Part - 1
The moonlight spilled through the lattice windows of the king's private chamber, bathing the silken sheets and stone floors in silver. King Valethar IX, Sovereign of Arcadia, lay beside his queen, Lyrissa, both still tangled in the quiet aftermath of pleasure. She smiled lazily, brushing his chest with the back of her fingers.
"You've been distant, my king," she murmured.
"Perhaps the gods whisper of unrest in my sleep," Valethar replied with a half-smile. He leaned back against the carved headboard and turned his gaze toward the tall, arched window.
What he saw made the words freeze on his tongue.
There, beyond the gentle slope of the royal gardens, far across the darkened fields of southern Caelrath, a silhouette had appeared where none should exist. A great spired structure too large to be a manor, too regal for a fortress stood gleaming in starlight. Its towers were faintly illuminated, as though magic or moonlight had kissed them directly.
"Lyrissa... dress. Call Varion." The king rose quickly, slipping into his deep red robe.
Within moments, Lord Varion Arakhal, the Chancellor of the Crown and master of foreign and domestic council, was summoned to the king's solar.
"Summon the High Court," Valethar said, staring out the window. "Tonight."
"Your Majesty, the nobles will not take kindly to such sudden orders."
"They will come, Varion. For they will see what I saw."
Within the hour, the Royal Hall of Caelrath stirred with life. Torches were lit, banners unfurled, and the great throne of Valethar loomed above the gilded floor, carved from ivory and lapis. The nobility and dignitaries arrived in ceremonial haste, each accompanied by aides and spies alike. The air was tense, saturated with perfume, sweat, and suspicion.
Prince Maeryn, the younger son, entered with confidence. His dark blue attire matched the House colors, and his expression was poised. Following him came scholars from the Grand Library of
Ascendia, traders of the Argent Guild, and murmuring priests from the Temple of Thariel.
Then came Crown Prince Elandor, flanked by aged nobles with weary eyes and manipulative smiles. Though lacking Maeryn's charisma or strength, Elandor walked with an entitled calm, secure in the invisible hands that propped him up.
The king sat, and silence fell.
"Tonight," Valethar said, voice calm and measured, "a city appeared. Not built, not raised, but appeared, out of nowhere. By morning, the lowlands where shepherds once roamed now hold towers of white stone and a banner we do not recognize."
Gasps and curses filled the chamber.
"I summon this court to advise: What should Arcadia do in the face of this city born of mystery?"
Prince Maeryn rose. "Your Majesty, I saw it too. I was returning from the southern garrison. It shimmered into form before my eyes. We must send envoys at once. Gauge their nature are they a threat, a blessing, or a distraction?"
Elandor snorted. "Fool's haste. What if it is a hostile summoning? What if the city is a weapon or a trap? We should send soldiers, not diplomats. Seize the city. Secure its leadership and interrogate them."
"Is it a city of mortals or the divine?" High Priest Callien of Thariel's Shrine asked, rising. "A structure appearing out of nowhere cannot be the work of men. Perhaps... doing on an Old Gods?"
"All the more reason to control it," Lord Thalan of Elandor's court said.
"Control it?" scoffed Lady Veyra Calen, Maeryn's ally and high treasurer. "We do not yet know who they are. For all we know, they could be stronger than us. Do we risk provoking an enemy of unknown power?"
"Cowardice is not policy," Lord Malgor replied.
Debate erupted.
The faction of Elandor, backed by old nobility and clergy, pushed for immediate domination and military occupation.
Maeryn's faction, supported by merchants, reformers, and some military commanders, urged caution, diplomacy, and reconnaissance.
Behind every word lay another motive: the fight for succession.
When the voices began to rise too high, the court was silenced by the arrival of three armored figures.
The Wardens of Triune, the three knight-protectors of Arcadia, stood beneath the king's dais.
Sir Althar Drenwyn, Warden ofThrone (Protector of Court), cold-eyed and loyal to Elandor.
Dame Seris Malvarin, Wardenof Judgment (Protector of Order), calm and calculating, close to Maeryn.
Sir Caelen Vos, Wardenof Common (Protector of People), the youngest of the three, rarely seen at court, beloved by the common folk.
