The Ivory Halls of Caelthrone stood as a monument to Aeloria's grandeur. Its towering marble pillars gleamed white as bone, veined with gold, and its high-vaulted ceilings glittered with mosaics depicting kings and queens of old, each gazing down with immortal judgment. By day, sunlight poured through vast stained windows, painting the floors with radiant hues. But by night, when torches cast their flickering glow, the halls seemed haunted, as though shadows clung too eagerly to corners where secrets lived.
It was under such torchlight that the Council of Lords gathered in secret, summoned hastily by King Maelric himself. The great table of polished oak stretched before them, ringed by the kingdom's most powerful noble houses. Their silks rustled like serpents' scales, and their jeweled rings glimmered as hands clasped in uneasy gestures of false courtesy.
The air was thick with murmurs, whispers that buzzed like flies over a corpse. Fear had crawled into the marrow of even the proudest duke, for none could ignore the crimson moon that bled across the heavens. The prophecy had returned from the dust of legend into the cold breath of reality.
Lord Calveth, thin and sharp-faced, broke the silence first. "You have all seen it," he said, his voice carrying an edge meant to mask trembling. "The moon is crimson. The skies burn. This is no natural omen. The Prophecy of Silverblood is upon us."
Murmurs rippled. Some crossed themselves in prayer; others exchanged glances like knives.
"Nonsense," barked Lord Berengar of the Western Marches, his beard bristling like a lion's mane. "Tales told to frighten children and peasants. The moon is but the moon. Its hue no more than an eclipse or trick of the heavens."
"And yet your voice shakes, Berengar," Lady Isolde murmured, reclining in her chair with the lazy grace of a panther. Her eyes, sharp as emerald glass, gleamed in the firelight. "Do you deny the wolves howling at your gates? Do you deny the sickness spreading in your villages since the blood-moon rose? Superstition, you call it—yet the dead rise restless in their graves."
The council erupted, voices colliding—some in denial, others in frantic affirmation. Words of treachery, dark magic, cursed heir filled the air. The prophecy lay between them like a coiled serpent, unseen yet lethal.
At the head of the table, King Maelric sat silent. His crown—gold wrought with sapphire—seemed heavy tonight, his eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. He had not wished to summon the lords, yet the crimson moon had forced his hand. Now he listened to their bickering with growing dread, for he knew the words of the prophecy better than any of them:
"When crimson paints the heavens, the forgotten heir shall awaken. Shadows shall walk among the crowns of men. The pact shall bind, and the throne shall bleed."
If those words held truth, then Aeloria's throne itself was imperiled.
At last, Maelric rose. The hall fell to silence, every jeweled eye fixed upon him.
"My lords, my ladies," he said, his voice measured, deep as the tolling of a distant bell. "The prophecy has haunted our line for centuries. We swore to bury it, to deny it, to burn every record of it. Yet it endures. Now, the crimson moon proves what fire could not erase."
The lords shifted uneasily, some nodding in grim agreement, others pale with fear.
"What do you propose, Your Grace?" asked Lord Calveth.
Maelric's jaw tightened. He looked from face to face, weighing each one, knowing ambition lurked in every heart. "We must discover if the Heir of Shadows lives. The blood of House Veylan runs long, and not all branches of the tree are accounted for. If such an heir exists, we must find them… before they find us."
A hush fell. It was Lady Isolde who broke it, her smile curving like a blade. "And when we find them, Your Grace?"
Maelric's eyes hardened. "Then we must do what is necessary to protect the realm."
The implication was clear. If the Heir of Shadows lived, they must be silenced—by steel, by fire, or by something darker still.
Yet not all shared his resolve. In the corner of the hall, the royal scribe bent over his parchment, quill scratching as he recorded every word. His hood shadowed his face, his hands pale and long. No one noticed that the ink in his pot shimmered faintly, red as blood in the torchlight. No one saw how his lips moved soundlessly, echoing words not spoken in the hall.
When the council dispersed, their whispers trailed into the corridors, slithering into the ears of servants and spies alike. Plans were already being spun—alliances forged in secret, betrayals whispered behind fans of silk. The crimson moon had not only shaken the heavens; it had cracked the foundation of trust upon which the kingdom rested.
Outside, in the gardens beyond the hall, two cloaked figures met beneath the withered branches of an ash tree. One was Lord Calveth, the other a masked woman whose voice was soft as falling snow.
"The King suspects the heir," Calveth whispered. "He will search for them."
"And so must we," the woman replied. "But not to destroy them."
Calveth frowned. "Then what?"
"To bind them. The pact must be fulfilled, and only through the heir can we wield the power that sleeps beneath Silverblood Keep."
The wind stirred the branches. Somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howled, its cry piercing the night.
The council had spoken of fear. The king had spoken of duty. But in the shadows, other forces moved, guided not by fear nor duty, but by hunger—hunger for the power promised when the moon bled red.
And high above the Ivory Halls, the crimson moon watched, silent and eternal, as the first seeds of treachery took root in the soil of Aeloria's destiny.
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