Business continued as usual in Morwin. The subterranean city buzzed with life. Farmers, mechanics, and traders moved through the streets, tending to their work while children darted between alleyways, carefree in their play. Somewhere deep within the cavern a bell rang, its chime resonating through the city, loud enough for all twenty thousand inhabitants to hear. One ring: the council had begun.
Buried deep within the cavernous belly of the Morwin Underpass, the Council Hall squatted, a half-collapsed chamber repurposed into a war room of fragile alliances. What had once been the former dictator's personal residence now served as the settlement's command centre. The room, once obliterated by some unimaginable explosion had been crudely rebuilt, held together by makeshift scaffolding, a tangle of pipes, and exposed wires.
Five iron chairs encircled a thick slab of welded scrap: The council table. The chairs weren't built for comfort, but for function. Rigid and stout, like the authority of those who sat in them. Pipes hissed above, dripping condensation onto the floor, while the smell of burning oil hung in the air like an omen. Amber lanterns swung from the ceiling, their glow flickering, casting eerie shadows onto the soot stained walls. Even this deep underground, the low grind of machinery still echoed through the cracks in the stone.
The council was already assembling.
Krill, master of the Oil Guild sat stiff-backed and unbothered in his heavy heat-resistant garb, arms crossed, the reek of oil clung to him like a second skin. Behind him, two attendants in oil-streaked overalls whispered refinery figures to him. They were responsible for all oil mining operations, its distribution, and maintaining the fume shield that kept the Leviathans at bay. Without them, Morwin would be devoured. He knew it, and so did the others.
To Krill's left lounged Marlo Brint, his smile just a little too wide as he sipped wine no one else at the table could afford. He chaired the Trade Alliance, managing supply lines, bartering, and Morwin's crucial trade with neighbouring settlements. But his true power lay in the underworld. Marlo had his fingers in every illicit deal, from black market relics to smuggled medicines. He trafficked in secrets as much as goods, knowing who owed what, and who had the most to lose. Debts, addictions, quiet scandals. He held them all close, like cards he never had to play. No one liked Marlo, but no one dared challenge him. Not if they wanted to keep their position.
On the other side, Priestess Nael sat motionless beneath her veil of blackened silk, covering most of her face. Only her eyes were visible, dark brown and full of wisdom. She spoke no words, yet her silence filled the room. The Chalice Order, keepers of ritual, memory, and spiritual law, spread their influence through sermons and charity. Nael answered questions with parables and claimed to see visions of the future from flames. In Morwin, few claimed to understand her, many loved her for her charity work, but no one — no one had ever seen her face.
Opposite her sat Artus Vayn, a man in his mid fifties and commander of the renowned Embercloaks. He held that position for a long time, even through the last dictator's leadership. After the mad king Gorkhin ordered the execution of his wife and children, he orchestrated what many would later call a flawless coup. One that claimed only Gorkhin and all of his sons' lives. Shortly after, he established the council and remains its only original member. He was leaning over the table with gloved fingers drumming a slow rhythm. His armour was a mix of surface salvage, old-world titanium plating and a flowing red cape of subterranean grown leather. The Embercloaks were responsible for order within Morwin and at its borders. When raiders or bestial tribes pressed too close to Morwin or its network of oil mines and trading posts, it was the Embercloaks who were sent to deal with the incursion, swiftly and without mercy. They had earned their nickname because the ash in the air clinging to their red capes created the illusion that they were cloaked in glowing embers.
A lean man in scholar's robes occupied the last chair, fiddling with one of his numerous rings. Dr Thelin Marr: representative of the Research Division. His thin fingers hovered near a projector cube, waiting for the slightest opportunity to display new schematics. The Division specialized in adapting old-world tech, experimenting with geothermal energy, and creating new weapon prototypes. Most saw them as unpredictable; the head of the Research Division changed frequently, a result of their constant experimentation with unstable, unknown technologies. In fact, this was Dr Thelin's first council meeting since he was instate after his predecessor had accidentally activated the autopilot on a mech-suit from the surface, an error that led to the deaths of dozens of scientists and engineers before the Embercloaks brought it down.
Finally, someone broke the silence. As always, it started with complaints.
"The oil reserves are burning low, and we haven't been extracting much these past few weeks," Krill said, gesturing his attendants to leave the room. "If we don't limit distribution by the end of the week, the outer furnaces will fail. And you all know what comes next."
"You need more oil?" Artus growled. "We're rationing food as it is. Try telling the trench guard they don't get to eat, but the fucking pipes get to burn." The trench guard were Embercloaks assigned to defend the critical furnace trenches that protected Morwin from Leviathans. These trenches formed concentric rings stretching from the city's core to its outskirts, each one built roughly a mile apart from the last.
"Now now, I'm sure we can come to a solution," Marlo said with a grin, sensing an opportunity. "I could get us some more oil to last us until Krill here manages to get his oil mines working again. Oh, for a suitable price of course."
"I guess we have to increase taxes again, the people won't be happy," Krill sighed.
"The people have no choice, its taxes or their lives," Marlo retorted.