Chancellor Varion whispered into the king's ear. The king nodded.
Valethar stood.
"I have heard your counsel. And I choose none of you."
A hush followed.
"The envoy shall not be of Prince nor Prelate, of trade nor treachery. I name Caelen Vos to carry our will to the city."
Outrage. Lady Veyra stood. "Your Majesty, he has no ties to court, no experience in matters of state."
"That is precisely why," the king said.
Sir Caelen stepped forward, bowing but unspeaking.
"I do not require a schemer. I require a watcher. Caelen will go to this city, and report. We convene again after he comes back with a report."
Part - 2
The first rays of morning sunlight slipped through the narrow windows of the stone keep and fell upon the calm, contemplative face of Ser Caelen Vos. The protector of the people stood unarmored, save for his shoulder and leg plates, as he prepared to depart. Draped over his back was a sleek, obsidian-black spear entirely smooth, without a single imperfection or edge, as if carved from a single shard of night. Its tip was jet black as well, and near its hilt, faint etchings in an unknown, ancient script shimmered when the light struck it just right. No one could read it. Not anymore.
Caelen's long jet-black hair brushed against his ears as he mounted his horse with the ease of habit.
As he approached the stables, a full escort of city guards awaited him, ready to accompany the envoy. But Caelen raised one hand.
"Only one. This is a conversation, not a campaign."
His word was final.
Reluctantly, the guards stepped back, exchanging glances, and pushed forward the youngest among them a lad barely past his sixteenth summer, clearly chosen for being the least essential. The others didn't want to ride into the unknown.
They set off through the winding streets of Caelrath. Cheers erupted from the people lining the roads, waving and calling Caelen's name. He was their champion, their quiet guardian, known for his rare public appearances and even rarer political involvement. But when he walked among them, it was always with purpose.
Once past the city gates, the pair rode into the wild grasslands of Arcadia. The silhouette of the mysterious city loomed in the distance, faint against the morning haze.
Caelen glanced sideways. "What's your name, boy?"
The young guard, sitting stiff in his saddle, responded, "I'm Terrowin, Ser. Terrowin Marth, of the Eastern Quarter."
"How long have you served in the infantry?"
"Just three weeks, Ser."
Caelen chuckled. "Well then, this will be one hell of a first assignment for you."
"It's an honor, Ser Caelen," Terrowin said nervously, trying to sit taller.
"Relax. Life's too short to fret over every little thing. Whatever happens, happens. Let's get this over with."
Meanwhile, within the walls of Caelrath, Prince Elandor stormed through his private chambers, his face red with fury. Flanked by members of Thariel's clergy and the elder nobles of the court, his voice rose with indignation.
"He chose Maeryn's side again! Ignored me entirely. Does he not see? I am the firstborn! The rightful heir!"
Old men in velvet robes and thin smiles surrounded him like crows circling a carcass.
"You are right to be angered, my Prince," whispered Lord Thalan, one of the older lords who clung to influence through manipulation. "The king does not wish to see you on the throne. He hides behind neutrality, but favors your brother in all things."
Another added, "They send Caelen Vos to do Maeryn's bidding. A man with no stake in courtly affairs, a man of the mud and slums. It is an insult."
Elandor clenched his fists. He had neither the mind nor the strength of his brother, but he had ambition and the court faction that followed him saw in him a puppet. And puppets are easy to rule through.
"This insult will not be forgotten," Elandor muttered. "Not by me."
Back on the road, Caelen and Terrowin finally reached the outskirts of the city. Great gates stood and the lands around it were still, unnervingly so.
Terrowin rode ahead hesitantly and knocked on the gate with the hilt of his sword.
Moments later, two guards emerged from behind the walls tall, armoured in silver, with moon symbol on their chests. They offered a courteous nod.
"Welcome, envoys of Arcadia," one of them said. "Our Councilor has been expecting your arrival."
The second added, gesturing with open arms toward the city beyond, "We welcome you both to the Last City Built Under the Stars, Astelvyr."
Caelen's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes never left theirs.
"Take us to your councilor."
And with that, the gates of Astelvyr slowly opened, revealing the mystery that had set all of Arcadia aflame with speculation and fear.
End of Chapter.