Chapter 15: The Long Table
The Hall of Flame stood in silence. Thick braziers burned low along the marble walls, their fires casting trembling shadows across the long obsidian table. Carved into the dark stone surface were the sigils of every High House—some etched centuries ago, others still gleaming from more recent appointments. Now, the flames revealed not unity but tension. Each noble present sat apart, as if a greater chasm yawned between them than the length of the chamber.
At the head of the table, Lord Veridan Arctis, Minister of War and Head of House Arctis, leaned forward on clasped hands. His armor was ceremonial, but the weight in his voice was real.
"We have confirmed that Lorien has taken the Greywatch crossing," he said, his gaze sweeping the gathered Council. "And he did not stop. He marched northeast, seized the hill country past the marshes, and has entrenched himself along the Breakfang Ridge."
A murmur rolled down the table—whispers exchanged behind fans, under breaths. Some eyes turned toward Lord Halrex of Tidewatch, others toward Chancellor Maerlyn.
Lady Sareth of House Nyre, Minister of Grain, broke the silence. "That terrain is north of what was once Thornvale and Coldmere, is it not?"
"Yes," Veridan replied. "That land belongs to no province now. It is classified as Outer March. Unincorporated. Wild."
"The bastard makes it his own," muttered Lord Halrex, not bothering to hide his distaste.
"And you let him," came the cool voice of Lady Veyla of House Thornhart, her fan flicking shut. "Was it not your fleet that failed to prevent supply barges from reaching Severmarch?"
Halrex bristled. "The northern rivers are choked with ice half the year and raiders the rest. Perhaps if your House had not withdrawn its patrol tithes from Saltwatch—"
"Enough." The word came not from Veridan, but from old Lord Callas Dane, seated beneath the banner of the imperial phoenix. His voice was gravelled with age but cut through the bickering like a sword.
"We are not children fighting over crumbs," Dane rasped. "Lorien commands between twenty and thirty thousand troops—our latest estimates are uncertain, and the reports from his territory are... fragmented."
Chancellor Maerlyn, who had been silent until now, leaned back in his seat. "Fragmented. That's a delicate way of putting it."
He placed a parchment onto the table. No one touched it.
"Outposts burned in silence. Riders vanished. At Sevenshade, the garrison commander claimed shadowed figures attacked in the mist. No banners, no survivors. Even his missive was half-charred. He died within a day of writing it."
"Sabotage," Halrex said quickly. "Northern rebels, emboldened by Lorien's victories."
"Perhaps," Maerlyn allowed. "Or perhaps something else. These incidents repeat across every border where his scouts pass. No tracks. No patterns. Just fear."
Lady Veyla's brow tightened. "There were stories like this in my great-grandmother's time. Whispers. But those were tales, not Council business."
"Then let us treat it as misdirection," Veridan offered. "We focus on what is known. Lorien has fortified the Breakfang Ridge. He holds the Greywatch crossing and has begun to rebuild the outer strongholds—ruins last garrisoned under Emperor Caldran."
"Is he declaring a kingdom?" Lady Sareth asked.
"No crown has been claimed," Maerlyn said. "No formal declarations. But he governs as he wills. He levies taxes, appoints commanders, enforces law."
"And what of the Ember Guard?" Lady Veyla asked carefully.
A silence fell. Veridan shook his head.
"No sightings. Not even rumors. They haven't emerged from the Hall of Ash since the winter decree."
Maerlyn folded his hands. "Which makes me wonder—if not them, then who carries out his will in the dark?"
Callas Dane tapped the table. "We must ask not only how he acts, but why. His tactics are disciplined. His expansions methodical. He does not burn towns or raze fields. He claims them. Restores them."
"And yet you speak as if that is a virtue," Halrex snapped. "He is a traitor! A bastard in open defiance of the Empire's rule. Every stone he lays is rebellion!"
"Is it rebellion," Veyla asked coolly, "if the Empire abandoned the region generations ago?"
That earned glares from three sides of the table.
"Watch yourself," Halrex warned.
"I serve the Empire," Veyla replied. "But I do not serve blind men."
Chancellor Maerlyn finally stood. "We all see shadows. What matters is the flame. This Council must decide whether to treat Lorien as a threat to be crushed, a rival to be outmaneuvered, or a son to be—"
"Do not say it," Veridan growled.
"—acknowledged," Maerlyn finished calmly.
The chamber held its breath.
Then Callas Dane spoke once more.
"We defer. No judgment. No support. Let the bastard's deeds speak louder than the titles he was denied. Until then… prepare."
The flames in the braziers flickered lower.
And the long table, carved with the crests of the Empire's proudest lines, stood witness to a silence older than war: fear not of what was lost, but of what was coming.