The Hall of Crimson Dominion was built for intimidation. Its stone pillars stretched like skeletal arms, carved with wolves devouring lambs, men breaking beasts, and kings crowning themselves in fire. High above, a ceiling mural glowed faintly in torchlight: a god kneeling, chains wrapped around its throat.
The chamber was cold despite the fire pits that lined the walls, the smell of ash and burning tallow clinging to every breath. The lords of the Dominion sat in a wide circle around the obsidian throne, cloaks heavy with crimson velvet and black fur, faces grim, hungry, or calculating. Tonight, the realm's future was a matter of flesh and blood.
At the center of it all lounged King Veythar. His hand rested against the armrest of the throne, fingers drumming a rhythm as if he were already composing a victory march. His smile was sharp, wolfish, the kind that stripped men to bone.
"Five years," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Five years of silence, of waiting, of Azeriel's shadow mocking us. And now…" His grin spread wider. "Now, the silence breaks. Our spies tell me the barrier is lifted. The child of the Spirits breathes still. And she is ours for the taking."
A stir rippled among the nobles. Some leaned forward eagerly, others cast cautious glances, but none dared contradict their king.
Duke Vaelor Kryne was the first to speak, his voice smooth as a dagger's edge. His thin, hawk-like face turned toward the throne.
"Our spies claim they saw her by the river. Washing her clothes." He let the word linger, sneering softly. "A spirit princess… reduced to a peasant's labor. Hardly the queen of ruin Azeriel promised us."
Baron Rhael Duskryn gave a low chuckle, sharp and humorless. "Perhaps the gods played us for fools. Five years of expectation for a girl who scrubs linen and weeps."
"Fools we are not," snapped Malrick Thorne, scarred jaw tightening. "Do not let the child's appearance blind you. Azeriel named her weapon. He would not waste his breath on a peasant. She may look fragile, but embers hide in ash. If we let them flare, we'll pay with kingdoms in ruin."
The chamber hummed with unease.
From the far end of the table, Gareth Drael's voice rumbled like a storm. "And yet, how do we forge a weapon that does not yet believe it is steel? She knows nothing of us. Her loyalty lies in the god who vanished."
"That god is gone," Baron Ulrich Fenrow growled. His pale eyes glinted beneath his hood. "Chained or swallowed by void, it matters not. She is alone now. Alone things are weak. And weak things can be shaped."
A hush followed.
The sudden tap-tap of a staff striking stone made every noble stiffen.
The Great Mage stepped forward, his grey robes whispering across the floor, embroidered with crimson sigils that pulsed faintly like veins. His face was a ruin of wrinkles, eyes milk-white with blindness, yet his gaze seemed to see deeper than any blade could cut. When he spoke, the chamber silenced.
"The girl resists still," he said, his voice brittle and yet commanding. "Her tears echo in the Hall of Silence. She clings to memories of the forest, to the phantom of Azeriel's hand. But every hour, her grip weakens. Chains of blood are patient."
Seliora Vaelith, the king's daughter, leaned forward from her seat beside the throne. Silver hair framed her pale face, and her voice was calm, but edged like glass.
"How long until she breaks?"
The mage smiled thinly. "A week, perhaps less. She will forget the sound of his laughter. The taste of bread. Even her own name. The Hall gnaws at memory, and soon, she will be hollow."
"Chains alone don't forge blades," said Duke Elvaris Nyx, his tone skeptical, his golden ringed fingers tapping. "A hollow body swings no sword. She will crumble."
The mage's laugh was a dry rattle. "Not crumble. She will be remade." He raised a crooked finger, and every lord leaned in despite themselves. "Chains to strip her past. Hunger to hollow her body. Cold to starve her comfort. Cuts to awaken the blood in her veins. Blades to teach her hand. Nights without light, days without bread. Until her instinct is no longer to weep, but to kneel."
The chamber was silent, each word dripping like venom.
Vaelor's lips curled. "You speak as though cruelty itself were art."
"It is," the mage whispered. "And this girl shall be my masterpiece."
Seliora's eyes gleamed, though her tone remained measured. "And when she kneels, to whom will she bow?"
The mage turned, white eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight. "To the one whose blood now commands the Hall. Not Azeriel." He bowed slightly toward the throne. "But King Veythar."
The lords erupted in a murmur of satisfaction, though beneath the approval lingered something else—unease, as though they were staring into a forge that might scorch them all.
Veythar rose slowly from his throne, cloak spilling like a tide of crimson. His grin gleamed with hunger. "Then it is decided. She will be forged anew. Not as a princess. Not as Azeriel's shadow. But as my knight. My blade. My dominion." His voice thundered. "And when she kneels before me, all realms will kneel with her."
The chamber erupted in a storm of fists against tables, a chorus of assent. Yet the echoes were broken by Seliora's calm, cutting voice.
"Then the question remains, Father… when will you order it to begin?"
The king turned his head toward the floor, toward the depths where the Hall of Silence devoured memory. Though they could not hear her screams, they all felt them lingering in the stone. His smile was cruel, almost tender.
"Not yet," he said softly. "Let her last embers fade. Then we shall light her anew in my fire."
The nobles bowed their heads in approval, but unease slithered in their silence. Far below their feet, in chains of blood and shadow, a girl wept for a father who would never answer.
And above her, the plans to turn grief into steel had begun.