. The nobles fell upon one another in desperate speculation, drowning in their own terror. Their world was not trembling. It was collapsing.
And then—
Another silence.
Not born of fear. Not born of awe.
It was forged in Toran.
The Black Panther King drew one long breath. The sound seemed to echo across the marble and the columns, across the very ribs of the hall. It was the exhale of a man who had set down one great burden only to shoulder a far greater.
And with that breath, the weight came.
Not magic. Not mana.
Will.
Presence.
The sheer, unrelenting weight of a king who had lived through wars long before Carlon's fragile peace had ever existed. A sovereign whose spirit had been tempered in fire, whose people had survived because he had not allowed them to break.
BOOOOOOOOOOMMM!
The sound was not in the air but in their very souls.
Every Carlonian—noble, guard, minister—collapsed to their knees. Breath fled their lungs. Terror slammed into their chests, their hearts battering against their ribs like frightened birds. It was not respect they felt, nor awe, but the primal dread of prey standing naked before the predator it had never known was there.
The Vizier crumpled entirely, his clever schemes and careful plots snuffed out by the raw presence before him. He fell to the floor, unconscious.
Only a handful remained standing.
Adam—still, calm, his power a quiet well, unaffected by the storm.
Karadir—unmoved, rooted as if the mountain itself stood upon his legs.
Trevor—leaning upon Gozkiran, his scholar's eyes bright with understanding, with the terrible knowledge of what Presence truly was.
Kopa—unyielding, his news the herald of the storm.
Garo—young, but sharpened by death and return, steady in his loyalty.
And the Kürdiala delegation—loyal hearts standing within the eye of their king's hurricane.
Kurtcan's voice stirred in Adam's mind, hushed with stark respect.
'I had almost forgotten just how intense Lord Toran's Presence is. I only hope he does not lose his temper. If he unleashes it fully… he will not stop at knees.'
Adam said nothing.
He only watched—the father of his heart, the ruler of his people—not a man overcome by rage, but a king embracing the terrible, necessary weight of his crown.
The time for suggestions had passed.
Toran's eyes gleamed with a deep, indigo fire—the calm fury of a sovereign whose patience had been exhausted not by an enemy at his gates, but by the treachery festering in an ally's heart. The air around him still quivered with the aftershock of his will, a resonance that hummed like a struck bell through every rib of the hall.
"Trisoc," he said, his voice low, measured, and final. Each syllable landed like a stone dropped into a deep, fathomless well. This was no question—it was judgment. "Do you know what your son has done? Were you aware of his… endeavours?"
The venom in the word wrapped around everything—the weapon, the betrayal, the siege itself.
The Trisoc trembled where he stood, his breaths shallow, ragged. Slowly, weakly, he shook his head. His throne of serpents, the gilded braziers, the silken banners—all the grandeur of his reign—meant nothing. Here, under the light of Toran's unveiled presence, he was a man stripped bare. His mastery of whispers and shadows was useless; against this brighter, harsher fire, he was blind.
"Then you will not contest us," Toran declared. His tone was not threat but verdict. "When we find him… we will decide his punishment."
The we rang sharp. It was no longer the law of Carlon that mattered. The crime was against peace itself, and judgment would fall from those wronged by the betrayal.
The Trisoc's eyes flicked to the wreckage of his court: nobles groveling on their knees, guards scattered and weaponless, his Vizier collapsed in a heap. Power, prestige, command—shattered in a single instant. His lips moved soundlessly before at last he gave a single, jerking nod. Broken acquiescence.
The weight lifted.
Like drowning men breaking the surface, the gallery collapsed into gasping, heaving relief. Robes rustled, jewels clattered as nobles clutched at their throats, sucking at the air as if life itself had been restored to them. Survival, not gratitude, filled the sound.
Ekene Çelik stepped to Toran's side, a soldier's anchor in the storm. "My king," he said, voice urgent but reverent, "we must return to Kürdiala at once. Every moment we delay…"
But Toran's gaze shifted, heavy and contemplative—not to his general, but to his son. To Adam.
And in that look, the air changed. No longer king to court, nor father to son. This was a ruler seeking counsel from another ruler, from one whose judgment he trusted beyond the reach of politics.
"What say you, son?" Toran asked. His question was quiet, but it carried through the vast hall as though the stones themselves bore it along. "Shall we muster our strength and return home?"
All eyes turned.
Adam stood at the heart of the wreckage, calm amidst the echoes of thunder. His blindfolded face tilted slightly, listening—to Kurtcan's ancient whisper, to the shifting hum of the mana currents, to the silent tremor of fate straining toward a new course.
And then, softly, he spoke.
"Nay, Father. Kürdiala has no need of us yet."
The words fell like a prophecy. They defied logic, defied fear, yet they rang with such absolute certainty that none dared contest them.
And outside—
The wind stirred.
Not a breeze, but a rising moan that swept through Tashlan's streets, rattling shutters, curling sand across the stone. It carried with it the taste of armies on the march, the scent of steel and salt and smoke.
The whisper of a storm.
One that had only just begun to wake.