Artus nodded in agreement. "Well, we still have the issue of... him. We still need to pay our tribute for this month, and I'd rather we don't make him wait any longer. My Embercloaks are still recovering from that last fight," he said defeatedly. Even though months had passed, his memory still burned with shame, his Embercloaks had lost, after a long and bloody battle. Their adversary had been a neighbouring settlement to the east, Fort Radomir, once ruled by a council, now entirely overtaken by a single man, a man they called "Ashborn." Although coupes were not uncommon, this time it was different. Their leader had united all of the feral tribes living in that area; some say he united them through fear, others say he bribed them with the promise of human meat...
Either way, even with advance warning of the attack, the Embercloaks were caught off guard when they finally met Ashborn's army at the border. The wild tribes weren't at the front of Ashborn's army. They laid in wait beneath the earth, using forgotten tunnels to flank the Embercloaks and tear through their rear lines with brutal precision. Inevitably, after a long and gruesome battle, the morale of the Embercloaks began to crumble, even under the leadership of their more experienced commander. With casualties mounting and no ground gained, Artus was forced to order a full retreat, relinquishing control of the furnace trenches in that region.
What came after was worse. The tribute. It was never discussed openly in the streets of Morwin, but within the Council Hall, it hung in the air heavier than the stink of oil. Each week, a transport was sent beyond the trenches to a designated drop point where Ashborn's agents awaited in silence. The cargo varied depending on his demands: fuel, medicine, munitions, sometimes even prisoners. But always, it was steep. Refusal wasn't an option. The last time a shipment was late, an entire trade convoy had lost contact. The traders were found days later, or what was left of them, splayed out like warnings carved in flesh. It wasn't just about appeasement; the tribute was a leash, and every week it tightened around Morwin's neck.
Priestess Nael's voice slid into the air, soft but sharp enough to cut through the tension. "In the flame, I saw him. He's gathering his forces," she whispered, her eyes flickering from the lanterns. Krill and Marlo both rolled their eyes; Artus listened attentively. "Ashborn. Cloaked in ruin, crowned in bone. He walked a battlefield of his own making... and there, across from him, stood... not a reflection. No. Another. Flesh and soul, torn asunder. And the earth split between them." Her voice faltered slightly, barely audible.
"If what you've said is true, then we need to hurry our preparations for another battle. No, a war. I'm starting to get tired of these tributes," Artus said with disdain. "Therrin, have you made any progress?"
There was a pause, just long enough to irritate Artus, before the last voice spoke.
"Um... it's Thelin, actually," came the quiet correction.
All eyes turned to the man in scholar's robes. Dr. Thelin Marr straightened slightly under their gaze, though his fingers kept fidgeting with the ring on his hand. "Apologies. It's... my first council session," he stammered.
He tapped a switch on his projector cube, and a flickering schematic unfolded in the space above the table, lines of heat mapping, a spindly mech frame mid-construction, and scattered annotations in a half-dozen languages. "We've made some progress. Six working cores from surface ruins. Thanks to Marlo," he nodded at him. "It's enough to power three suits, maybe more. But... integration is slow. The tech is hard to work with safely. There's instability." He glanced toward Artus but avoided direct eye contact. "I can accelerate testing, but we'd need more resources. Oh, and volunteers," he hesitated. "There was... the incident with my predecessor. With Dr. Belk. I'd prefer not to repeat it."
"You'll get whatever you need, just get it done by the end of the month. Sharp," Artus snapped, turning towards Marlo now. "I trust you can find the resources for him?"
He was about to respond when the iron doors of the chamber groaned open with a sudden screech, cutting him off.
A young guard burst in, out of breath from the sprint through the tunnels. His eyes darted between the council members, wide with disbelief.
"Commander," he gasped, not bothering with formalities. "He's here... Ashborn."
Artus was the first to stand up, the others too stunned to say anything. "What did you say? Speak, boy."
"He was wandering through the market, that's where we found him. Alone. No weapons," the guard hesitated then added, "we brought him here with us, he's outside in the plaza."
"How did he even get past the border, are they fucking sleeping over there?"
"I-I don't know sir," the guard stuttered.
"Never mind, I'll deal with that later," Artus sighed. "Did he say why he's here?"
"No sir. He didn't say much."
The commander of the Embercloaks paused for a few moments, then made a decision. "Prepare a room for us. I want to have a chat."
Krill spoke up. "Shouldn't we be taking this opportunity to get rid of him? He walks into our territory, unarmed and without escorts. His army?" He scoffed, "It's not here is it? Cut off the head and the body will surely fall."
"I have to agree with him here," Marlo said, swirling the last of his wine. "Whatever this is, peace offering, trap, madness, it's a gift dropped in our lap. We'd be fools not to take advantage."
The suggestion lingered in the air, the idea of murder tempting.
A voice of reason broke the silence. "No, we must tread with caution," Nael said with a strange calmness in the tension filled room. "We know too little at the moment to make rash decisions. Let us see why he's here first, and then act on that." The priestess, usually speaking in riddles, now spoke with an unusual clarity and calm logic.
Without even waiting for Dr Thelin's opinion, Artus made the final decision. "There will be no bloodshed in Morwin today. Have you no honour? Murdering an unarmed man?" He'd been plotting to fight Ashborn for weeks now; it would leave a bad taste if he were to stab him in the back and still have his army to deal with. Sure, the wild tribes he had temporarily united might scatter if he fell, but the core of his army would remain. And they wouldn't stop. Even if their leader was dead.
And with that, Artus turned and strode from the council chamber, his red cape trailing behind him as the heavy iron doors swung shut with a metallic clang, shattering the dreadful silence.
***